Snook - Disturbing Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: August 8, 2025

Thank you guys for watching, let me know if you would like to see more content like this in the future! The 1st story in this video was by far my favorite, so make sure you watch to at least that part! Thanks for watching, like and subscribe. CREDITS - u/mythic_melon - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1m8c6tm/i_get_paid_to_answer_phone_calls_all_daybut_i_am/u/Mindless-Bother-3827 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1m5dqp2/we_stopped_for_gas_in_the_adirondeck_mountains/I was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors.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 another Reddit stories video. And today we're getting into some disturbing stories from Reddit. And it's been a long time since I've made one. And you guys have been begging for some more Reddit stories videos. So here I am to deliver. And thank you so much for stopping by. And today's stories are great. Super disturbing, creepy, weird.

And you'll just want to stick around. So grab a snack, grab some water, hydrate, relax, or turn this on before you go to sleep. I don't know. Whatever you do, I'm sure you'll enjoy this. and thank you so much for something by like I said please like the video and subscribe to the channel it helps more than you know and without further ado let's get into some disturbing stories from reddit i get paid to answer phone calls all day but i am only allowed to listen by mythic underscore melon we've all heard of odd jobs before quirky social media gigs requests from strangers on the internet

sometimes legit mostly illegal i want to warn you about my latest adventure the premise is simple but confusing. You're a paid to answer calls. But you can only listen. If you talk back, if you say anything at all, you're done. Curious, so was I.

But before I jump in, I want to set the scene for you. There's a lot of ground to cover, but I promise it'll be worth the wait. Let's start with the call center. There's a certain unease in the building. It's not the lights or the computers or the AC rumbling through the white panel ceiling.

It's deeper than that. A quiet, unnerving buzz. The longer you are here, the easier it gets. But the feeling never quite goes away. It just gets buried, deeper and deeper, into that steel case you call your mind. You'd be surprised how many people there are in this office. It's quiet, but it isn't silent. Never silent.

If he sits still long enough, if you really listen, you can hear them. The voices. The steady rhythm of desperation. Cries, please, whispers, and stares. screams. They're not loud. Not loud enough to disturb anyone. Just soft enough to make your skin crawl. Like a bad feeling you can't place. They're not coming from the workers. They're pouring out of the phones. The never-ending sea of desperate callers ringing in day after day. Every call is different. Every voice is different. But the words, the stories, always the same. Please, they say,

I don't know where I am. Something is outside the door. I need help. but no one responds. No one ever does. Two cubes down, Martha, that's what I call her, is filling out a crossword. She taps her acrylic nails against her desk like she's typing away at an invisible keyboard. Then there's Debbie, again, not her name, but she seems like a Debbie. She's tall, brunettes and eating the same cheap, power fat she brings in every day. I think it's strawberry flavored. Nobody talks here. Not out loud. Not unless they still want to work here. We don't wear name tags. We don't introduce ourselves. We don't even wear our own faces.

Everyone's a sign of mask. Not the sanitary kind. Not the Halloween kind either. They're corporate. Sleak, smooth, almost artistic. I'd describe it as a masquerade-style mask without the usual glitter and tassels. They start just below the forehead

and stop just above the mouth. They say it's part of the experiment. What experiment? Nobody really knows. That's kind of the whole point. We're not here to understand. We're here to follow directions. Answer the call.

Don't say anything. Let them speak. Let them scream. Let them beg. Just sit there with the phone press to your ear and listen until the line goes dead. That's it. That's the job. It seems cheap, gimmicky almost.

Like we're a part of the latest reality TV series where cameramen are hiding in bushes with ulterior motives. I thought the same at first. But if there is something that doesn't lie, it's money and lots of it that's why i'm here i'm ariana nineteen years old college drop out a few semesters in then i quit way too much debt too little hope credit card stacked like a tower ready to fall i spend weeks scouring every corner of the internet for something anything that could get me back on my feet even if just for a little while that's when mabel introduced me to her profession Mabel was unique, almost dressed sharp. Nice car, good career, Chanel bag, casually tossed over her shoulder, a very independent woman.

She lived in the city, paid her own bills, and did whatever the hell she wanted to. She was fun, serious, and motivating all at once. We have been friends for a while now, but she always kept me at arm's length. Sure, we could go out and have a nice time together, bond over past relationships and mutual interests, but there was something mysterious about her. She never really talked about her work. I assumed it was drugs or some kind of shady side hustle. It wasn't like her to keep secrets. But when she saw how down on my luck I was, she took pity. Handed me a business card, and then just as quickly told me she never gave me that card.

If anyone asked you, I didn't give you that card. You don't know Mabel and Mabel don't know you, she said sharply. Apparently that was against the company's rules. Nobody can know anyone else who works there. I was confused but curious. I called the number. A voice answered. Cold, mysterious. They asked me two questions. Do you break under pressure? Do you know anyone else who works here? I said no and no. That was it. No background check, no references, didn't even ask to see the resume I carefully prepared for the occasion. They gave me an address and a time. Simple as that. The onboarding was as just as strange as everything else. You'd think I was something. I'd signing up for some military program or a secret government project, everyone was tight-lipped. No smiling.

No small talk. The rules were simple and unsettling. Number one. Arrive at the building exactly when your shift starts. Not a minute early, not a minute late. Two, keep your mask on the entire time. No exceptions. Three, don't identify yourself.

Don't try to identify anyone else. Four, do not respond or speak to the caller on the other end of the line. It felt odd to say the least, but I kept telling myself it was just one big experiment. They're paying for data, not for us to help anyone. We're not really answering calls, or the product, being fed to someone or something higher up the chain. That is what the assessor say at least. Assessors are basically glorified managers, people with a flashy degree and people's skills that tell you the voices aren't real, that the people on the other end aren't people at all.

They're artificial, synthetic, part of the test, and nothing more. Simulations, they say. You're not hurting anyone. It's about resilience. Exposure therapy. Mental strength. Sure, buddy. I don't know what they are. I refuse to believe they are people. It wouldn't make sense. But they don't act like simulations either. They don't sound fake. They sob. They stutter. They beg for their kids. They talk about the thing outside their closet or the eyes under their bed or monster outside their window. You sit there. You listen. You grip your pen tighter and tight. until the call drops out or the screaming stops or there's that awful sudden silence like something just grab the person out of existence then you breathe you clear your throat and the phone rings again you pick up i've been here eight months now not long but long enough to know the rhythm this job isn't about smarts or motivation it's about routine muscle memory you have to build your own little rhythm listening to terror all day eats at you breaks you down slowly i've seen it happen new mass coming wide-eyed and curious, and by month two, their breaking rules are just gone. My routine is pretty

straightforward at this point. I get in at 6.45 a.m. sharp. Same elevator, same gray carpet, same cubicle by the fire exit. I don't speak to anyone. It's safe for that way. Chatter is dangerous for me, and for whoever is already picking up calls. At 7 a.m., my phone activates. The light goes on, not a ring, never a ring, just the light. Blue means wait, red means answer, and when it's red, you answer. You don't greet them, you don't ask questions, you just listen. And what you hear, well, they're always running, always hiding, always being chased by something they can't quite describe. A little boy whispering, saying something is scratching at his door, his mom won't wake up. A woman panting saying she's in the stairwell,

Well, something is coming up behind her fast and the police aren't answering your calls anymore. A man with a crushed voice, locked in a closet. He mutters that he hears footsteps pacing back and forth, right outside, stopping every time he breathes. Different voices, same panic. Some of them say they're in a hallway or a small bedroom or under a sink. Sometimes they describe this building, the call center. They'll mention glass double doors or the color of the carpet with a smell of coffee from a nearby

library room. Sometimes they describe the workers. You have a mask, they'll say. Black gloves. I know you. You can help me. Then they scream. We're not supposed to react, not even a Twitch. I've gotten pretty good at it. Neutral face, steady hands. A woman once asked me to sing to her while something chewed its way through her front door. I didn't, but I wanted to. It sticks to you. Even after the call ends, especially then. We all handle it differently. Food, puzzles, fidgeting, anything to let out the tension. To cope, I sketch what they describe. Not out of interest or enjoyment, just release. Macab, maybe. But it makes the images leave my head a little faster. Dark figures, tall shadows, doorways broken and bloody, a lot of staircases. And then, just when I start to forget, the light turns red again. The first few

days were the hardest, but then my first check came in. After just one month of the job, I paid off my student loans, that crushing weight finally lifted. I felt like I could breathe again. A month later, I bought my first car, used but reliable. Then I paid off my credit card debt. For the first time in years, the numbers in my bank account weren't a burden I needed to figure out. Now I live in a multi-bedroom loft right in the city, the kind of place with exposed brick walls and big windows that lit in way too much sunlight.

I'm driving the car used to drool over in magazines, the one I thought I'd never afford, The money washes away the guilt at this point. Synthetic. Manufactured guilt. Like a fresh coat of paint covering the grime beneath. Except the grime is just as processed as the paint at this point. Maybe that was the point all along. Just an expensive, extravagant experiment.

A cold, corporate bet that people will do almost anything for the right amount of cash, even if it means listening to fake snuff calls for hours on end. That's what I told myself. The calls were just noise. Background static to the paycheck. Until I heard something. I never expected. It was a Tuesday afternoon. I was halfway through my shift. My eyes drifted between the crossword puzzle I'd started yesterday in the dull glow of my screen. I was a little

hungover. My head's still fuzzy from last night's bad decisions. Maybe that's why I was so caught off guard. Maybe that is why I made this horrible mistake. The phone turned red. I picked up instinctively. My eyes still fixed on the crossword puzzle. Hello? Is anyone there? I need help. The voice was faint, but unmistakable. It was her. Mabel. For a split second, I forgot where I was. Thought maybe I'd picked up my personal phone by mistake.

My heart started to sphammer. Maple? I whispered before I could stop myself. The room was quiet. Not just the usual quiet at the call center, but something heavier, thicker, like the room was holding its breath. I felt eyes on me. Dozens of masked faces turned in my direction.

Watching. waiting. I felt my face go red as hot embarrassment washed over me. I ducked my head below my cubicle wall, phone still pressed in my ear. Shit, I was done. Then Mabel spoke again. Wait. Ariana? I waited to hang up, but something stopped me. I just didn't understand why was Mabel on the line. I've heard hundreds of simulated voices plead and beg for response. I never imagined it could sound like someone you know. I was already reaching to hang up, but she said something strange,

something unexpected. Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no, she stammered. Voice trembling with confusion. A cold shiver crawled down my spine. This wasn't the mabel I knew. Then she started laughing. Not the light, friendly laugh I remembered. A manic, broken laugh.

It didn't stop. I slammed the phone down. I spun around, heart racing. And there she was. A member of HR standing just at the edge of my cubicle. Black mask, no pad in hand. Expression, unreadable. She motioned me to follow.

No words. Just a slow, deliberate walk through her office. I sat down in the stiff plastic chair across from her desk. My mind still reeling. The call played on a loop in my head. The voice, the laugh, the way it sounded exactly like Mabel. I couldn't stop shaking. You broke the rules.

Yes? She asked flatly. scribbling in her notepad without looking up. Yes, but you understand this means you are terminated from the call center, correct? She cut me off with such finality, like it was scripted, like she was reciting lines from a procedure manual. I recognized her, I said. The voice, I thought I picked up my own phone by accident.

I thought maybe it wasn't even the made her pause. She looked up for the first time. Her eyes were sharp behind the mask, almost disappointed. Or was it fear? You thought what? It sounded like someone I knew. A friend of mine, she didn't just write anything down now. She stared at me.

When he first applied to this job, you answered two questions. Do you remember them? I hesitated. My stomach turned. They asked if I was good under pressure, and if I knew anyone who worked here. And how did you answer? No, I said no to both. She stared a moment longer, then slowly ripped a sheet of paper from her pad and slid it across the desk.

You are hereby terminated from this experiment. You can collect your final check at the location printed on the slip. You've also been granted a severance equivalent to one-month salary. I blinked at her. Wait, that's all? She didn't respond. Just went back to typing. Like I wasn't there anymore.

No explanation, no follow-up about the call, no mention of what I heard, just a polite termination and a severance bonus. I grabbed the paper without reading it and stormed out, past the roads of silent masks to employees, past the flickering overhead lights, and out into the daylight. I was halfway to my car when I realized I hadn't even removed my mask. I didn't look back. I felt everything over the next few days, sadness, anger, confusion, like my body kept going through the motions, but my mind was stuck on a loop.

That voice on the other end of the call, the thing that sounded like Mabel. I didn't know what I was supposed to believe anymore. On the second day, I caved and called her. straight to voicemail. That was weird. We're supposed to hang out next weekend. Maybe grab drinks and vent about the call center. Mabel never ghosted me,

not even when she was sick or pissed or going through it. Something was off. By the third day, I decided I needed to get out of the house, clear my head. The address that gave me for the severance package wasn't far, so I drove out. It led me to a hotel, one of those upscale downtown places

with giant flower arrangements and staff that work loves. I didn't even see a front desk, just a wall of private mailboxes near the back. The code that gave me worked, the lock clicked open, and inside was a check, neatly folded like it had just been printed. I left and crossed the street to the parking garage where I left my car. As I reached the elevator, I paused. There was someone standing on the sidewalk a little ways down, right outside the garage entrance. Big blonde hair, fur coat, tall boots. Mabel?

I stepped forward without thinking. just a few feet, enough to get a better look. And that's when I saw it wasn't her, not really. The thing looked like Mabel, if she'd been made from melting wax. Too tall, limping slightly. Her skin hung off her face in folds, sagging like old leather. Her mouth was slack. Her eyes, God.

Her eyes. Two hollow pits ringed with tiny sharp teeth. Her hands were worse. Lose skin, twisted feet. fingers bent at angles that didn't make any sense. And yet people kept walking past her like she wasn't there. They moved around her, avoided bumping into her, like she had a presence. She took up space, but no one looked, not directly. They didn't see her. Not really. If they did, they would have been as terrified as I was. The elevator behind me dinged and the doors opened.

I ran inside, slammed the closed door button with shaking fingers. As the doors slid shut, I heard footsteps on the concrete. Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer. Too close. I didn't look. I didn't want to see her again. The elevator dropped me off a few floors up.

I got to my car and drove. Fast, too fast. Every red light felt like a trap. Every time I glanced at my window, I expected to see her there on the sidewalk, moving along in slow rhythmic motion, like a snail-wearing human skin. I called a few friends on the way home,

just to hear voices. I didn't tell them what I saw. They didn't want to sound insane, but I felt insane. All those desperate calls I've been ignoring, month after month of people screaming and crying and begging, and now it's like the floodgates have opened. Everything is pouring in at once. Maybe I was having a breakdown.

That's what I kept telling myself. Listening to pain and anguish every day will do that to you. I just needed rest, some air, maybe a little trip. I'm running now, enough to disappear for a few days. clear my head. And if I still didn't feel right afterward, I'd find a therapist. God knows I probably needed one anyway. I took a detour from my apartment elevator to stroll through the lobby. I wanted to grab a few snacks from the shop beside the front desk before settling in for the night. I needed a bottle or two of something strong to drown out the sadness from my termination from the call center.

I was crossing the front desk when I caught sight of something in the corner of my eye. I turned and there was again. Mabel. Walking toward me from the last, lobby entrance. The sight gave me chills, but that feeling passed quickly. I felt steadier after the drive, more level-headed. I wasn't afraid. I was annoyed. This wasn't real. It had to be some elaborate prank or a figment of my imagination. Either way, it couldn't hurt me. I just needed to prove it to myself. I looked around. Everyone else was just walking past. I held my hands out, desperate. Really, nobody else has seen this? I took a few deep breaths in. I took a few deep breaths in. started towards it.

Hey, sir, why are you following me? I called out. The thing didn't say anything. Just kept lurching forward. I saw it a few feet in front of it. The smell hit me first. Sour. Rotten. I went to the side of the bloated figure,

writhing and convulsing under its cheap meagable disguise. Did you hear me? This isn't funny, creep. I'm going to get security. Chomp. A mouth. It tore open from the thing's stomach and bit off the finger. I was waving at its chest.

Just like that. Gone. I staggered back, screaming, clutching the bloody stump where my finger used to be. It kept limping forward. I screamed louder, begging for help. No one looked. No one even paused. I turned and bolted door the stairs, blood dripping behind me. I was halfway up and I heard the stairway entrance slam open. It was coming. I reached my floor and sprinted down the hall, fumbled my key out of my purse with trembling bloody hands, got the door open, locked it behind me. I backed away until my spine hit the wall at the other end of the apartment. I pulled my phone out and started downloading 911 with my good hand. Ringtone. Then silence. No connection?

I checked my service, full bars. This didn't make any sense. I called friends, family, my hairstylist, nothing. No ringtone, just silence. I cursed and rushed to the peephole. Nothing out there, not yet. Just a wide, empty hallway. Blood was getting everywhere. I could feel my heartbeat and my hand from all the pain. and swelling. I stumbled into my bedroom, wrapped my finger to stop the bleeding, and popped a few painkillers. Once I was taking care of, I sat at my desk and opened my laptop, tried to get online, email, social media, anything. Blank screen. No connection. I sat down and cried. I didn't understand what was happening. Something was wrong, not just with that thing in the hallway, not just

with me. Reality itself is broken. No one could hear me. No one could reach me. No one cared. I was isolated, trapped, food for something that wore my friend's skin. Maybe that was all that was left of her. Then, it was here. I heard a few limping footsteps outside the door. The light underneath it the front door was stifled by something large standing outside it. I held my breath, waiting, but nothing happened. It just sat there, doing nothing. I grabbed a knife and waited. It was bound to come in at some point, but it didn't. Hours passed. It was well into the night and the shadow was still there. It didn't make sense. I fumbled with my phone. I needed to get in contact with someone. I knew it was futile, but I had to try again. But then, I heard something. Not from the phone,

from the door. It was Mabel. Hey, Ariana, I'm here. I need your help. I didn't move. I didn't speak. It was her voice, but it sounded wet, guttural, like it was her whispering through the mouth of a corpse. Don't ignore me. Say anything. Anything? I need to know you're okay. It was monotone. No concern in its voice. I carefully walk to my bedroom. Then a loud bang. Don't walk away from me, Ariana. Talk to me. The voice was deeper now. Less Mabel, more, something else. I pushed my door closed with a soft click and covered my ears as a barrage of loud bangs broke out across the apartment. I heard them everywhere. My door, the ceiling above, the windows facing in the city below.

low. The sound passed after an hour. My body was so tired at this point, partially exhaustion, partially the blood loss from my missing finger. I barricaded the door, clutched my phone, and rested my eyes in the empty bed. I slept maybe an hour or two before something woke me. I sprang up and looked towards the bedroom door. The shadow was under my bedroom door now. It had to somehow go into my apartment. It was standing there the same way it had outside, but now I was here. I realized I couldn't escape to the door. I had to you. I had to somehow. I had to somehow, I had to escape this thing. Whatever it was, it was going to get me. Slowly but surely, I had no issue entering in my apartment. It would have no problem breaking into my room. Maybe it was toying with me. Maybe

enjoyed the chase. I felt panic wash over me. Leave me alone, I screamed. I heard a soft laugh break out from just outside the door. I returned to my phone. Started calling everyone in my contact list again. Silence every time. Like the world outside my apartment building just vanished. Then I realized something. I realized the silence didn't mean the calls were failing. They were going through. Every time. No ringing. No static. Just quiet. Someone on the other end of was always there, always listening. It was a call center. Every call I made was routed straight to the center. I only figured it out because of a tiny, almost imperceivable sound. One you'd miss if you weren't desperate enough to listen for it.

spoon, scraping the bottom of a plastic parfait cup. Debbie, from work. Debbie? I said into the phone. No response. Of course not. Debbie wasn't her name. Just the one I gave her.

None of us knew each other's names. That's how they designed it. Masks, code numbers, shift schedules they barely overlapped. Hey, I know you. Well, not know you, but we work together, please. Just say something. I think you can help me. Still nothing.

And that's when it hit me. They wouldn't answer. Not ever. They couldn't. We don't speak. Not to them. It didn't matter what I said. How much I begged and cried, and how could I really blame her?

I ignored hundreds of calls just like this. That is when I broke. I started laughing, loud, cracked, borderline hysterical. The same kind of laugh I heard from Mabel. That day she realized the truth. That she was calling the same people that she sat next to every day. that none of us said a word, not when it mattered. It was real. All of it. Real people, real demons. God, those poor people, men, women, and children, the poor children. The creature outside went

quiet during my breakdown. Maybe it enjoyed my pain. Maybe it was hoping I'd walk out, still broken right into its jaws. Once the laughter died and I steadied my breathing, I felt a strange mental clarity. Could have been the plane killers or sleep deprivation. Either way, I had an idea. If they responded to it, the creature moves on. That was my theory. I never got confirmation from Mabel, but she had tried it. She screamed into the phone until someone broke the rules, and the thing left her alone. At least that was the hope. I needed to get someone to answer to break the rules like Mabel did, like I did. I racked my brain for anything I knew about the people I worked with, something, anything that could crack their armor. Then it hit me. Martha. She was always working during my shift,

the one with the crossword puzzles and clacking acrylics. The only reason she came to mind was because I knew something about her I shouldn't. We do our best to hide our identities, but every now and then something slips out. A phrase, the flash of a text on your personal phone, the hint of a tattoo. Her mistake was much more telling and easy to forget. One day I saw a brochure sticking out of Burs, assisted living facility. I recognized the name. My mom had looked into it for my grandfather once. Nice place, private rooms, big windows, expensive. Probably why Martha took the job. I grabbed the phone, started dialing, random numbers, cold calling the call center, over and over, same silent line, same hollow wait. I listened for her. I waited for the familiar tap of nails on the cheap plastic desk.

fast, plasticy little clicks. Call, hang up. Call, hang up. Nothing. Was Martha even on rotation today? I started to feel hopeless. Outside the room, the door handle started to twitch. A soft rattle.

Like someone trying to figure out the lock. It would be in here soon. Then I heard it. The clacking of nails. I prepped the script in my mind. I had one chance. Hello? I said in the calmest voice I could imagine.

No answer. I take another shaky breath before continuing. I'm calling because your family member at Woodbrooks is in the middle of a situation here. I hoped this was the right angle. During my time working there, every call was frantic, desperate, just like me. But it couldn't show it. Not if I expected this to work. Nobody at the call center would expect someone so calm and collected.

The clacking stopped. I had her attention. Now I needed to drive at home. Sorry to call this line. Someone at the call center said it was your work line. I just need to confirm some information. Let's start with your first name. I bit my tongue as the door began to unlock.

It creaked open slowly. The barricaded furniture slid across this floor like it was a pile of empty boxes. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. What stood there wasn't wearing Mabel skin anymore. That was gone. Slouted off like wet clothing. What remained was something raw. A bundle of dark flesh.

Tentacles and mouths writhing in slow, deliberate motion. Snapping, smacking, clicking wetly against each other. They turned toward me slowly. The bundle of wiry flesh writhed towards me in unison. I closed my eyes and tried to keep my voice level. Ma'am, this is an emergency. If I don't get a directive right now, I will need to call 911. I felt warmth descending upon my face, a hundred little mouths breathing on my skin in anticipation.

Then she spoke. Is my mom okay? She asked. The sound of her voice felt like a lifeline being caught in the middle of the ocean. I opened my eyes. To my surprise, the thing was gone. I caught just the tip of a black tendril vanishing across the corner towards my front door. I grabbed the phone again.

Listen, this isn't Woodbrook. I used to work with you. Something's coming for you. The call center. It intercepts your calls. You need to get someone to respond. The line went dead. I stood there, useless.

I didn't even know her name. Didn't know what she looked like. And yet, I may have just sentenced her to a fate worse than what happened to me. Or Mabel. I felt sick. I didn't leave my apartment for weeks. I needed time to process everything. I'm in a better headspace now.

You can thank a lot of expensive therapy for that. I got into this job for the money. I didn't care about the calls. I told myself they were fake, but that was a lie. The truth is, I was desperate. I don't know if I would have taken the job if I'd known what was really going on. Honestly, I probably still would have. That's what scares me.

But now I have a new purpose, a better one. I'm going to end the call center. I don't know how yet, but I'm working on it. I owed it to Mabel and Martha. I don't care if I go broke, if I lose everything. There are more important things and money in this life. And this place is going to learn that the hard way. Until then, you've been warmed.

Don't accept a job from the call center that ignores desperate people, real people, scared people being chased by a real threat. I managed to make it out, but most people won't be so lucky. Most people will be hiding in their homes, crying, pleading, begging a bunch of corporate morons in mass to save them from something truly evil. But if you already work in a place like the call center, It isn't too late. If you can help, help.

Don't sit idly by and listen to injustice. Don't let the corporations tell you it's all synthetic garbage. Use your own judgment. Be kind. Be curious. You may just save someone's life. We stopped for gas in the Andreondack Mountains. What we saw was horrifying.

Written by Mindless Bother, 3827. The Adriandak Northway is a stretch of Interstate 807, in New York that runs from Albany all the way to the Canadian border in Champlain. Its most rural sections begin after passing through Lake George and Warren County. The road narrows, curves more often, and exits become increasingly sparse. Cell service is almost non-existent, and driving there can make you feel like you're slipping out of time. I was 17, and I had just finished my junior year of high school.

Around the same time, I finally received my graduated driver's license. In other words, no more curfew. you. To celebrate, a few buddies and I decided to take a road trip through the Adriandax, driving north for maybe an hour or so, and then turning around and heading back, just for the hell of it. We'd grown up in Albany, only about an hour from the gateway to the mountains, so it felt like the perfect mini-adventure. There were only four of us, me, a rising senior, Cody, another rising senior, Tom, a rising junior, and Sammy, a rising freshman we befriended a few weeks before at our high school's welcoming orientation.

While Sammy was the youngest, Tom was the most impulsive of the group. We left later than expected, around 6.30 p.m. We drove for a while, taking in the views and gradually watching the sun dip below the horizon. Driving these roads during the day is relatively safe as long as you don't speed on the curvy sections. During the night, however, it's a completely different world. The road isn't lit at all, and your only source of life besides your high beams are the minimal number of cars driving around you. It feels quite eerie, almost surreal. We were laughing,

sharing dark jokes with each other, talking about girls we liked, sharing our disdain for AP classes, etc. It was all typical team behavior. Everything was fun in games until the orange, please refuel warning. Sign abruptly appeared right in front of me on the small screen behind the steering wheel. We only had 30 miles left. Sammy checked our location and realized that by our own carelessness, we had traveled over 250 miles away from home for nearly three hours. Tom played it off as inconsequential, as a knot began to form in my chest. While Sammy frantically began searching Google Maps for the nearest exit, just as he was about to make a suggestion, a sign appeared on the right, advertising amenities right off

in exit 39S in a town called New France. The road connecting the town to the interstate ramp was nearly deserted, but that didn't surprise us than the slightest. After all, we had traveled far north, well beyond where traffic thins and silence settles in. We made a right turn and began scanning the roadside for the mobile station we'd seen advertised on the blue sign just before exiting the northway. After roughly three miles, a small, though unmistakably present gas station, appeared on a right. It had just two pumps. But since we were the only ones there, it hardly mattered.

Beside the pumps stood a modest mobile mart, equipped with a single back. bathroom and a few shelves lined with the usual assortments of unhealthy snacks you'd expect to find an average off the highway rest stop. We were only there to get gas, but Tom, despite having already eaten an absurd amount at dinner, insisted on grabbing a variety of snacks seats spotted through the window. Without a second thought, he headed inside to use the bathroom and make his purchases. Meanwhile, we finished pumping in no time and we're finally ready to hit the road again, bracing ourselves for the inevitable lecture from our parents the following day. Pacing ourselves, we all got back in the car and waited for Tom to return.

Five minutes passed. Then 10. Then 15. Then 20. Eventually, Sammy called him, only to be greeted by the overly cheesy voicemail message everyone knew and, for some reason, loved. Stop messing around and get back here. He shouted into the phone before hanging up, clearly annoyed.

We gave it another 10 minutes. When there was still no sign of Tom, I finally decided to go in and drag him out myself. The inside of the store was fairly typical, fluorescent lights humming overhead, shelves lined with snacks and travel essentials, a faint smell of coffee that had been sitting too long. What was unsettling, though, was the complete absence of a cashier. Even at night, there's usually at least one person behind the counter, half watching a small TV or scrolling through their phone, but here the place was silent, empty, unmanned. There wasn't even any music playing. Before I could even think how to reciprocate, the lights illuminated both the store and the gas station all shut off at once,

plunging the other boys and I all into complete darkness. My heart began pounding as I called Tom's name over and over again without any response. I went back to the car to find my friends hyperventilating, begging for us to leave. They claimed that right after I had entered the store, a shadowy figure had followed me inside right before the power went out. Just as I was about to self-righteously assert how it would be completely wrong for us to leave Tom alone here deserted, we then heard a low, deep, but audible growl coming behind the store. Without thinking, I floored the accelerator and drove back to where I believe the interstate ramp was located. However, after driving for 15 minutes straight, it was still nowhere to be seen.

I decided to pull over on the shoulder and conduct some research on where exactly we were. Using the one bar of service I had left, I tried to do some quick research on. where exactly we were. Strangely, there were almost no references to any place called New France this far north. But we brushed it off, assuming the town was just too remote, too peripheral to have much of an online footprint. Eventually, I pulled up a travel guide for I-87 and scrolled straight to the exit list. That's when my stomach dropped. There was no exit 39S. There was a 39N, even a 39E, but no mention, anywhere of a 39-S. or of any town called New France.

Suddenly, the air felt colder. The mountains stood too still. In the trees, they seemed to be curving, ever so slightly toward the road. Before I could react, I saw a figure walking along the road. He was still a fair distance from the car, but close enough to make out some details. I raised my phone and zoomed in with the camera,

and that's when the horse sat in. The figure was wearing. Tom's face. Not just looked like him. War, his face. But it wasn't Tom. The gate was all wrong. Stiff, almost puppet-like. And the figure was too tall. His limbs moving just a bit too mechanically, like someone mimicking a human walk without fully understanding how it worked. Before I could react, it began to smile. Not a friendly smile. No. This was something else entirely. A twisted, sinister grin. the kind you'd expect from a cartoon villain. Exaggerated.

Wrong. Almost theatrical. But this wasn't a cartoon. This was real. Something pulled straight from what internet weirdos like to call the uncanny valley, a being that looked almost human, but not quite. Just close enough to fool your brain at first glance, and wrong enough to make your skin crawl the moment you really saw it.

Then I heard it. A deafening scream. Inhuman, gutterole, and impossibly laugh. rips through the air as the thing started sprinting towards the car. I slammed my foot on the gas, and the car lurched forward, tires screeching as we sped down the road, running straight over the tom facade in the process. There was a sickening thump, but I didn't dare look back. Inside the car, everyone was crying, sobbing, really. We just wanted tom back. We just wanted to be home, safe, in our own beds, pretending none of this has ever happened. I kept driving, trying to focus,

try not to fall apart until another realization hit me like ice water. When I filled the tank earlier, I had 340 miles of range. I was sure of it. Now I was down to 90, and we'd only been driving for 30 minutes. I also realized that I distinctly remember having left the gas station at 10.30. The clock in my car still read that exact same time. Now, I was more desperate than ever to escape whatever we'd fallen into, but it was no longer just about the town.

It was about the mountains themselves. It didn't feel like we were lost anymore. It felt like we'd crossed a threshold, stepped over some invisible border, and entered into someone else's dominion. Whatever ruled here didn't care who we were, it only cared that we'd entered. And now, it wasn't letting us go. I'd stop driving. The gas gauge was gradually getting closer and closer to E.

That's when we heard footsteps. We turned. And Tom at the edge of the clearing. But it wasn't Tom. Not really. He was tall now. Too tall. His limbs stretched just a little too far.

His shoulders crooked, like they'd been broken and never set right. His skin looked almost like skin, but waxy and pulled tight, as his body had forgotten how to hold itself together. His face, God. It wasn't Tom's face, but wrong. The smile was too wide. The eyes were glassy, unfocused. It was like staring at a mannequin's approximation of someone we had once loved.

He took a step forward and then spoke. I asked it to let you go, he said, and it said yes, but I have to stay. He paused, his voice shaking, not from fear, but from something deeper. Surrender. Don't come looking for me, and once I'm gone, leave. Immediately, or it'll change its mind. He looked at each of us, his face flickering like a worn projection trying to hold still. This place was never ours to enter, and I, I'm the price for our disrespect.

He reached into his coat and handed us a folded map, old creased and slightly damp, as if it had passed through many hands before his. He didn't explain it. He didn't need to. Somehow, we understood. This was our way out. Then, without another word, Tom turned. His movement was slow, almost mechanical, as if his body didn't quite remember how to walk the way it once did. He trotted into the woods, his frame swallowed by the trees, and we never saw him again. We unfolded the map under the dumb light of the car. It showed roads none of us had ever heard of, no ways results, no pins on Google Maps, nothing recognizable to any GPS system, but it was clear, intentional, marked with the path we could follow, and so we did. We followed the paper map

down winding narrow mountain roads that didn't seem like they should exist, unmarked intersections, faded trail signs, cracked asphalt, buried in leaves. But we kept going. And just when it felt like we might vanish into the trees again, we saw it. A dark blue sign. White letters. 87. I didn't even think.

I slammed my foot on the gas and tore up the ramp. Tires spitting gravel behind us as we surged back onto the freeway, back into the real world. We got home very early in the morning. Our parents scolded us for staying out too late, but our car privileges thankfully still remained in. intact, nothing unusual. However, what disturbed us most wasn't what happened in the woods. It was what came after. No one questioned Tom's disappearance. No police reports, no missing

posters, no calls from worried parents. In fact, nobody seemed to remember Tom at all. Not classmates, not teachers, not even his own parents. When we mentioned his name, they just blinked, confused, polite, and distant like we'd brought to him. We'd brought up some sort of stranger. It was as if Tom had been erased, not just from the world, but from memory itself. Like the price he paid wasn't just his life, but the right to have ever been. Even the photos on our phones had changed. Group shots where his face was once clear, now had empty space or the edge of a jacket with no body attached. Text threads with his name were gone. Playlists he made disappeared. Only we remembered. And even now,

I can feel those memories starting to fade. Not all at once, but like a slow leak. Quiet. The last we ever heard from him, or whatever, took him, came a few weeks after it was all over. It arrived in the mail. No return address. No postage stamp.

Just a single envelope, aged, and weather warped, as if it had taken a long, unnatural route to reach us. Inside was one line. Handwritten in uneven ink. Stay out of our territory. And all right, guys, that wraps up some disturbing stories from Reddit. I love this series. I used to do it a ton.

I kind of got burned out from it, but I'm here and back and better than ever. And if you'd like to see another Reddit story video in the future, please like the video. Comment down below. Let me know if you'd like to see another one. I would love to record some more for you. Stories like this. Yeah, it's just been a long, long time since I've last made a Reddit story video like this.

So hopefully you guys enjoy it. hopefully you guys have uh you know been wanting this i've seen a lot of comments wanting this and um yeah comment down below what your favorite story was mine was definitely the first one with the call center that was crazy creepy crazy twist at the end i was not expecting it um really interesting story i enjoyed it a lot hopefully you did as well check out some other videos on my channel i'm sure you'll love the channel and uh this was snook and we'll see you next time bye