Snook - Creepy Horror Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: March 25, 2026

These were some Creepy Horror Stories From Reddit! These stories were so scary! What was your favorite story? And would you like to see me make similar videos in the future? Leave your thoughts down below in the comment section, and make sure to like and subscribe! Credits! Go give some support to these talented authors! JacksonLuna - https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1lws80u/i_think_my_wife_changed_the_lock_while_i_was_at/ King-Crimson0 - https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1lb6x68/my_mom_used_to_hide_under_my_bed_at_night/ donavin221 - https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1pmlta3/the_inheritance/ Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1rmw8ju/i_must_have_dinner_at_exactly_6pm/ Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/xshj2i/i_was_hired_to_notice_things_out_of_place/ 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/SnookYT Also! Go follow me on Spotify and Instagram! Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey what's up guys and welcome back to the channel and today we're getting into some creepy horror stories from Reddit. And oh boy, these are some of the scariest stories I have ever read. They had me on the edge of my seat the entire time. So you want to make sure to stick around. And I appreciate you stunned by me as the world and make sure you like the video and subscribe to the channel. The channel's goal is one million subscribers before the end of the year. So please subscribe. And all right, this video will be long enough already.

So sit back, relax. Grab a drink and grab a snack. And without further ado, let's get into some creepy horror stories from Reddit. I think my wife changed the lock while I was at work. Written by Jackson Luna. The key won't turn. I jiggle it again.

The familiar brass cool against my fingers. Click. Click. Nothing. Just resistance. Where there should be the easy slide of, the deadbolt, I've used this key a thousand times. And right now, groceries in one arm, briefcase tucked tight, half asleep after a long day at work, I am not amused.

Emily, I call, giving the solid oak door knock. Hey, the logs being weird. Did you deadbolt it funny again? Silence from within. I peer through the narrow, letty glass window beside the door. Emily is standing in the hall, frozen halfway between the living room in the kitchen. She isn't moving toward the door. She's staring at me. Her face is bone white. Her eyes wide and unblinking. Fixed on mine through the distorted glass.

She looks like she's seen a ghost. Emily, what's wrong? I knock harder. A flicker of unease tightening in my chest. Emily Hey are you a Are you okay Let me in

Please it's me It's Ben I rattle the handle Panic rising now All my focus on her A choked sob escapes her Her hand flying to her mouth Tears well and spill over

Tracking paths Through a paler Still She doesn't move towards the lock Emily please I hammer on the window now open the door talk to me what happened she flinches like she's been struck stumbling back a step no she whispers shaking her head no no this isn't this isn't possible my heart kicks hard emily honey what's wrong i pressed my face closer to the door voice low urgent open the door please let me help you she backs further into the door she backs further into the door she backs further into the door the shadows. Her hands trembling at her sides. No, she says again. Firmer this time. You can't be here.

Emily, I say softly. It's me. It's Ben. Just, just open the door, please. She snaps then. Her voice sharp and panicked. You're not Ben. Ben is dead. Silence slams between us. Her voice. When it returns, is a thin, broken whisper. barely audible through the thick wood. You, you died, Ben. Six months ago. Another sob tears through her. We mourns you. I mourned you.

Six months. The impossibility of it slams into me. I remember yesterday morning. Kissing her sleep, warm cheek, the smell of her shampoo, the mundane argument about whose turn it was to take out the recycling. I remember today. The commute, the tedious budget meeting. Emily, that's insane.

I'm right here. Look at me. I saw you this morning. I'm real. You look like him. She weeps. Her voice thick with revulsion now. Cutting through the fear.

You sound almost like him, but you're not been. Her terror isn't hysterical. It's cold, absolute, and utterance. utterly devastating. Please just go away. Whatever you are, leave us alone, please. And then she turns. Her footsteps echo down the hall, leaving me stranded, exiled, on the porch of my own home. My breath stutters. My fingers go numb. I drop the groceries without realizing. Plastic bags splitting. Cans rolling across the stoop. I dig in my pocket. I dig in my pocket. for my phone, hands trembling, but it isn't there. Of course it isn't there. Where the hell is it?

Help, I shout. Turns to the street. Somebody, please, I need help. Windows glow warmly in the distance. Cars pass. No one answers. I sprint down the sidewalk, nearly tripping on the curb, and tear across the block toward Mike's house, my oldest friend, the only person who might make sense of this. The porch light is off. I pounded on the door with both fists. Mike, Mike, open up. It's Ben. Emily's not okay.

She's saying crazy things. Please, man, I don't know what's going on. The living room curtain twitches. A sliver of Mike's face appears. Pale. Strained. Eyes wide and bloodshot. The porch light flicks on.

The door cracks open and there's Mike. Standing barefoot in the. doorway, blinking against the glare. I opened my mouth and tell him all what happened, but the look on his face stops me cold. It isn't confusion, it isn't disbelief, it's pure, unadulterated horror. The same look Emily wore. He sees me, his lips press into a thin, bloodless line, and the door snapped shut. Mike, don't do this, I roar.

slamming my fist against the wood. It's me. His voice, shrill with panic, comes from an upstairs window. Stay away. I'm calling them. I'm calling the police. Get off my property. The window slammed shut.

That's when I hear the sirens. Faint at first. Then rising into a full, shrieking whale that floods the street. Red and blue lights, strobe across the trees, the houses, my face. Two cruisers skid to a stop. blocking my car. The officers step out, hands hovering near their holsters. Every movement cautious and controlled.

Sir, step away from the door, hands where I can see them. The female officer shouts. Relief crashes again into panic. Officers, thank God. My wife, Emily, our house is right there. She locked me out. Changes the locks. She's having a breakdown.

And Mike here, I gesture wildly at the house. He won't listen. Something's terribly wrong. help her. She's alone and terrified. The male officer, younger, keeps his laser focus on me. Sir, your name? calmly. Ben Carter. I live right here, please. You have to help me get to my wife. She needs me. The female officer's eyes flicked Mike's house. The upstairs window is open a crack. Mike's face is visible. He nods frantically pointing at me. His mouth moving silently. him. That's him. Mr. Carter, the female officer says, her voice losing none of its edge.

You need to calm down. You're causing a disturbance. You're trespassing and causing distress. Trespassing, he's my best friend. My wife needs help. Check your files. Call it in. I'm Ben Carter. My voice is raw, rising uncontrollably, the frustration, the fear, the sheer impossibility. The sheer impossibility. of it all boils over. I take an involuntary step toward her, hands gesturing wildly. Sir, step back. Both officers shouting in unison. The male officer draws his taser, not aiming, but holding it ready.

Hands behind your back. Now. No, listen to me, I yell. The world narrowing to the flashing lights, their rigid faces, Mike's terrified eyes in the window. I don't resist. but my body is taunt wire, vibrating with frantic energy. My words tumbling out in a desperate, incoherent stream. She's my wife.

The locks are new. Six months is crazy. I was here yesterday. Mike, tell them. Tell them it's me. Place your hands behind your back, sir. The female officer moves fast. Her grip firm on my wrist.

The cold, hard click of the cuffs is a shock. A sound of absolutely. loot, surreal finality that cuts through my panic. I don't fight, but my body trembles violently. You're under arrest for trespassing and disorderly conduct. You have the right to remain silent. The words blur. I'm guided firmly.

My protest dissolving into choked gasps into the back of the cruiser. Through the cage, I see Mike finally open his front door, talking rapidly to another officer, gesturing to me. His face still etched with pure fear. Neighbors watch from darkened windows. The station is a blur of harsh fluorescence and muffled sound. Processing passes in a haze. Fingerprints pressed to the cold scanner.

The sharp tang of metal in the holding cell where they leave me. Just for now. Then the door clanks shut and silence rushes in. Panic fades. Leaving behind. a hollow coal that settles deep in my bones, trembling just beneath the skin. They called it trespassing. Disorderly conduct.

Said Emily locked me out. Said Mike was terrified. The words circle in my head. Finally, the door opens. A detective enters. He pulls up a chair. Mr. Carter, he begins. Voice calm, flat.

Benjamin Carter. That's the name you gave? He opens the folder. Yes, that's me. Please, please help me. I don't, I have no idea what's going on. Please, I'm begging you. Who are you?

Ben, Carter, I repeat. Drop the act. Who are you? Please. Please. Sir, there's no use in line to me. We ran your prints. He slides a printout toward me.

It shows two sets of fingerprints. one clearly labeled from the scanner moments ago. The other, these, he says, tapping the second set, are the prints on file for Benjamin James Carter from his driver's license application, military records, his entire life. He looks at me, gaze steady, they don't match. What?

The denial slips out. weak automatic that's impossible your machine the machine is fine he says his voice flat your prince do not match the prince of benjamin carter he slides on another paper from the folder a death certificate benjamin james carter date of death march twelfth six months ago my address my birth date my parents' names official sealed this is the legal record he slides over another document

a police report missing persons Benjamin Carter vehicle recovered from Blackwater River no sign of driver extensive search suspended dated

six months ago then a final sheet a property record. Complaint from Emily Carter. Address. Subject reports repeated attempts by unknown male impersonating deceased husband to gain entry to residence. Locks changed on date three months ago. Security system installed date last month.

Subject described impersonator as identical due to deceased spouse and appearance and voice causing extreme distress. He closes the folder slowly. Your prince don't match Benjamin Carter's. Benjamin Carter is legally dead. His widow reports someone matching your exact description has been terrorizing her for months, trying to get into the home you claim is yours. He leans forward slightly. His voice quiet, filled with a terrible, chilling certainty.

So I need you to tell me, Who are you? And why are you doing this to that poor woman? The detective's words hang in the air like frozen poison. Prince don't match. Legally dead. Terrorizing her. They're facts.

Delivered with the crushing weight of bureaucracy. My mind scrambles, a rat in a flooding cage. This isn't denial anymore. It's pure animal panic. clying at the bars of an impossible trap. Who? Who am I? I echo.

The detective's pitying stare burns like acid. I'm Ben Carter. That's my house. Emily is my wife. My voice rises, sharper than I mean. Echoing off the cinder block walls. Can't you see? She's locked herself in there, terrified out of her mind,

thinking, Thinking nonsense. I need to get into that house. She needs me. She needs to see me properly. To understand, it's really me. I lean forward. The metal chair scraping harshly across the floor.

Take me there. Right now. Unlock the door. Let me show her. Let me touch her. She'll know. She'll know what's me then. She has to.

The detective doesn't flinch. But his eyes shift, hardening. That look isn't suspicion anymore. It's something colder, more cautious. Like he's watching a dangerous animal pace inside a cage. Mr. Whoever you are, he says evenly, Emily Carter is safe.

She's under protection. She doesn't want to see you. She's terrified of you. Your insistence on forcing your way into her home after everything we've documented is deeply concerning. concerning a brittle laugh escapes me high-pitched and wrong she's my wife of course i need to get to her can't you grasp that she's confused grieving but but but but i'm here i can face this just just take me home my hands clenched around the cold metal table knuckles white i can feel the rough grain

on our front door the cold brass knob the need to be inside to stand in our living room to smell the faint scent of her vanilla candle is a physical ache, a compulsion that drowns the chilling weight of the evidence. That house is mine. Every brick, she changed the lock, but it's mine. I belong there. She belongs with me. Let me in.

The detective slowly pushes his chair back, creating space. His hand settles casually near his hip, near his weapon. As I lean further. pleading. My sleeve rides up slightly. My hand brushes against my temple, pushing back a strand of hair damp with nervous sweat, and I feel it. Not the familiar texture of my own hair. It feels wrong, thicker, coarser, almost waxy, like damp straw, not human hair. When did I last wash my hair. The question surfaces. Absurd amidst the chaos. Yesterday? This morning? I lift my hand again, intending to run my fingers through it to confirm the strange sensation. My gaze drops to my

wrist as I raise my arm. The fluorescent light overhead is harsh, unforgiving. It illuminates the skin of my inner wrist, normally pale and faintly vain. but there are no veins. I stared at the skin, an even slightly waxy poller, with no veins beneath the surface, just smooth and unnatural like porcelain or wax. My breath hitches, the frantic energy falters, the desperate urge to scream about Emily, about the house, falls silent. Slowly, I pressed the index in middle fingers of my other hand against the pulse point on my

neck, just below my jaw, a habit ingrained since childhood, checking my own heartbeat in moments of stress. I press hard, feel the coolness of my skin, wait, nothing, no rhythmic thud, no flutter, just stillness. profound, absolute stillness beneath the slightly waxy surface. Thump, thump, I imagine it. Thump, thump, thump. But my fingers feel only the unyielding firmness of flesh.

No beat, no life, the crushing weight of the evidence. The prince, the death certificate, Emily's terror, Mike's horror, no pulse. My hand drops from my neck as if burned. I look down at my other wrist again. Sir, the detective says, cautious now. But the edge of suspicion deepens into something else, something closer to the fear I saw in Emily's eyes. What is it?

I can't answer. The words, she is my wife, die on my tongue. Hollow and meaningless. The desperate, urge to get into that house curdles into something obscene. Parasitic. As I slowly realize

I'm the parasite. The house isn't mine. Emily isn't mine. They belong to Benjamin Carter. The man whose skin I wear. I look up to the detective.

Cold or zon of blooming in me. I am. Ben Carter. I am going home. One way or another. My new roommate wasn't assigned to me. Written by Turn Affectionate 6963. Senior year of college.

My previous roommate graduated and moved back home to save money. I kept dwelling on the idea of a new roommate taking his place. Someone I didn't know. sharing my space. The next afternoon, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. I swung the door open and was met by a young man with dark, greasy hair hanging over his eyes, clutching on a single cardboard box to his chest. Uh, hello, can I help you? I asked.

In a raspy voice, he replied, I'm your new roommate. Apartment 367, right? I nodded. Yeah, man, come in. I'm Ben. Nice to meet you. He reached out his hand.

It trembled as he spoke. Names Jackson. I held the door open and ushered him inside. As he passed by me, the sharp aroma of bleach flooded my nostrils. I nearly gagged. I showed him around the apartment. Not much here, but feel free to use my dishes if you need to. He didn't respond.

Just nodded. silently. His eyes scanned in the room like he was cataloging everything. I attempted to make conversation, but Jackson was like a brick wall. Out of sheer awkwardness, I decided to leave early for work. I said goodbye and told him I'd be home later that night. Jackson raised his hand in a stiff wave and let out the creepiest smile. When he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes, almost like the rest of his face had to catch up. I gathered my things. and chalked it up to him being socially awkward. Later that evening, when I arrived home,

all the lights were off in the apartment. I assumed Jackson wasn't home. I switched the lights on and swung the fridge door open. Inside were ten packages of red meat, neatly stacked and tightly wrapped. As I stood there staring, I heard a faint croaking sound coming from Jackson's bedroom. I moved closer to his door.

The croaking shifted into scratching. Then suddenly, the noise is intensified. My nerves shot through me. I banged on the door. Hey, man. Everything all right? Everything went silent. Ten seconds passed.

Then, in a gargled tone, Jackson hissed. Um, yes, just getting dressed. Okay, I said quickly. Just checking. I heard some noises. No response. I went back to my room and locked my door for the first time since moving in. The next morning, Jackson was gone.

His door was wide open. I tried to ignore it and went straight to the fridge to grab my eggs. Before I could, I noticed five of Jackson's meat packages were missing. I assumed he'd cooked something during the night. Still, curiosity nodded me. I slowly approach his bedroom. A tangy, metallic smell hit my nose as I peered inside. The room was practically empty, like no one had ever moved in, except for the cardboard box.

It sat unopened on his desk. As I stepped closer, a knock sounded at the front door. I recoiled. The knocking came again. I cracked the door open to see Jackson standing there with a woman beside him. Hey Jackson, I muttered. He rushed inside, the woman following closely behind. Forgot my keys, he mumbled. Thank you.

His eyes darted toward his bedroom as he shut the door quickly. This is my sister Amber, Jackson said. Amber cocked her head to the side and raised her hand in a stiff, unnatural way. She never spoke. Nice to meet you, I said softly. Are you helping Jackson move more stuff in? Her eyes stayed glazed on mine. Jackson hissed.

You don't go in my room, Ben, right? I would never intrude, I said quickly. He nodded and pulled Amber into his room. She stared at me the entire time. I left the apartment soon after. That night at work, I told my co-workers everything. Kelly was the most adamant.

Ben, this isn't a joke, she said. Gripping my arm. You're uncomfortable in your own home. This guy's a stranger. Who knows what he does? I nodded. Did you hear about the student who went missing? She added.

My stomach dropped. Who? I don't remember his name, she said. But I heard the FBI's involved. Just trust your gut. the next morning I decided I'd request a roommate change when I got home

I went straight to my room and locked the door Jackson was inside his room as usual knock knock knock my heart sank um Jackson can we talk Ben

he asked I'm about to go to bed please it won't take long I opened the door. Jackson stood a few steps back, smiling. What do you want? I asked.

He sat on the couch, stiff and deliberate. What makes your life? He asked. I stared at him. My friends, my family. He stared at me, never breaking eye contact. Then Jackson said, is that normal for most humans?

I looked at him, perplexed. What the hell do you mean? His smile grew wider. To stay under the radar, you must have friends and family. I was taken aback. All right, Jackson, I've got work in the morning. Good night. He stood up almost robotically and headed it toward his room.

Before shutting the door, Jackson stared at me. We are friends, Ben, right? I nodded. He shut the door. The next morning, something felt wrong. Jackson's bedroom door was open again. I don't know what came over me.

Curiosity, fear, instinct. But I walked toward it. A slick, squishing sound came from inside. I hesitated. Then I looked in. Something was standing there, hunched over, trying to pull Jackson's skin over itself like clothing. The box sat beneath its feet.

It twisted its head toward me in an impossible motion. I screamed and ran. At the front office, I told the woman my roommate wasn't normal. She forced a polite smile. What's your apartment number? 367. She frowned at her computer. Sir, you were

never assigned a new roommate. The police came. Then the FBI. They told me Jackson was reported missing days before I met him. Then they asked about a woman named Amber. I barely slept anymore. I'm still stuck in the apartment.

I can't break the lease. Last night, I saw it on the news. They found Jackson's body. His skin was missing. My mom used to hide under my bed at night, written by King Crimson Zero. I was born in 2000. Grew up in a small town in Northeast Ohio. We had one of those little ranch-style houses all on one floor, three bedrooms.

It was just me and my mom for most of my life. My dad left when I was a baby. She was a good mom, from what I remember. We didn't have much money, but she made sure I always had what I needed. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in the center of town. Always tired, but always kind. We'd watch movies together at night. She'd tuck me in, kiss my forehead, and tell me she loved me.

I felt safe, except at bedtime. I must have been around six or seven the first time I noticed it. One night after she tucked me in, I heard the floor creak after she turned off the light. Not out in the hall, right by my bed. I remember freezing, listening. Then I heard the sound of her breathing, slow, heavy, right under my bed. right underneath me. I leaned over the edge and whispered,

Mom? She didn't answer. Just this soft little giggle. Not mean. Not playful. Just weird. I called for her louder. After a few seconds,

she crawled out from under a bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. Smileed at me and said, Go to sleep, sweetheart. Mommy's here. Then she left the room. The next night, same thing. I heard her crawl under right after lights out, the soft thud of her knees and hands against the floorboards,

the shift of the mattress as she settled in, then the breathing. I was too little to really question it. I thought maybe it was just a game she liked to play. But the older I got, the more I realized it wasn't a game. It became a routine. She tugged me in like normal,

turn off the lights, and then she'd get under the bed every single night. And then she started doing little things. She would tap on the wood under my mattress and these odd rhythms. Three taps. Then two. Then four. Sometimes it almost sounded like a song.

other times like random patterns. If I moved or sat up, she'd stop until I sat back down. A couple of times I caught her peeking out from the foot of the bed. I'd feel her eyes on me and look down. And there she was. Her face just visible in the dark, one eye glinting in the faint lie from the hall,

no expression, just watching. I stopped sleeping well. I'd lie stiff under the covers, too afraid to move or call for her. If I tried to leave the bed, she'd grab my ankle. Not hard. Just enough to stop me. Then she'd giggle again. That same soft, weird giggle.

I never told anyone. How do you explain something like that when you're a kid? I figured no one would believe me. It wasn't every night that something scary happened. some night she'd just lie there quietly. I'd hear her whispering to herself sometimes. Words I couldn't make out. Soft and steady.

Like she was talking to someone I couldn't hear. This went on for years. During the day, she was totally normal. Made my lunch. Helt with homework. Joked with me. Hugged me. I remember trying to work up the courage to ask her about.

at once when I was around 10. I said something dumb like, Mom, why do you sleep under my bed? She just blinked at me and smiled, Oh, buddy, I don't do that. You must be having silly dreams. But that night, she was there again. And the tapping was louder.

By the time I was nine or ten, I stopped looking under the bed. I started sleeping on the couch when I could get away from it. Eventually, when I turned 11, she told me I was old enough to have a lock on my door. She never came back into my room. I don't know why she did that. I don't know what changed.

She passed away when I was 23. Cancer. In her last week, she was confused a lot of the time, drifting in and out but one night. When I was sitting by her bed, she grabbed my wrist and said very clearly, I kept you safe, you know. You were never alone at night. I still don't understand what she meant. I was hired to notice things out of place, written by Saturday.

As a kid, I was scared of pretty much everything. At night, I'd see faces moving in the wallpaper. I'd see branches, slither like snakes, piles of clothes, turned to slumped bodies. lamps looked like heads, and the front of cars grinned at me with sinister intent. I could also hear them. A creaking door would sound like a groan, the wind would scream, and floorboards would breathe heavy sighs. To me, they were ghouls, ghosts, and monsters around every corner. Needless to say, I was a nervous kid.

Turns out it wasn't just an active imagination. I have a condition. It basically boils down to a chronic, overactive peridolia. You know that thing where you can see faces and cars or shapes of people and trees? That's peridolia. It is a sort of defense mechanism that humans have evolved to notice camouflage creatures like jaguars and snakes, and to discern the sounds of encroaching presence. but to me it is about 16 times more noticeable than what is normal for the average person.

I see things everywhere, all the time. Of course, there were treatments. By age 12, I had tried six different regimens over a total of four years, and these side effects were brutal. Some would make me irritable, while others would make me hyper-focused. One type of medication just straight up put me to sleep. By age 18, I thought I'd never get a job. I was barely dragging myself through school, and there was no way I'd make it through college. I was on a course of drugs that barely kept me together, but they gave me these awful ticks. I'd drop things. I'd wake up in the middle of the night. My leg would shoot out and trip me. That was a mess. My mom had to cover the stairs and handrail and grip tape.

A few years ago, I had a standing meeting with the county employment services every Thursday. I hated it. On a particularly bad day, my mom had to drive me there. The meds were kicking my ass. She dropped me off at the end of the street. And just in that short walk to the office, I almost tripped into a brick wall. I was so flustered, I knocked over a trash can. But for the first time in a couple of years, I had to be a short walk to the office.

had an interview with a potential employer. I didn't think much of her. She was just some old woman in a warm coat. She introduced herself as Teresa and told me that she'd heard a lot about me. She offered me a trial and a hefty one-time payment. I didn't get the clear idea about what I was supposed to do, but she told me that secrecy was part of it. The only demand she had was that I stopped taking my meds. Still feeling the trash smell on my pants, I took Teresa up on her offer.

On my first day of work, I had no idea what to expect. I'd been off my meds for a week, and I had barely slept. It was hard to wrap my head around the world as I'd seen it as a kid. I'd see faces in the walls, in the shadows, in the leaves, in patterns. pretty much everywhere. I'd hear voices and screams in every braking car, in crinkling paper, in creaking floors. It was hard staying focused.

And I was so jumpy I could barely move without flinching. Teresa picked me up in a gray sedan. She was wearing a headset and kept looking over at the GPS. I noticed her leg was twitching, and that she kept biting her lip. She barely looked at me that whole ride. We finally arrived at a small yard About a 40 minute drive off the highway

There were two large trailers And a single story rundown prefab house from the 60s One of those things with cheap wood panels And matching broken windows There were eight other vehicles in the yard For sedans Two vans A Jeep and a bus

They'd set up warning tape A command tent with laptops and an antenna Spotlight and half a dozen crates covered with blue tarps. There were armed men with assault rifles, security personnel with handcuffs, and a couple of medics standing by with first aid kits. I was swarmed as soon as I stepped out of the car.

They fitted me with a headset, protective gloves, a heart monitor, and tagged me with a plastic ribbon around my left wrist. All the while, Teresa was just looking around, a beat of sweat stinging her eye. What are we looking at? She asked. Three, four?

Just one. I heard in the headset. We got it early. You got the spot? On site, she responded. Any blues? No blues. We're clear.

Teresa finally turned around. She faced me. Put her hands on my shoulders and talked slowly. This seems like a lot, she said. All I want you to do. do is to go inside carefully and tell me what you see. Why? I asked. What's in there? I don't know. She sighed. None of us knows, but we think you can see it. Is it dangerous? She shook her head. We don't know. We're trying to get to know them.

There was a flurry of instructions. I had to sign a waiver, they took pictures of me from six different angles and took several blood samples. They took a swab from my tongue, checked my eyes, and fitted me with a pair of safety goggles. Teresa took them from me just seconds later. Nothing around the eye, she said. You need to see clearly. They asked me to approach the door while they were running some kind of diagnostic. weapon checks, system checks, ready checks.

It felt like we were launching a rocket. I could feel my legs shaking. I'm with you all the way, Teresa said over the headset. You can leave it any time. Just tell me what you see. And I really mean what you see. A countdown began. At zero, the spotlight's turned on.

And the entire yard turned into a soundless ghost town. everyone held their breaths. It was my turn. I stepped inside. A simple one-story house. Three rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen. Someone had clearly lived there until recently. There were still clothes, flung over a chair in the living room.

The power was off, but the pale spotlights coming in through the windows made it feel like I was walking through a hospital waiting room. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I didn't know what to expect. But this payday could be the boost I needed to get my own place. A paycheck with four zeros for a single day of work. But standing there, looking into the sterile living room, I was having doubts. What do you see? Asked Teresa.

Notice anything? No, just furniture. A couch, an old TV, a fancy carpet, nothing out of the ordinary. I just walked around, saying out loud what I was seeing. As the minutes passed, Teresa was getting impatient. These are just things, she said. I needed to tell me what you really see. I entered the bathroom and immediately felt this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

A noise tickled in my ear. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I could see something moving behind me. In a heartbeat, I caught a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes. I turned around, screaming, something, something moved. I flung myself backwards, closing the bathroom door with the tip of my fingers. I stumbled, tearing down the shower curtains and crushing a cockroach. Laying there with my feet in the air, I tried to remember to breathe. Rarely have I ever been so scared that I had to remind myself to breathe.

My fingers tingled with adrenaline. Tell me what you saw. Teresa yelled. What's in there? Blue eyes. It had blue eyes. Did you see where it went? I didn't.

To the best of my knowledge, it was still outside the door. Look again, she continued. Look again. Then get out. She had to coax me out of the bathtub. She encouraged me. Spurbed me on. and reminded me that I had to leave that room one way or the other.

It probably took them 15 minutes to get me out of the tub, and when they did, I could barely feel my feet. When I finally opened the bathroom door, I couldn't see anyone. The hallway was empty. I carefully stepped out, looking around, nothing. Standing in the middle of the living room, I felt like an idiot. This was exactly what I was taking my medication for, paranoia, and sudden bouts of fear. It dawned on me that maybe I was influenced by all the people outside and their preparations.

I was walking in here expecting to see something. They'd worked me up, so of course I was seeing things. But then again, there was an odd painting on the wall that I hadn't paid attention to earlier. It was the strangest thing. It was a sort of thrift store painting, showing two women walking across a bridge on a hot summer's day. It was sort of generic, but I had been hyper vigilant when I first stepped in. You know that feeling when you say a word over and over so many times that it starts sounding like a noise? That's the feeling that fell over my eyes.

The picture started to blur and disappear, turning into something. swirling colors. And there, in that blur, I saw those blue eyes. There were small blue spots in the water on the sides of the bridge in the painting. That's what I'd seen. And there, I'd seen a face. Something blending into my sight, disappearing. And for a second, I knew for certain that I hadn't seen this painting when I first

stepped inside. And now it knew that I could see it. I felt it. I slowly started to back out. There's something in the painting, I whispered, in the living room. You sure, Teresa asked? Absolutely sure. Absolutely.

Get out. I rounded the corner and heard the floorboards creek. I could no longer see the painting, and I could send something move. Backing out of the front door and into the cool. autumn air. I could feel hands on my shoulder, armed men pulled me back, and paramedics started to check my eyes with flashlights. They asked me all sorts of personal questions, like my name, my mother's maiden name, and the name of the president. I was told to lay down as I heard a team breached the house with stun guns, cattle prods, nets, and a crate. Laying there and feeling the

pressures subside, I just cried and laughed. I didn't even notice Teresa sitting down next to me. I was given a cold drinking a pill, and I took it without question. You did good, she said. You're done. You're done. What was that? What's in there? Something only a special mind can see. That was my first time working with Teresa. Over the coming years, I would be called in about once or twice a month and the pay I got from those few days was enough to get me out of my parents' house. Teresa would check in with me weekly, and I had to submit to regular checkups. But more often than not, I was completely off the leash. I started to learn a bit more about the company I was working for and what they were doing.

I started getting payments from Hatchet Biotechnica, a subsidiary of Hatchet Pharmaceuticals. My official title was Contractor. a title that was repeated like a name. Teresa started going into greater details on what to look for and how to act. But that first mission was a sort of test to prove myself. I had no idea what I was actually proving, but it felt like my tendency to discern patterns and seeing dangers helped me along. I learned a bit more about their procedures.

For example, they were adamant about checking for blues. This meant surveying the nearby area to look for some kind of infection, usually taking the form of miscolored flowers, most often blue, but not always. Sometimes tulips, most often sunflowers. Once they just found a bunch of teeth sticking out of the wall, whenever they checked for blues, this is what they would look for. Something overtly strange and unnatural. When something like this was found, the whole mix. mission would be called off, and they would use controlled explosives to just take out the entire area. In more populated areas, they'd set up tents and use flamethrowers. I remember once,

the week before Christmas, when six men with flameflowers were called in to burn down a greenhouse. I'll never forget the way the flames reflected off their visors. To them, it all just looked like flames. But I saw something else. I saw bodies, writhing in the flames. I heard screams in the shattered glass and in the charred remains of melted plastic. I'd see pained faces glaring at me with hateful black eyes. Up until a few months ago, I had worked a total of 33 cases over two and a half years. Every case, I'd step into a location and look for one of these, things hiding in plain sight. Up until that point, I still had no idea what they actually were.

Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of something running past me, or see a pair of blue eyes looking at me from across the room. Every time, I just reported it and left. A chair, a fridge, a suspicious window. Hell, once it was a music box. This time, we are just coming up to. a house. It was a rainy autumn evening, and the area was already set up when we got there. I saw a for-sale sign knocked over by one of the jeeps who'd taken a wide turn.

I got suited up, blood samples, plastic wrap, all that jazz. It was set up to be just another job, although I was still nervous. I was getting better. No blues, asked Teresa. None, said one of the armed men. looking at a single tango. You sure, Teresa squinted? First report said six. Secondary reading says one. We might have runners.

Notify the Gallup ago, she sighed. Put him on the hunt. She turned to me with a smile, tapping me on the shoulder. In and out. You got this. I got this, I repeated. Yeah.

Standard routine. Countdown, spotlights, game on. It felt like stepping onto his stage. As I walked through the door and saw my shadow stretch out across the floor, I felt like a hunter, that I was the one to fear, and that whatever stayed in this house tried to hide for good reason. The floor is crooked, I noted. Strange place. You sure? Yeah, I nodded. Definitely. I steady myself and started checking the room one by one. I waited for that feeling to emerge. My eyes seen through the obvious and seeing the picture beneath the picture, the blue eyes emerging from

nothing, and the patterns of shadowy figures growing clearer. Just relaxing and expecting that feeling to wash over me was enough to put me at ease. But I can still feel a primal part of me tickling my nerves, expecting me to panic. But nothing happened. I checked the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom, there was nothing. Just a strangely crooked floor. Empty rooms and the echo of my own footsteps. An empty guest bedroom with a single window.

Through it, I imagined scowling faces in the trees outside. 20 minutes passed, and I got nothing. I reported to Teresa, and she assured me we were still getting readings from inside the house. Something was still in there with me, but I hadn't seen anything. I went through cycles of denial, fear and anger, over and over. What was I missing? Finally, I just sat down in the middle of the living room floor. I scratched my eyes, sighed, and...

tried to relax. Teresa, I'm not feeling it. Are you sure? There was no response. Teresa? Yeah, she responded, absentmindedly. Yeah, no, I, yeah, we're good. Hold on for a minute.

We're good, I asked. What do you mean, we're good? Again, no response. I stopped around for another 10 minutes before I went up to a window facing the front yard. It was hard to see through the glare of the spotlight. Teresa, I'm coming out. The place is empty.

As soon as I opened the front door, I saw two dozen faces fixed on me. Maybe they were surprised to see me, but I got the sense that there was something else. I could tell something was off. They all looked at me with strange expressions, some neutral, some smiling ear to ear. One of the paramedics just stared at me with a slack-jawed terror. It was as if they didn't know what to feel or how to express it. A hole sunk through my stomach. I got that hollow feeling as my eyes glazed over.

Like I was staring at something false. Something hiding a pattern. This was the sense I'd been looking for inside. And now I was feeling it. In the far back I saw Teresa. She stepped out from behind a jeep, smiling ear to ear. Behind the shape of her face, her eyes emerged, glowing with a cold blue. One by one, their eyes flared up in a blue glow.

And there, in a moment, my paranoid sight registered human-like shapes in the grass around them. Headless, mauled bodies, impostors, look-alike. mimics, nightmare beings, having tricked us into a trap. One by one, smiles started creeping across their faces, rows of impossibly sharp teeth, hiding long tongues, their fingers growing longer, their necks elongating, they were losing their disguises and facing me. Head on, unafraid. Nothing was said out loud, not a word, but to me, it was a

as if the wind itself was screaming for me to run. I slammed the door behind me and ran. Faces were coming out of the walls, door handles turning into hands, grasping at my clothes, my disordered face reflecting in windows and mirrors with jawless grins. I couldn't blink. Every heartbeat, a new horror, faced my eyes open. There were more doors than I remembered.

They were more windows than there should be. The kitchen suddenly had a skylight, and there were four fridges. Countless paintings had appeared in the master bedroom, depicting cruel and blood-drenched horrors. They were already here, trying to surround me, and my mind was racing to remember what was real and what wasn't. Rushing to the back of the guest bedroom, I remembered there being only one window.

Now there were two. I had to roll the dice, take a guess, do something. As I grabbed the window frame, I imagined teeth slamming into my hands, tongues licking across my palms, wide smiles sating their hunger. But this time, it was just my imagination. I burst through the window and took off running into the woods. Through the night, I just kept going. My chest hurt from holding the screams in. Without my medication, everything in the dark looked like something reaching for me, trying to eat me.

trying to eat me, trying to grab me. Creaking branches sounded like laughter, and howling winds or screams. I must have run for hours when my foot got caught between two rocks. As I tumbled to the ground, twisting my ankle, I saw them descend on me. I felt their fingers scratching me. I writhed on the ground, screaming for them to just let me go, to just please, please let me go. But after a few seconds, I realized I'd just scratched myself on the underbrush. There was no one there.

I was safe. I broke down crying, trying to ignore the twisted face reflecting off of the full moon above. Eventually, I made my way home. There were no messages waiting for me. All my work numbers had been taken offline. All ways to contact them were just gone. and there was no info on the firm that hired me. Hatchet biotechnica exists only on paper.

There's no location, no contact info, and no names attached. It's all affront. I haven't heard from Teresa since. I think that whoever I've been working for have just assumed I'm dead. That's why I decided to share this anonymously. Those who know who I am can reach out to me. And for those who don't, I just have a word of warning. Be observant.

Trust your intuition. It might save your life. The inheritance. Well, my parents died. Happens to all of us, I suppose. If you're lucky, they were old too. So I'm not too torn up about it. They lived happy lives together and died a mere three hours apart from one another.

Still, though, losing both parents in the same day, it's always going to hurt. Those final goodbyes, the ones where you know that, this is it. Yeah, that's the hardest part. It makes all the memories come rushing back, forces your brains run through every moment that it could recall being with that person, feeling mom's leathery, wrinkled hand wrapped so tightly around mine as she looked up at me with her old, beautiful brown eyes.

I couldn't help but be brought back to childhood. She and dad would walk side by side with me in the middle, and they'd take each of my hands into one of theirs. I'll never forget the joy I'd feel when they'd swing me back and forth as we walked. I just felt so warm and at peace. I never had any simple.

I guess they just decided one was enough. I can't say that affected me much, though. I mean, if anything, it meant more attention for me. Didn't have to share a room, didn't have to share a Christmas, and my birthday always felt like the most important day of the year. As I recollected, I could feel my mother's grip on my hand soften, and her eyes begin to flutter. What followed was the monotonous beep of a heart.

monitor. Then silence broken only by nurses doing their jobs. Mom was gone and dad was fading quickly behind her. Literal soulmates. Seeing dad in the state that he was in triggered more of those childhood memories and my face became drenched in tears as I held his hand tightly. As the hours passed, eventually it seemed as though he wanted to speak. But what came out was merely a gasping wheeze that looked like it physically pained him. He looked quietly devastated at my tears, and I assumed he just wanted to reassure me that everything would be all right. He lifted a weak finger towards a shelf at the far end of his room.

The shelf? I asked in a quaking voice with a smile. He shook his head, yes, and I walked over to the shelf. All that was there was a clipboard, clamping down on some printer paper, as well as a pen that sat beside it. I picked it up and dad began to try and speak again, urging me to bring him the clipboard. I kind of cocked an eyebrow out this,

but this was a man in his dying moments. I'm not going to tell my dad no, especially not now. With shaking hands, he began to write. It was heartbreaking seeing the pen tremble in his grasp as he struggled to write a single sentence. Slowly but surely, the words, were etched into the page.

Take care. Suddenly, my dad stopped. His face winced and curled into a pained expression as his heart monitor began to beep rapidly. Dad, no, I begged. Please, you can't leave me just yet, Dad. I'm begging you, please, God, not yet. His eyes rolled over to meet mine,

and a single tear crawled down the right side of his face as the heart monitor stretched out its final beep and nurses filled the room once again. And that was that. Mom was gone. Dad was gone. Yet here I was. Still alive and forced to endure.

I took Dad's paper. I saw it as his final goodbye. Take care, Donovan. That had to have been what he was trying to say. Everything will be okay. His voice called out of my. head. Leaving the hospice room felt like my shoes were cinder blocks, and the walk to the exit seemed to take an eternity. I got in by car feeling empty, a void in my soul that couldn't be

filled again, but alas, life must go on. I had funerals to arrange. There was a bit of a shining light in the darkness, though, and that shining light came in the shape of my inheritance. It feels wrong now that I'm thinking about it, finding consolation and getting money because my parents died. But if they left it to me, it was mine. Over the course of their lives, my parents had purchased three properties. One here in town, a lake house, a few cities over, and a two-story townhouse back in their home state. At least, I thought it was three. Apparently, they'd also owned a cabin up in the mountains about 50 or so miles.

out of town. They left each property to me, and from the very moment I found out, I made a quick decision that I was going to be definitely moving into that lakehouse for permanent residence. What? I deserve it. My parents died. Anyway, I never even heard them mention a cabin once in my entire life. Dad would take monthly hunting trips out to that area, though, so I guessed that's where it came from. It took me a few weeks to get out of there and take a look at the place. With what all the funeral arrangements and time it takes to want to even leave your bed after the death of a loved one, but I got out there nonetheless. Let me just say, the place was absolutely decrepit. I knew it had been a while since my dad had gone hunting, but this place looked like

it hadn't been touched in years. It was completely desolate, and vegetation had covered the entire front side of the cabin. The boards at the back looked like they were set to collapse at any given moment. A rickety porch swing lay on the front porch, suspended on the one side by the chain that hadn't snapped yet. Pushing the door open, what hit me first was the smell. That sickly sweet smell of death that you'd find radiating off a decaying deer carcass on the side of the road. It ran through the front door and sucker punched me in the face. completely unexpectedly. Covering 90% of my face with my shirt, the next thing I noticed that knocked the wind out of me were the toys. Dozens of toys that were very clearly made for little

boys, no older than the toddler age. So this is where dad brought you. I thought aloud, as I noticed one of my favorite teddy bears from when I was a kid. I searched for you for months, little huckleberry. What I noticed next is what made me realize that something was incredibly wrong. Aside from my little Huckleberry, I didn't recognize any of these toys. I have a pretty strong memory. I think I'd remember at least some of this stuff, but no. I didn't recognize the clothes either. None of these 10 or so outfits that by this point have been tattered and weathered to shreds.

They all just lay randomly sprawled across the floor of the cabin, covered in dirt and grime. As I explored further into the cabin, the smell of rot became more and more present until finally, I found its source. In a huge pile in the corner of the kitchen area were dozens of rodent carcasses. Possums, squirrels, raccoons, they all looked like they had been completely mutilated. I stared at the disgusting pile until something hit me like a freight train. The possum was at the very top of this pile. It looked fresh. Blood still trickled from what looked like a big bite mark on its neck, and its feet twitched.

All at once, the smell and blood became too much, and I began to get dizzy. I leaned over into the sink and started puking my guts up, shivering from the force. In between my heaves, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, and that possum pretty much confirmed it for me. I felt my senses heightened in that raw primal way. The kind of primal that helps a gazelle escape the crushing force of a crocodile bites before it can even happen. My ears parked up at the slightest foreign sound, and that sound just so happened to be the creaking of the wooden floors in the cabin. Ever so slightly, I turned around to where the sound was coming from. Peking its head into the doorway, staring at me with this disgusting childlike grin,

was something that I could barely classify as human. Its limbs were elongated and blood dripped rhythmically from its mouth and rotting teeth. It had the body of a human, but something was just so wrong. Its stomach looked like it threatened to touch its spine, and it moved in july. It moved in, jerky, erratic motions as it inched closer to me. When it was about three or so feet away from me, it stuck its hands out and smiled wider, causing me to fall backwards onto the mountain of dead animals. The thing didn't stop and continued inching towards me.

Arms outstretched as if it were slowly attempting to grab me. It was now less than a foot away from me as I cowered, terrified against the kitchen wall. It was so close that I could feel as hot, disgusting, breath blanketing my entire face with each breath. Suddenly, without warning, the thing reached down violently and grabbed each of my hands. It didn't hurt me though. Instead, it just held my hands, stroking them gently. That's when I noticed something that made every puzzle piece fall into place. When it looked at me, it wasn't with malice. It looked at me. It looked at me with. It looked at me

with eyes that were painstakingly human. It looked at me with the same eyes that I had seen on my mother as I held her hand in her last moments. Just as every little detail began to register in my mind, the things started to speak in a broken, inhuman voice. You take care of me. I must have dinner at exactly 6 p.m. Written by Saturday.

It is really bizarre to look back on the past year and consider that there was a time when my life was simple. I have a different life today, and I would argue I'm a different person. I have to eat every night at specifically 6 p.m. If I don't, there are consequences. That doesn't sound all that weird. people eat at 6 p.m. all the time. Some earlier, some later. I can't do that.

It has to be exactly 6 p.m. And if I don't, there are consequences. You wouldn't think there'd be, but there is. And yeah, it is as unusual as it sounds. It started about a year ago. My family was taking me out to celebrate finishing my education as a dental technician. I had technically already worked in the field for some time, mostly internships. But now I had it all on paper. I was officially done, and I could get myself

a real job. I had a couple of places lined up. My mom was really excited about it. She booked a table at a pretty pricey downtown restaurant. You need to book it at least one or two months in advance, especially if you want a weekend or evening slot. Not only did she do that, she booked it with space to spare. Mom, dad, my girlfriend, Amy, my older brother, and my grandparents. One big outing.

I was a bit nervous about them meeting Amy. It was their first time, but I figured it'd be fine. We got there around 5.30 on a Friday. I'm not going to end. out the restaurant. I think they're closed now, but it was this nice downtown place, slightly elevated with an outdoors terrace. They had two bars and these big booths for parties of up to eight. When we got there, they showed us inside, asked us to take off our shoes,

and sat us down at the table. First thing they did was go person by person and wash our hands at the table. The appetizer was meant to be eaten with your hands. That was the kind of vibe we were walking into. Just for contrast, I'm not into expensive stuff. The whole reason I got into dentistry at all

was because I used to be anxious about tongues. I started reading about them just to kind of demystify them, and all of a sudden, it became an interest. Then I went from tongue to teeth. But food-wise, I'm a ramen noodle kind of guy. I'm not really about the whole

washing my hands with eucalyptus water thing. We had a couple of drinks, some laughs, some appetizers. They had this shrimp thing they served with dry ice that made the whole table look like a cloud. The chef was apparently a big thing. I think I've seen him on TV a couple of times.

Let's just call him Chef Mike for reference. It'd be too easy to identify him if I gave you the real first name. We saw him a couple of times that day. A lot of people were running in and out of the kitchen. And if you listen closely, you could hear someone yelling in the other room. As the clock closed in on 6 p.m., a waiter put down a plate right next to me. No one else got a plate like that.

It was a kind of zesty halibut and asparagus foam. When I looked up, I realized I've been served by shrews. chef Mike himself. For the birthday boy, he smiled. It's not my birthday. I smiled back, but thank you. Pardon my assumption. May I ask the occasion?

The others at the table chimed in. My grandparents were talking about how inventive I was as a child. My mother straightened her back and started talking about my excellent oral health. Amy was clinging to my arm, a bit overwhelmed about the whole outing. She's not a fan of strangers. Chef Mike just smiled at me. Then you must have a refined palate, he said. Please, it's on the house. A clock chimed in the background. 6 p.m. on the dot. I took a bite. I'm not going to say the halibut was the best thing I've ever had. It wasn't. It was good, though. Buttery smooth with just enough texture to stick to your tongue.

The foam did a lot of heavy lifting. It was just a couple of bites, but I really enjoyed it. There really wasn't much more to it. We had a lovely dinner and dessert. Then as we called it tonight, Amy and I took an Uber back to our place. That's what I noticed something curious. Someone had sent me money. 80 bucks.

Now, it's not a lot of money, but there was no name or note attached to it. I figured it was my parents wanted to give me a little extra to go out with Amy, but I wasn't sure. I chalked it up to miscommunication and sent out a, hey, thanks for the 80 bucks in the family group chat. No one responded. I didn't really think about it. The next day, I was back up to slurping up a pack of ramen noodles while doing paperwork. To be a bit extra fancy, I added some fresh bell peppers. I was halfway through an article when I got a notification.

$65. No name or notes attached. Strange. Not just that, I got money again, but that was a different amount. I sent out to another message in the family group chat, thinking maybe my grandparents were the ones who sent it. Maybe they thought the first didn't go through. I could only speculate, but the group chat stayed silent.

Over the next few days, I noticed a couple of things. First of all, there were days when I didn't get any money at all. I did get a couple more deposits, though, but only on days when I had dinner at exactly 6 p.m. It was the only common denominator. Ramen with bell peppers. I know, twice in a week. Got me another $65.

Fried chicken and rice got me 70. Add some curses. sauce and have it again the next day, I got 73. The sums would differ, but I would only get some on the days where I ate at exactly at 6 p.m. The thing is, it was fast, fast and consistent. I could be sitting at home, chilling in front of the TV, and I'd get a notification, but only if I was having dinner at 6 p.m. This brought me to a couple of uncomfortable realizations. First off, these sums would differ depending on what I ate, meaning there was some kind of rating system. And second of all, and maybe more importantly,

someone could tell when I was eating. Someone was somehow observing me eat. This triggered all kinds of paranoid responses in me. Now I would stop eating out of spite. I'd bring Amy over and ask her to check outside for someone watching me through the windows. I borrowed a strong magnet from a local magnet fisher to check if I got any bugs on me. All of it turned out nothing. I think the only thing I managed to do was convince Amy that I was getting paranoid. She wasn't too happy about it, but I think that's just because she worries. She's a warrior.

One day, I decided to test it all further. I locked myself in the bathroom. I turned off the lights and hit behind the shower curtain. I had a microwaved waffle with some vanilla ice cream in a bowl. I took little bites at exactly 6 p.m. and listened for notification on my phone. My hands were a bit shaky. I was so focused on listening for that sound

that every creek and groan of the apartment building sent sparks into my chest. As soon as I finished the bowl, the phone beeped. $45. I couldn't even see my own hands, unless someone was using infrared or sonar. There was no way they could see or hear what the hell I was doing. Something wasn't adding up.

I kept experimenting over the next few days. I tried to test the boundaries of what counted as dinner, dinner, soft foods like drinks and slushies, and marmalade didn't count. Neither did snacks, like chips or crackers. It had to be something substantial and traditional. I tried going the other way around. I got this really nice cut of beef from the local butcher. I asked Amy to help prepare it, seeing that she's a bit more of a cook than I am. She put some real love into that thing, using a sort of truffle glaze and serving it with roasted potatoes. I asked her to share it with me, but she insisted I had it on my own.

She was sort of invested into this experiment too. She'd seen the deposits. I sat down at this little table. I had a heated cloth napkin, a glass of red wine, and ate by candlelight. Once I finished, I checked my phone. $1,200. This wasn't just a creepy experiment anymore. This was real money.

Rent money. Amy freaked out when I showed her, dancing around the kitchen table like she'd won the lottery. Tomorrow, I'll make homemade chabada and a chili. She said, if this is what one steak gets us, what'll a three-course meal do? But where's it coming from, I asked.

Why are we getting it? Why don't you just ask? If there's someone watching, then clearly they're listening. She had a point. Amy had some last-minute business to deal with the next day. So I ended up making some hot dogs and mashed potatoes. Nothing fancy. Just the powdered stuff right out of the box.

But as I sat down, I had an idea. I took a bite and spoke into the empty room. If you can hear me, add 50 cents to the next deposit. I'd never gotten anything less than full dollars, so yeah, that'd catch my attention. I tried watching a show as I ate, but I kept getting this pounding in my chest whenever I thought about being watched. What was the point in watching me eat? And why at 6 p.m? I finished my meal and put the plate away.

As I turned on the dishwasher, my phone chimed. $21.50. Someone was listening. Testing this further just made it stranger. I had some Indian takeout food on the bus and I still got a deposit. They were still watching me when I was on the move. As long as I had a proper meal, I tried dragging dinner out for two hours. I still got a deposit.

but much less than usual. I could be eating alone or with friends or at a restaurant. It didn't matter. Someone knew what I was doing and they were grading it on a scale. I started asking questions. 50 cents for yes, 25 cents for no. I already knew they could hear me, so that was already settled. Can you see me?

50 cents, yes. Do I know you? 25 cents, no. Do you want to hurt me? 25 cents no. I was so fascinated that it started taking up a lot of time. I would make charts and weigh my options on what to ask. We quickly realized that it didn't work if Amy asked. It had to be me. But when asked if it knew that Amy was there, I got a very clear yes. I started to notice. I started to notice. a couple of patterns in the payments. Home-cooked meals regularly got bigger deposits, also eating alone. White wine was a big no-no, but red wine was yes, especially if chilled. I was slowly

mapping another person's palette, and I have to admit, it was pretty amazing. A little more salt, another five dollars. A little less butter, that's another three. All the while, I was asking questions. Whoever was watching me had a hard time answering what or who they were. We had to narrow it down to what they weren't. They were not a regular person, not a demon or mythical creature, not an alien. I couldn't get a clear enough answer, but I managed to understand that they used to be a person. Not a ghost, though. They were clear about that. 25 cents clear.

I came up with this system of multiple choice answers. I would write up answer sheets with increments of 10 cents each. That's how I figured out where they came from. First day, I asked what continent they lived on. I got 30 cents, correlating with my North America answer. The next day, it pointed me to the United States. Makes sense. That's where I am. The third day, I asked them to write out the first letter of the state code.

I got 19 cents, meaning S. The next day, I got four cents, meaning D, SD, South Dakota. Pretty far away. I tried to narrow down exactly where they were at. But after a while, they stopped answering. Turns out, they didn't know for sure. It was east of the river. That much I figured out.

I got the impression that whoever I was communicating with wasn't entirely sure either. Some days the question I asked took longer to respond to and there'd be a delay before I got the deposit. All the while, I was raking in some pretty good money. I was averaging $150 a day from just sticking to this dinner schedule. Amy didn't ask too many questions.

We could really use the money if we wanted to get a bigger place. But I had to start asking some uncomfortable questions. I couldn't get over what kind of deal I was actually making. Why would someone go to such lengths just to make me follow a strict schedule? And it was then almost two months after that celebration dinner that I got a visitor. It was a regular Tuesday. I had started my new job just a couple of weeks prior. so I was more tired than usual when I got home from work.

All the tension of getting to know a new workplace just collapsed from my shoulders. Amy was working overtime, but she had prepared a recipe for me to make sure to ensure we got the most out of our daily mystery deposit. But that's when I got a knock on the door. Now, I get visitors every now and then. My parents, friends, Amy's friends. but this was someone I hadn't seen at my door before. Looking through the peephole,

I realized I was looking at none other than our local celebrity chef. Chef Mike. I opened the door, scratching my head. Hey, he said, dropping the TV persona. Remember me? Yeah, sure I said. What are you doing here?

Have you been getting the payments? You know about them? Yeah, he nodded. I get them sometimes too. I just got to cook the right thing. I invited him in, and we got to chatting. Chef Mike told me all about the setup. About once a week, he got a deposit if he served that halibut dish to someone.

They didn't have to order it. He would pay for it. It just had to be prepared in a certain way, and offered at a certain time and date. As Chef Mike explained it, he wandered around my kitchen. making sure to not touch the counter. It was kind of filthy. Amy doesn't really do the dishes, and I'm not much for scrubbing. Chef Mike gave me a long look.

I stopped getting payments after you came by. I think our benefactor has taken a liking to you. Benefactor, is that what it is? I honestly don't know, he shrugged, but whatever it is, it kickstarted my career. I've made some serious money with this arrangement. Just from cooking halibut? It's not just from cooking halibut.

It's cooking it to perfection. It's cooking it over a process that has taken me years to calibrate. No one else can do it. It's unique. He pointed a finger at me. I sat down. Chef Mike had come by to cook me dinner. He wasn't getting payments for halibut anymore,

so he figured the benefactor has taken a liking to me. He wanted to try cooking for me to see if it paid off. It sounded almost threatening, like he wasn't asking. He wanted me to agree to him coming by two times per week, cooking things he knew would get us a lot of money. I wouldn't have to send him anything. He got deposits of his own. Somehow, our benefactor knew that not only was I having dinner at that exact time,

but he also knew exactly who prepared. it. And I mean, what could I say? I was getting paid to enjoy a gourmet meal two times a week. How could that be a bad thing? I wasn't being tricked here. I saw the whole thing from start to finish. No matter if it made a palea or a chicken frittata. I'd see the whole thing, no tricks. So yeah, I agreed. Amy would have killed me if I didn't. She got all the leftovers she wanted. that and she was a bit of a closeted chef Mike fan. She followed his YouTube channel. Things changed rapidly after Chef Mike and I shook hands on the steel.

He got all new kitchenware for me and had a firm come by to clean. He put in this new hood over the stove and put in a wall-mounted spice rack. All custom jars. No labels necessary. On days when he came by, he would sometimes bring an assistant or a sous chef. He was taking it seriously. I can't count how many unnamed people came and went through my kitchen during those days. Some didn't even look like chefs, more like mercenaries.

Deposites kicked up significantly. My max payout was somewhere around $3,200. It never dipped below $300. Still, having him around was nerve-wracking. He had an absolutely shit temper, and he would blow up at Amy all the time. She would just be excited to have him there, and he would cuss her out for sharing. It was heartbreaking watching her go from all excited to withdraw. And after a while, she would avoid coming out on all days when he was there.

All the while, I was still trying to understand our benefactor. I asked him to spell out his name. But all I got was N and O. 14 cents. 15 cents. Then I decided I had to ask some big questions, something that would take a long time to answer, but that I had to know. Despite knowing it might take weeks to get the full picture, I painstakingly made a schedule to ask a question I couldn't stop thinking about. How can you see me?

It took eight days to get a complete answer. Every day I checked the deposit In the corresponding number of cents I put up one post at a day Until the answer Was staring at me 21, 18 525

519 Your eyes Your eyes I tried eating with my eyes closed But that didn't seem to affect it at all That confused me Even if this thing could somehow experience things through my eyes

that didn't explain why it wanted me to eat. I started getting strange messages not related to the questions I asked. Letters that wasn't a response to anything I asked. I could ask a yes or no question and get four cents. A D. Over the weeks that followed,

I filled my fridge with all kinds of strange messages, all written on colorful post-its. Good taste. best tongue more salt chef mike shared that he was getting messages too but he hadn't figured out what they were meaning yet it was only when i pointed it out that he realized he had started getting sense he hadn't gotten those before he wrote out all the sentence he'd received in a number sequence and had me translate it while he cooked this one says can't see i said pointing to a series of postits the other one says can't touch so we can't touch and can't see and he lives in south dakota and he sees things with

other people's eyes chef mike shuddered he didn't like that amy was standing quiet in the corner keeping her head down he says i have a good tongue the best i added what do you think that means well chef mike sighed over the years i've worked worked with him, he made me perfect that one halve a dish as a sort of calibration. Maybe he was looking for someone to enjoy it the right way. But how does he know that I do that? He shrugged. See through your eyes?

Taste through your tongue? Taking all I'd learned into account, I decided to dive deeper into another question. Why specifically at 6 p.m.? Why was that so important? The answer I got was as simple as it was infuriating. Dinner. I asked what happened before that and why it could be 5 p.m. Gym.

The benefactor had a schedule. Work, gym, dinner, woman, sleep. I got this impression of someone living vicariously through others. Maybe literally. How else can you explain someone knowing I'm eating strawberries and cream in the dark? and not just flushing them down the toilet. I shared my findings with Amy, all the post-its, the talks with Chef Mike,

the experiments, the questions, I showed her my conclusions and suspicions, drawing it out on my iPad like Oss mapping a conspiracy theory, red lines from one circle to another, dates, answers, I'd printed out pages of deposits and highlighted every cent, just in case. I checked if the full dollar amount was anything too. It wasn't.

And that rating, it was getting intricate. The benefactor had a very particular palate. It enjoyed beef the most. Well done, surprisingly. Grilled was a no-go. But it enjoyed the barbecue and various glazes. There was a little upshot whenever I had a pleasant appetizer. And even more if I finished.

with a dessert. Chef Mike managed to break the record with a $4,100 deposit after serving me a four-course meal. But man, it was awkward. I was just sitting there,

savoring it, while Amy watched from the other side of the room. I could tell she was having second thoughts about this entire thing. I couldn't blame her, but we were talking about big,

big money by now. This was daily income in the potential thousands. Finally, at one point, she just flat out asked me all about it. We were driving home from the grocery store, and she had me pull over. It was almost in her time. We'd gotten stuck in traffic. I was a bit stressed, but I did as she asked. She put her hand on my shoulder.

I think we should stop, she said. We got so much from this. There's got to be a problem with it. I don't feel comfortable doing this. It's a lot of money, I agreed. But can we afford to stop? She nodded. We got a lot, I know, and we can put that to good use.

But when's enough enough? Didn't you want to be a dental technician? I am a dental technician, I insisted. You spend more time on your charts and recipes, she said. That's all your time. It's income in the thousands of. Amy? Thousands. And what do they get from you that's worth that kind of money? I didn't have an answer. My tongue felt dry. The clock was almost 6 p.m. I leaned back and smacked my seat.

Amy recoiled a little, and I reached out to apologize. We were okay. It was just a lot. And I mean, yeah, she was right. I was being paid for something I didn't understand. understand and it was a lot of money but if i can't understand it how can i consent to it i decided to swallow my pride and agree with her so that day i skipped dinner and for the next week i kept that up it was a bit strange stepping away from a strict schedule and chef mike wasn't happy about it He went back to making that halibut dish Looking for someone new to appease the benefactor I'd get these occasional messages like no one yet

And you sure you still out The message that stuck with me the most was just Do you know how lucky you are I stopped responding after a while Amy was doing a lot better We started eating together again And we could be a bit more spontaneous It was a load off of my shoulders, but I would still catch myself wondering at times.

Whenever 6 p.m. rolled around, was something looking through my eyes? Was it tasting my tongue? Had it moved on? There were no more deposits. It sucked not to have that income, but it was a strange thing to rely on to begin with. And I won't lie. It was convenient as hell. but there's something

uncomfortable to it. I can't put my finger on it. But after two weeks of stepping away from the deal, something changed. I lost my job. I'm not saying I was the perfect employee, but I was doing a lot better now that I didn't have any distractions. It came out of nowhere.

There were no mass layoffs or anything. It was just me. And on that same day, as some nameless security goon is carrying my stuff to my car, I got a text from Amy. She lost her job too. All of a sudden, that income is looking like a lifesaver, but I couldn't help but think.

What if that's the point? What if this was orchestrated? How far can this benefactor reach? That night, Amy went to see her sister. The two of them are really close, and she needed some alone time. Meanwhile, I made some spaghetti and meatballs, and I sat down to eat at exactly 6 p.m. I remember sitting there at the kitchen table, eating in silence, looking at my iPad across the table.

I'd written a question, did you get us fired? 50 cents yes, 25 cents no. Every bite felt wrong, like someone was watching me from inside my mouth, like there was someone else sitting in the same space as my body, savoring me like a goddamn juice box. It felt like I was putting on a show, making myself into a canvas to be painted on. But I finished the meal.

There was a deposit later that night. $480.50. That's a yes. It got us fired. I didn't tell Amy about it. She thought we'd gotten away from that whole ordeal, and now it was threatening to pull us back in. I wanted to give her some peace of mind,

so I decided I was going to do something about it. I had a plan to get this benefactor out of our lives once and for all. One evening, while she was out, I sat down at 6 p.m. with a new plan. I was going to make the benefactor turn away from me forever, and I could only see one way of doing that. I lined up a plate with orange juice, toothpaste, diced onions, and mayonnaise.

That and a spoon. I prepared an empty bucket next to me. My heart was making backflips as the clock crossed over to 6 p.m. When it did, I dug in and ate until I couldn't eat anymore. I ate and I got violently ill. There were no deposits that night. For a few days, it seemed to work. I could eat at 6 p.m. without getting a deposit.

It actually lightened my mood a lot. I didn't feel watched anymore. I think Amy noticed it too. She seemed a bit more at ease. Dinner time had become this unspoken stigma between us. But we'd started to look past it. We could joke about it, plan a little outing. we might even have dinner at 6 p.m.

We moved back into a better routine. I took down the postage from the fridge. I deleted the document with all my findings. I'll admit, I wasn't sure about that one. There's no harm in keeping a file on your computer, but then again, if I wanted to fully commit, I couldn't keep that stuff around. After much deliberation, I cleared it out.

Things were looking up. I got a new job. interview, Amy and I were looking at bigger apartments, hoping to find something within our price range. Not for now, but for when we both got back on our feet. But things didn't always turn out like you want. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I'd spent my day talking to some old classmates. I was waiting for a response from a recruiter who'd shown some interest. I got out of my car at around 4 p.m. Bringing some groceries along.

The front door was open, so I figured Amy was at home. I did what I always did. I spoke out loud about my day. Mark got a new job, I said. Sounds like it wasn't just me that'd been laid off. No response. I got some turkey breast.

I figured we could make some. I looked down at my grocery bag. Turns out, someone had switched it. This one. wasn't what I'd bought. But for that to happen, they must have been in my car while I checked my phone. Looking up, there was a man in my living room. He was about six-three, slim shoulders, thick horn-rimmed glasses, buzz cut, gray dress coat, simple blue jeans, something in my blood froze when I saw him.

I think I've seen him at Chef Mike's place. It was like coming face to face with a lion. All kinds of strange details just burned into my head. The way he laced his shoes. The silver ring on his left index finger. The slight hint of a scar on his neck. The tinted blue sunflower on the commercial rolling in the background. We just stared at each other for a second.

I counted my breaths. trying to keep my brain from spiraling. I was making a hundred plans at once, and they were all incomplete. Run, scream, shout, talk. Why aren't I talking? Do something. He burst into a sprint.

I dropped my groceries and got about five steps before he caught my neck and pushed me down. I felt something cold, metallic, and heavy, push against the back of my skull. Not a word, he said. said. Not a single goddamn word. The world turns black with a blindfold. I tried to listen for details. Count my steps. There were more people and they were trying to disorient me. They put a hood over my head and spun me around, pushing me to the ground a couple of times. I couldn't

figure out the direction we were going. They threw me into the car, a big one by the sound of it. No one was talking, but I figured they were at least three people. Two up front, one in the back. The car ride was over 40 minutes, but we took a lot of turns. We might have been going in circles for a while. Once we came to a stop, they pulled me out and kept driving. I never even saw the car. Still, not a word from either of them.

I was pulled inside a building and escorted down some stairs. A seller. I was pushed into a cheap chair that scraped against an uneven stone floor. Then there was a voice. Time. 448. Clear out. People left the room.

Another chair squeaked as someone sat down across from me. They leaned in, making sure the chains on my hands were secured to the table. Let me tell you about my job. The silence was unbearable. I could barely hear him over my own breathing. I've had a job for six years, he said. Best job I've ever had. Before this, I was ready to bite a bullet.

I had no purpose, no income, nothing. He tapped something against my head. Then one day, a man walks past me. And I look at him a little longer than I usually do. He looks weird. Has a feel to him. and all of a sudden I get 20 bucks just like that so you know what I do he leans in I look a little closer I follow him a little longer another 20 and you know what I find this guy is a freak he does some

things that grown men aren't supposed to things that hurt people good people he leans back something metallic lands on the table. So instead of turning my gun on myself, I turn it on him. And I shit you not. Ten minutes later, I'm looking at a five-figure payout out of goddamn nowhere. He taps the heavy object with his fingertips.

Spins a little. Now, I got a job. A very serious job. And I've learned to listen very, very well. And I don't have ever. ask questions. We sat there for a full hour. He had a wall clock that made this needlessly loud ticking noise so I wouldn't forget the seconds. I tried to calm my nerves and settle my breathing. But he would do something to constantly keep me on edge. I lost track of time completely after a while.

And he was more than patient. Someone knocked on a door upstairs. A heavy door. Metal. enforced. The man got up from his chair. That's your cue, he said. It's showtime. I instantly recognized the voice as the door creaks open. Amy. They drag her down in chains, kicking and screaming. She yells my name. Not that I can do anything. It's like reaching for a teddy bear. She's just screaming to get the fear out. And it aches in me not to be able to do anything. This man has a gun. Something small clings onto the table in front of me when he pulls off the blindfold. I'm sitting in a dark basement.

There are eight men in the room, all armed with submachine guns. They've chained Amy to the wall. They got her purse tangled up, so they cut the strap off with the bowie knife. They're all masked. Black masks. Carbon fiber with felt over the eyes. They have different skin tones than build. No visible tattoos.

There are six plates in front of me. A bacon and water chestnut appetizer. Caesar salad with a mild cheese. Lightly fried halibut with hollandaise sauce and collard greens. Rice balls with spicy mayonnaise served with steak tenderloin. A turkey burger slider. And a small cup of chocolate lava cake for dessert. Three perfectly placed glasses of red wine.

water and white wine. Amy is screaming herself to death. I can hear her voice breaking. I realize one of the men are behind me, and he's holding something. I can hear a leather strap just inches from the back of my head. He's pointing something at me.

Once the clock turns to 6 p.m., one of the men nod at me. Bon Appetit. I take my time with the dishes. I didn't want to get it. give them an excuse to shoot me in the back of the head. It all tastes like salt anyways. I must have bitten my tongue when they attacked me. The wine burns my tongue and my eyes water. A little blood drizzles out of the corner of my lips. Amy is a mess. She's on her knees,

repeating please over and over like a mantra. She is terrified of strangers and the claustrophobia isn't helping. No one is budging. They're not even looking at her. I take bite after bite, knowing full well that I'm being looked at from the inside out. He can taste the salt of my tongue. He can feel the pieces sliding down my gullet. He can feel my nervous stomach rumbling as I force myself to chew, chew, chew. How can you want this? One of the men checks their watch.

Send the chef home. Have our guests finish in 10 minutes or kill the girl. Make it a challenge. The man standing behind me huffs. grabs my head and smashes it into the table. The table cracks a little. Cheap plastic, probably stolen from a yard. He doesn't have a gun.

He has some kind of pop ravei. He's not killing me. He's going to hurt me. Bad. It takes me a moment to register the pain. He pulls out my tongue and pierces it with Raveh. Start the clock. I can't feel my tongue.

My eyes water. I tried to eat. without chewing, but these salts feel like sticking my mouth into a wall socket. I bite, chew, and swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. I'm a machine. I'm doing this. Pain doesn't kill you, but by God, it's the worst I've ever felt. It's supposed to be good. It smells nice, but it sticks to my stomach lining like a sore cold. They're going to kill her. I can see the gun. They're going to kill her. I finished within a couple of minutes to spare. I almost choke on the white wine. I knocked over a couple of plates and it looked like someone fed it all to a starving dog.

I had a barbecue glaze on my fingers. Hands are faster than forks. Looks good, one of them said. Hope you enjoyed your meal. Another one leaned in from behind, tapping me on the shoulder with an automatic weapon. What time are you having dinner tomorrow? he asked. It wasn't really a question. It would never be a question again.

6 p.m. I got $25. No sense. I still have my dinner at 6 p.m. to this day. I'd like to say Amy and I have found some kind of normalcy in all of this, but she turns pale every time I walk away to eat. We don't talk about it. We talk about everything but that. I've started getting deposits again.

Not as big as I used to, but still significant. I've noticed I got a bit more if Amy is in the room, watching in silence. I've tried thinking about it in other ways, like I'm not a captive in my own body. But maybe an influencer to an audience of one, or a curator, a curator, a reviewer. Maybe there's some magical thing I can do that will grant me some kind of lenience. I don't know. But for now, I don't have to be. have any options. Every day, I step away from whatever I'm doing, and I have dinner,

and I have it at exactly 6 p.m. And all right, guys, that wraps up some creepy horror stories from Reddit, and I really hope you enjoyed today's video. If you did, please like the video and subscribe to the channel, and leave a comment down below and let me know your thoughts on today's video but I really appreciate you guys watching to the end of the video if you did watch the end please comment down below um spooky story spooky snook story and i'll know you guys watch the end and i'll give you guys a heart on your comment but thank you guys so much for watching if you enjoyed today's video please check out some other videos on the channel and i'm sure you'll like those as well and yeah all right thank you so much for watching to the end of the video and this is snook

and i'll see you next time bye