Snook - Eerie Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: August 29, 2025

These are some Eerie Stories From Reddit, from a disturbing creature in the woods to a crazy story on how someone got lost in a movie theater bathroom... I am sure you will enjoy! 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 listen to that whole story! Thanks for watching, like and subscribe. These are all the credits for who wrote the stories!3_Magpies -   / help_is_on_the_way  Heinekie -   / my_mom_swears_she_tucked_me_in_last_night_...  mortanx -   / i_got_lost_in_a_movie_theater_bathroom  SunHeadPrime -   / youre_gonna_give_me_a_hundred_dollars_to_sit   - Also! SunHeadPrime's book - https://www.amazon.com/Ive-Never-Told...I was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors, and if you enjoyed SunHeadPrime's writing, make sure to check out their book!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 eerie stories from Reddit. Today's stories are great. You'll want to stick around. And I appreciate you clicking on the video. It means a lot. And please like the video and subscribe to the channel. It helps more than you know.

And sit back, relax, grab a drink, get hydrated, grab a snack, and just sit back and relax and get ready to listen to some scary, eerie, disturbing Reddit stories. These are great. Like I said, you'll want to stick around. And, uh, all right, without further ado, let's get into some eerie. stories from Reddit. Help is on the way by three underscore magpies. The tow company had assured me as I leaned against my vehicle. That was three hours ago. She was an old model, a discontinued

stick shift from the 90s, leather seats, silver detailing, a pearly blue paint job, currently half swallowed by a muddy ditch in the middle of a rainstorm that showed no sign of stopping. The engine was probably on its final days anyhow, but she could not die today. It wasn't an option. I dialed again. As I stood there on that empty dirt road, rain slipping past the collar of my shirt, the call failed.

I've been trying to get any kind of confirmation for the past few hours. When the call did cut through, there was no voice on the other end. Service was spotty on this nameless stretch of land. Rows of pines stretched out like fingers, cursing the swollen sky. Over once potholes had long since turned to frothing pools,

consuming the red clay and sucking out my boots as I slosh my way back to the driver's side door. I'm not one to divulge personal details on the web. All you need to know is this. Traveling is what I do when it all goes wrong. When life gets unbearable, I stuffed the trunk with enough supplies for a good long while and set out. I know people.

I can talk my way into a bed and bath, if I'm lucky, or at least a couch to crash on. If all goes well on these outings, I pick up some temporary piece along the way. This time, I'd gone upstate to visit an acquaintance. K, way out on the sticks. I thought I'd be staying longer, but about two days in, he made it pretty clear our deal would run its course.

That was when the rain started. After our fight, I think Kay offered to let me crash one more night while we waited out the storm. I brushed him off, told him I didn't need pity. I could handle a little rain. When I began this trek, I'd set out looking for a clear head. Instead, I found myself a throbbing headache, half a pack of stolen lucky strikes,

and a stranded car in the middle of God knows where. The stranding itself is a blur. Listen, I hadn't been thinking straight when I gunned it onto the unpaved road. Before I knew it, the floodwaters were sliding up past the tires. When the engine sputtered out, I just sat there for a while, searching for the will to face the deep shit I was in. Then, seeing as I had no choice, I made the call. So there I sat three hours later, my cell phone battery read 1%.

The daylight was running low. Taking in the desolate dirt path and the endless repeating pines, I was acutely aware of the fact that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I was utterly alone. I just popped in another CD and lit up a sig when the crunch of what could only be footsteps made me freeze. I glanced in the rear view. Nothing but empty road stretched out behind. The sound came again, louder. It seemed to approach from somewhere ahead, closer to the driver's side.

I flicked on my headlights and peered out towards the pines. Someone was there. The person stood just far enough away for the dim yellow light to obscure most detail aside from general clothing, heightened posture. It appeared to be a fairly tall man wearing a ratty red flannel and torn jeans. He leaned to one side, like he had a weak leg. As he stepped down from the shoulder onto the road, I noticed a slight unsteadiness in how he carried himself.

Drunk, I would have guessed. Except for the strange grace with which this person corrected every misstep. It was mesmerizing, like a dance. He would stumble forward, torso and arms first, before his legs hurried to catch up. Then he would stand fully upright, swaying like a reed in the braise. All the while, he kept his face turned completely away. In other circumstances, that strange movement alone would have made me hit the gas. I'm not brave. I don't pretend to be, but in this case, running was non-option.

I opted for the next best thing. Silence. The man lurched on, slowly but surely crossing the road in front of my stalled vehicle. That's when the track began. The heavy bass and drum thrum through the speaker system, marking the start of that metal mix I'd thrown on without thinking. Did I ever think? I twisted the volume and object zero in a matter of seconds, but the worst had already happened. He'd heard me.

The man did not turn his head. In the full beam of my headlights, however, I could see that he was looking. His head was tilted up and twisted away at an extreme angle. angle, like he'd been looking over his shoulder and got stuck that way. But his eye, the only one that I could see from here, was wide open, bloodshot, and trained right on me. Then he started running towards my car, not like a man, but like an animal. He flung himself in my direction like a rag doll being thrown, so off balance that he collapsed forward onto his hands, head still contorted at that terrible angle. He splashed headlong into the floodwater like a dog cavorting in a river,

barreling toward me on all fours. In that split second, I considered my options. Pistol in the glove box? No. Plented to someone back home. Police? God no. They wouldn't make it in time, and even if they did, I could not take my chances with the law

for personal reasons I will not disclose here. The man, the animal, the thing in the road closed in and all I could do was lock my doors and prey. A blaring honk split the air. The soft yellow glove my headlights was rapidly overtaken by a blinding white. In the rear view, I saw, a huge white pickup truck. It pushed past my car, sending a wave of brown water up over the windows.

I looked through the windshield again, dreading what I'd find, but the man in the flannel was gone. My heart pounded, my head swam, everything felt indescribably wrong like a bad high. The white pickup parked in a drier patch of road up ahead without dimming its brights. A man stepped out. He was middle-aged, balding, and wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit. After a moment of careful observation, I decided to exit my car as well. Looks like you could use some help, the mechanic called out. I just stared.

He was already walking over anyway. Rolling up his sleeves, he didn't seem to be the toe I'd called for. At this point, I was just happy to see a friendly face. Better put that thing out, he gestured to the lit cigarette. I'd forgotten I was holding it. Why? The smoke, he said, readying himself to push my car. "'Lewrism.'

"'Who?' "'Put in neutral,' grunted. "'I obliged, then splashed back around to help. "'Digging my own heels into the mud, "'I pushed alongside him until we could feel the wheels loosening. "'Slowly but surely, they began to roll. "'It took us another ten minutes or so "'to shove the dead vehicle onto relatively dry land.

"'At one point, I had to jump into the driver's seat again "'and steer the thing to prevent it from sliding back into the ditch. "'As I did, my eyes were drawn to the tree line. "'A bit of red fabric fluttered there. Bailey sticking out of the brush. I felt ill. Sir, I called back to the older man. Do you have a toe? A beat of silence followed. Once the car was safely out of the danger zone, I climbed out and asked again.

He shook his head. No, he said. I've got a friend. He began to get back into his truck. I thought about asking for a ride instead. Something rooted me to the spot, even in my unease. That something kept me from claiming shotgun and begging him to take me to the nearest motel. Maybe it was my own ego, the same stupid pride that had had me driving through a flash flood in the wetlands of the deep south after refusing to take a favor from someone I'd once called a friend. You just sit tight, the mechanic called out the window. Help was on the way. I watched the truck's high beams disappear into the darkness, shrinking into distant searchlights, then twin fireflies,

then nothing at all. I was alone again. I crouched down on the road. By now the rain had slowed to a gentle mist. All around me, frog calls in the shrill chorus of cicadas blended into a hypnotic sort of white noise. The air was heavy and wet. It clung my skin in a film of suffocating moisture. I needed the cigarette. As I reached the pack, I remembered the mechanic's words. It lures them. Them. I looked into the trees. I couldn't see that scrap of red fabric anymore. Still, I knew it was watching. Whatever it was. The man in red could have been a hallucination brought on by my sleepiness. He addled brain.

My psyche does tend to betray me in times of stress. That's part of why I set out on this trip to begin with, wasn't it? When I'm on the road, I'm not in my head. There's only here and now. Gas stations and billboards and exit markers and the question of where to go next. I think maybe it's what I live for, being anywhere else. I climbed onto the hood of my car and sat there. Legs stretched out.

I felt safer up there. Of every detail I've recorded so far, what follows is the part that I'm perhaps the least proud of. I lit another cigarette. The rest of the night is like a hazy dream. It took till around midnight for a tow truck to arrive. I don't remember if it was the one I'd called for all those hours ago, or the one son by the mechanic. He had no company logo. I watched the driver hauled my car onto the bed, red mud caked across the pearly blue hood.

I watched them hand me paperwork. I watched myself sign. I watched myself get into the passenger seat of the truck. I watch just drive away. I'm sitting on a cot in some two-star motel room as I write this account. I think I'll take a break from road tripping for a while. Not that I have much of a choice. The car is far beyond repair, I was told.

I'll work odd jobs in this town, save a little, and then hitchhike my way back home when I'm ready. I'll even give Kay a call, but first, I need to catch my breath. As I type, I can't help but feel like I never left that place. I'm still on that back country road between sand and sky and endless pines. I watch from the tree line as a car overturns itself into a ditch. Curls of smoke rising from the hood. I watch as the driver gets out and makes a call.

I watch as they wait and wait and wait. When the time is right, I'll approach. I've been here so long. I'm hurt, and yet no one even offers help. My clothing is torn. my body is mangled. I need a cigarette. My mom swear she tucked me in last night.

I live alone. By hi Nikki. I'm in need of some advice, but I don't even know what kind of help I should be after. It started about three weeks ago. I got a call from my mom on a cold Monday. We talk often enough, and a phone call from her isn't a strange occurrence at all.

The only really strange part about it was that it was while I was on the clock at my job. I'm a nurse, so she usually would only call if someone was important. I picked up the phone, fully expecting to hear that someone had died, only to be greeted by her familiar, gentle voice. She was casual, sweet, just asking about my day. Don't get me wrong, I love my mom, and I like talking to her, but I was at work, and it was a very busy day. I tried to politely excuse myself and get back to what I was doing. Before I could hang up, she said something

that caught me off guard. I'm glad you're sleeping better. You looked so peaceful. I was caught a bit off guard by this. You see, I'm in my 20s and I've lived alone for almost seven years now. What's more, my mom lives about 200 miles away from me. I didn't think much of it at the time. But as the day went on, for some reason, it bothered me more and more. After my shift, I called her again. And again, she began a casual, cheery conversation with me. What she had said earlier was burning into my brain at this point, so I asked her what she meant by that. Without missing a beat, and in the same happy tone, she told me, well, you've been tossing and turning. I was just happy to see you sleeping peacefully last night. I didn't know what to say. I asked her if she was making a joke. Her response

sounded just as confused as I was. She told me she had tucked me in last night. I didn't want to start an argument. My mother is not young, and there was a history of degenerative brain disease in some of our family. I was worried that maybe she was sick. I changed the topic again to her day and finished what turned into a relatively pleasant conversation, given the earlier confusion. I texted my brother immediately. He lives in the same town as my mom and told him to check on her. Ever since then, I feel like I've been losing my mind. At first, I began to notice the smallest things, tiny instances that aren't as they should be.

That day when I got home, for example, the chair at the head of my dining table was pulled out too far. I could have sworn I tucked it in, but reason tells me I must have forgotten. My bed was made when I knew for a fact I didn't make it. It was folded and tucked under the mattress, the same way my mom did when I was little. I called my brother. I had no idea what was going on. Maybe my mom had come to visit and was pranking me.

It was unlike her, but what else could this be? He told me that he'd just had tea with her. It's been getting worse and worse. At night, I can hear footsteps. When I get up to look for their source, they vanish, leaving me questioning if I really heard anything at all. A few nights ago, I woke up around 3 in the morning to the sound of humming. It was faint, barely audible, but I recognized the melody instantly.

It was the lullaby my mom used to sing to me when I was little, the one she hummed when I had nightmares. I froze. It was coming from my bedroom doorway. I couldn't bring myself to look. I just shut my eyes and lay there, stiff under the covers, try not to breathe too loudly. Eventually, this sound faded. When I finally worked up the nerve to turn on the line, light, the room was empty. But the closet door, which I always leave open, was shut. I've been

calling her during the day, but it's no use. She either denies any of it or simply speaks as if nothing was wrong. More often than not, she goes off on tangents that frustrates me to no end. I even recorded our last conversation, thinking that maybe I could catch something, some slip, some change in her voice that would make sense of this. But when I played it back, the audio was crystal clear. Too clear. There was no background noise at all, no ambient hum, no shuffling, no clink of her spoon and her teacup, like there always is, just her voice, bright and cheerful, telling me she was proud of me that I looked so calm now. I hadn't told her I was recording, and yet right before the call ended, she said, you should stop doing that. It's not

polite. I've grown paranoid. I don't sleep in my bed anymore. I've taken too sleeping on the couch instead. But without fail, I wake up in my bed, neatly tucked under the covers. Last night, I stayed awake as long as I could. I thought if I could catch it in the act, I could prove to myself that this wasn't just in my head. I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up. And I remember the hand that pulled the blanket over me. It wasn't hers. It was cold, thinner. The fingers were too long, and they didn't tremble the ways hers used to when it touched my forehead. There was no. no warmth, just a kind of pressure, like it was mesmerizing me. I kept my eyes shut. I don't know why.

I think I thought if I looked at it, it would look back, but it knew I wasn't asleep. And I can't explain it, but I could feel that it knew. It leaned closer. I could feel it. The weight of it pressing into the mattress beside me, slow and deliberate. The sound it made was low and wet, like thick saliva pulling apart in strands. Something dragged across my cheek. not fingers this time, something softer, frayed at the edges, hair maybe, but it smelled like meat left too long in the sun. Then it spoke, you don't cry anymore. Not like before. Its voice was trying to be hers, but it wasn't right. The words came out broken, halting, and slow, like someone reading phonetics off a cue card. And underneath it, something else

breathed, something heavier, labored, excited. I opened my eyes. There was nothing there. But the blankets were rising and falling beside me like someone invisible still lying there, mimicking my breath. The indentation in the mattress was fresh, deep, and smeared along the pillow next to mine was a thick, dark streak, brown red, and rotting at the edges, like old blood mixed with dirt.

When I looked back at the mirror, there was something sitting on the edge of the mattress. At first I thought it was her. The hair was the same length. Same part down the middle, but it was patchy, thin and coarsen some places, clumped like wet straw and others. Tufts were missing altogether, exposing skin that looked stitched, like burlap pulled too tight over something that was in a skull. It tilted its head again. The motion was jerky like a puppet on tangled strings. Then slowly, it began to turn. I didn't want to see. Every instinct screamed at me to look away, but I couldn't.

The face that met mine in the mirror was trying to be my mother. It had her eyes at least. It had eyes where hers used to be. But they were cloudy, too wide, like glass marbles pressed into soft clay. The nose was flat, crushed like something broken and reset wrong. The mouth was the worst part. It stretched too far like it had been cut at the corners. The lips were split and scabbed, peeled back in a permanent smile that showed rows of tiny baby-like teeth,

dozens of them. Too white, too clean. It was brushing its hand across the pillow, slow and tender. And then it looked up. Not at the bed. At the mirror. At me. And it smiled. I backed away from the mirror, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear myself think. I don't want to see it anymore. I didn't want it to see me. But I couldn't look away. The thing on the bed tilted its head, slowly like it was curious. Then it raised one long, shaking arm, and waved. I turned. Nothing was there. When I looked back at the mirror, it was gone.

The bed was empty again. Just rumpled blankets in silence. I stood there for a long time, barely breathing, too afraid to move, and then my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice was soft, calm. Don't be scared, sweetheart, she said. We just miss you. I got lost in a movie theater bathroom, written by More Tanks.

It was just a regular weekend day. In the evening, I went to the movies with my girlfriend to watch a film, some lame horror. But it was the last thing playing, so we went. We were the only two people in the theater for the entire screening. When we got out, I really had to use the bathroom. Too much so during the movie. My girlfriend said she didn't need to go and will wait for me outside, right by the restroom entrance. The restroom was pretty standard.

Urinals and stalls, I've never liked using urinals, so I went in one of the stalls to relieve myself. Only a moment passed before someone else came in. I was a little surprised, who could it be? The whole theater had seemed deserted. Still, I finished what I was doing, not thinking too much of it, until the person entered the stall next to mine. These stalls were the kind that are open at the bottom, so you can see if someone's really inside. That's when I got my second shock. A leg was sticking out from the neighboring stall,

positioned like the person was standing facing the wall between us. His legs were filthy. He had no shoes on. His toenails were long and yellowed. Horrified, I barked out. What the hell are you doing? No answer. I tried to finish up as fast as I could.

The whole situation was creeping me out. That's when I heard a man's voice. Familiar somehow. Oh, I can't even place it. He just said, Finally. It's over. And that's when,

panic completely took over. I zipped up and stormed out of the hall, ready to punch whoever was out there. But to my shock, the soul next to mine was empty. Completely empty. There wasn't a soul in the restroom besides me. That freaked me out even more. I washed my hands quickly, splashed cold water in my face, hoping to pull myself together. Everything looked normal. I hurried to get back to my girlfriend. But then came the next surprise. I couldn't get out of the restroom. I opened the door and walked down. only to find myself in another restroom. Identical. Same urinals, same stalls, same sinks.

I froze, confused. Maybe I just walked through two doors without realizing it. I went through another. Same again. Again. Identical bathroom. Something's wrong, I thought. I turned back and tried to go out a different way.

Same again. A restroom. I passed through three or four doors, no change. That's when real panic set in. What now I muttered? I pulled out my phone. Don't think I'm crazy, but I'll call for help. No signal, no bars, nothing.

Total panic. I started running. I didn't even know where, too. I just ran. Slamming doors open left and right, but every time, the same. Just another bathroom. I don't know how far I went or how many restrooms I passed through. I just kept walking, walking and walking until my legs gave out.

I had no idea how long I'd been in there. There were no windows, no clocks, and my phone still frozen at 9.45 p.m. The same time, every time I checked. It felt like forever. The rooms were all the same. Each one opening into the next, leading nowhere. Eventually, exhausted, I collapsed. I opened another door and saw yet another familiar restroom. No matter how disgusting the floor was, lying down on it felt weirdly comforting.

I fell asleep right there, sprawled across. the tiles. I don't know how much time passed before I woke up. My phone had finally died, so I couldn't even see the usual 945 anymore. But my cracked lips and non-hunger told me one thing for sure. I've been trapped in this nightmare for a while. And as hopeless as it felt to wake up still in that bathroom, I knew I couldn't just stay there. I had to get out. Somehow, even if the door wouldn't let me. My first plan was to find water. It didn't take long to figure out, given I was in a bathroom with at least six sinks, and sure enough, water flowed, ice cold, fresh water, even warm if I turned the handle the right way.

That felt like half a victory already. From all the survival documentaries I'd have obsessively watched, I knew a person couldn't live for more than three days without water. Now, I could only hope I wouldn't be stuck here long enough to have to start worrying about food. Since I now have a water source, I figured I should search the room properly. Maybe I'd find something useful. I checked all the sinks and the pipes underneath. I even managed to disassemble one. Water still poured out of it.

But there was nothing of interest. Not even a speck of dust. So I figured I'd check every stall one by one, just in case. But again, nothing. Every toilet was spotless, say couple rolls of toilet paper, that's all. Until I got to the last stall. There, on the wall, beside the toilet, I spotted a vent. It wasn't big, just wide enough for maybe my arm to fit through, but it had a

grate, screwed in at the corners. I started looking for something to remove it with. That's when I remembered my keychain. My girlfriend had once given me a tiny Swiss Army knife that could attach to it. It had a screwdriver head. It sort of fit the screws. Good enough, I got to work. When I finally pried the grate off, I actually shouted the joy, maybe this is the way out. The vent was completely dark and narrow. I pressed my ear to it, and it. And I pressed my ear to it, and heard faint noises, like something skittering inside. Still I had no better ideas, so I started yelling into the vent. Help! Somebody help me! I'm trapped in the bathroom. I called my girlfriend's name just in case she was somehow nearby. Nothing. No police kicking in the door, no girlfriend's

voice calling back. I hesitated. Then thought, what if I just reach in? Maybe there's something in there, anything, just something to push this nightmare forward. So I rolled up my sleeve and shoved my arm into the dark opening. No hesitation. I pushed as far as I could go. Huge mistake. There was something inside. Small, hard, moving. They wriggled across my skin, tickling it. I screamed. Yeah, a grown man shrieking like a little kid. I anged my arm back as fast as I could. That's when I saw them. Cockroaches. Crawling up and down my arm, small, brown, sluggish, dozens of them. I screamed again. More out of rage this time. swiping them off as fast as I could.

I've never been afraid of bugs, not really, but this time, this was too much. I stumbled out of the hall, furious. I don't think I've ever cursed that much of my life. I yelled for minutes straight, just shouting how much I hated this place and how badly I wanted to get out. But no one heard me. The restroom looked the same as always, except now it was slightly torn apart. I'd had enough.

I needed to get out. I was sick of this place. The white tiles, the pristine saw doors, and especially these stupid mirrors above the sinks where I had to look at myself. In a rage, I ran to the door and threw it open as hard as I could, but of course, nothing changed. Just another identical bathroom. I screamed at the top of my lungs, like a man losing his mind. I sat there on the bathroom floor, staring blankly ahead. To my right, I'd prop open the exit door with a trash can and saw that behind it was just another bathroom. I did the same thing to the door on my left. Same view. Identity.

restrooms stretching in both directions. Not a single difference. I considered bracing open more doors in each direction, but honestly, I didn't have the energy anymore. And now I had a new problem anyway. Hunger. Deep, Klein, maddening hunger. I had no idea how long I'd been there. At some point, I'd fallen asleep again. I'd realize that if I lay completely still on the floor, the motion sensor lights would switch off so I could sleep normally. The dark even helped me trick myself into feeling like I wasn't really stuck in a bathroom at all. But this time, waking up, the hunger hit hard. I felt weak, powerless. My thoughts came sluggish and broken. I couldn't even think straight, didn't want to. What was the point? That's when I heard the scuttling sounds. They were familiar.

I'd heard them before. That's because there's the cockroaches. But this time, they weren't coming from the vent. They were spilling out of the pipes I'd previously dismantled beneath one of the sinks, falling out as if someone were tossing them through the pipe at me. They crawled lazily across the floor, clearly unbothered by my presence. Just another part of the scenery. That's when all those survival shows I used to watch came flooding back. My brain flipped a switch. No, you're not dying of starvation in here.

Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. Everything clicked into praise. I grabbed the two small metal trash cans I've been using to wedge the doors open. I turned on one of the taps, the hottest water could get, and placed a can underneath. filling it to the brim. It did it boil, but it steamed, and it felt hot enough. I placed the other can beneath the broken pipe, and the cockroaches immediately began falling in.

They didn't even try to escape. It was like they were waiting for it. My next brilliant idea? Got them. I mean, you don't just eat any part of the animal, right? Probably the same goes for bugs. So I pulled out my tiny Swiss Army knife, once again proving to be incredibly useful,

and started butchering them, one by one. I saw a stuff anything that didn't look at, edible, anything too hard, anything that seemed like armor or shell. What was left were soft, pale, fleshy little chunks. Looks like, I don't know, chicken. I told myself it might taste like the chicken too. I forced myself not to think about the guts running down my hand or the rotting smell that gave us. I just dropped the little edible bits into the hot water one by one hoping the bath might at least make them feel cleaner. Easier to swallow. Soon, 40 or 50 bits of cockroach meat floated in the steaming can, and I'll admit something. I was proud of myself.

I felt like a proper survivor, not lost in the Amazon forest. No, just lost in an endless public restroom. But now came the hard part. Actually eating them. I grimaced. I stalled. But my stomach twisted with hunger again, and I had no choice. Surprisingly, it wasn't that bad. Worse than I expected in some places. Bitter, mostly where I hadn't cleaned them well enough. I spit those parts out, but the rest I got it down. I couldn't believe I was sitting on a bathroom floor eating half-cooked cockroach meat-like soup, but I felt full, kind of. Enough to think clearly again.

Back to the real goal, getting out of here. Maybe I'd miss something, a clue, a crack, something. So I kept going. One bathroom after another, trying to spot even the tiniest difference. I don't know how long that lasted. At some point, I fell asleep. again, just from exhaustion. But I did learn some things.

Every room is the same. Every sink, every stall, every mirror, exactly the same. Except they're not in a loop. I'm not walking in circles. These rooms open into each other. Forward, not backward. I tested it. I marked a stall, walked through a few more bathrooms,

came back, and the mark was still there. So I am moving, just not toward anything I understand. Also, water is always available. cockroaches too. So like it or not, I've got food and water covered. As far as survival goes, I'm fine. Well, sort of. I mean, raw cockroach meat isn't exactly good for digestion, but it was either that or starve. After waking from what I thought was my second nap, I made a decision. Judging by my stubble, I'd been in here for four or five days already, and I still hadn't found an exit. That's when I decided to go as far as I physically could. I don't know even how the idea

hit me. But I'd counted. There are four toilet stalls and five urinals per room. I multiplied them. 20, so from then on, I'd move forward 20 bathrooms at a time. After each 20, I'd stop, make dinner, if you can call it that, drink, rest, and check if anything had changed. And that's what I did. Marching forward clinked is some absurd little math-based system, hoping it might lead me out of this place. I found nothing, no change, no clue, no exit. I didn't even know how long I'd been walking this pattern. Moving through these bathrooms in sets of 20. My beard had grown out. I tried trimming it with my tiny

pocket knife with mixed results. My hair too. I cut it as best as I could. My body had withered. I was thin, gaunt. I'd lived off cockroaches for I don't even know how long. My clothes were ragged and filthy. Even though I washed myself every 20th room using the lukewarm

tap water and the refilling soap dispensers. I even clean my clothes sometimes as much as I could at least. But it was wearing me down. The endless repetition. The same white tiles, the same stalls, the same damn mirrors showing me a ruined man, a wreck, a ghost of what I used to be. I reached my 20th bathroom again. Who knows the number anymore? And collapse on the floor. Every emotion I'd bottled up hit me at once. Sorrow, rage, hopelessness. I sat there, broken, sobbing. Then the fury came. I stood up as best as I could, and I went berserk.

I tore out the stall doors, ripped the toilet paper from the holders, kicked and pulled. punched the sinks, smashed everything in sight, I picked up a trash can and shattered the mirrors. I don't want to see myself anymore. I yanked a pipe loose again and used it like a club. I shattered the tiles. I cracked a toilet into pieces, water spilled from every surf had broken. The stalls were hanging half off their hinges. I sat there, panting, dripping, a shattered man in a shattered room. Then I heard something. A sound. Not the rustle of cockroaches, no, this was different. louder. Something bigger. I followed it. It came from the shattered toilet, from the pipe, scratching, cline. I grabbed the pipe and smashed the porcelain even more until I found the sewage

drain. The sound was louder now. When I looked in, nothing. No point in being cautious anymore. I reached in and something bit me. A flash of pain. I yanked my hand out and a medium-sized rat was dangling from my finger, gnawing furiously. I screamed and flung it against the wall. It skull burst like rotten fruits against the tiles. I stood there, hand bleeding, blood mixing with the leaking water, and the rat smashed body. What happened after that, I won't describe, even if I wanted to. I don't think I could. My mind-broken ways I don't want anyone else to ever even understand.

Sometimes I was aware of myself. Sometimes it felt like someone else was in control. I stopped washing. Stop trimming anything. Started eating rats. Stopped cleaning the cockroaches. My bitten finger got infected badly. so half conscious, I bit down and sawed it off with my knife.

I wrapped the stump in a toilet paper, kept it as clean as I could. But I didn't know how long I'd been there. Months, years, I looked like a homeless man, maybe worse, but I didn't care. I didn't know what I was doing anymore. And then something different happened. I walked into a new bathroom, and one of the stalls was locked. I froze, stared at it. Was this real?

A hallucination? wearing my filthy clothes barefoot, I stumbled toward it, but I didn't touch, didn't say anything. Instead, I entered the stall next to it. I stood between the locked stall and mine, then rested my forehead against the wall. And then I heard it. A voice. Familiar. A man's voice.

Angry, confused, but unmistakably familiar. And I smiled because I knew this moment I had been here before. I'd lift this already. And in a dry, cracked voice I whispered, finally, it's over. You're going to give me $100 to sit inside this cardboard box for two minutes by Sunhead Prime. You're going to give me $100 to sit inside this cardboard box for two minutes, I asked,

filling the booze slosh around my brain. It's that simple, the street performer said with a cocksure grin. You last two minutes inside of that box, you get $100. What if I don't make it two minutes? You don't get $100. What's inside the box? The street performer opened the top of the large refrigerator box and, true to his word, it was empty. So what's the catch, my friend Paul said?

There's always a catch. No catch. You go in of your own free will. You get out of your own free will. You put two minutes between those moments you get $100. Let me see the money, I said. The street performer didn't look like he had a spare Franklin to part with. He wore a seat.

stained threadbare soothed patches on the elbows and tearing at the sleeve. Atop his head was a busted top hat that looked like it had survived since the Great Depression. His feet were covered and mismatched filthy dockiders that looked like they had been hauled up some mucky swamp. That said, the street performer pulled a crisp and clean $100 bill from under his hat. I feel like if I go in, you're going to kick the box or poor old soup on me or some other stupid shit for one of those dumb-ass TikTok pranks. Old soup, I asked, chuckling. Paul laughed. Oh no man, old-ass clam chowder or something. The street performer shook his head. No, sir. I'm not a fan of chowder or pranks and I don't have any idea what a TikTok is.

I'm just an honest man looking to give away $100 to the bravest and boldest among you. That's definitely not you, Paul, I said, laughing. Fuck off, bro, Paul said. You going to do it? I asked. Why don't you do it? He shot back. Not bold enough? No, not really. Plus, if I sit down on the ground, I may not be able to get back up. I think I, I think I shouldn't have had that last drink. I, I'm going to call that Uber. Your name's Paul, correct? The street performer I asked, my friend. Yeah. Paul, let me ask you this. Could you use a hundred dollars? Hell yeah, especially after what I spent tonight. Big brave man, like you couldn't be afraid of a simple cardboard box? Fuck, no, I'm not. Do you have another two minutes to spare? How long until the Uber gets here? Paul asked me. Five minutes, I said, give or take. Paul looked at the box and back to the street performer,

before glancing at me. What do you think? Is it worth it? Man, I don't know. I didn't. The alcohol was not only on top of me, but was beating my temples with rock hammers. I mean, the whole thing is fucking weird,

but he hasn't explained the downside. I haven't informed you of any downsides because there isn't one, the street performer said with a wink. This gorilla marketing for a box company. Or do you work for a frigidare? I asked. No, sir. I work for me, myself and I. The street performer said,

nobody likes having a boss, am I right? Especially if you knew my boss, I said. He makes it tell the Hun look like Davy Duck. Fucking man, Paul said suddenly. I'll do it. Wonderful, the street performer said. Only, Paul added, looking at me. If we can go to the titty bar after I get out.

bro i am beat i said yawning i don't have the energy you don't have enough energy to look at boobs no i said surprising myself i might pass out in the uber if you're gonna throw up throw up in the alley paul said they charge extra if they have to clean up any bodily fluids maybe i'll puke in the box before you get in it please don't vomit inside the box the street performer said it's one of a kind these things come off an assembly line paul said hardly one of a kind i glanced at my phone let my vans vision refocused and noticed the Uber's arrival time. You got three minutes, dude. You going in or not. Fuck it. Let's do it. Who keeps time? Time keeps itself. However, I have a pocket watch to assist us, the street performer said, pulling out a beat-up brass pocket watch from

inside his suit jacket. Climb in now. I'll count you down. Paul opened the top flaps and placed one foot inside. He was unsedity on his drunk legs. And I started laughing at his teetering. He flipped me off, steadied himself, and placed the second leg inside. He sat down, shot me a shitty eating grin, and said, I want to go to Golden Apples after. That girl Jane is in there this weekend. She's not into you, I said. Yet, he said with a smile before grabbing the flaps and closing himself in the box. Your time starts in three, two, one, the street performer said, watching the second hand on his watch spin past 12. Go. Paul sat there for a minute before he started chuckling. I I couldn't help but join in.

What even was this in a million years? I'd never be able to guess that this is where the night would end. Inside a cardboard box. You start by having its few, too many cheap domestics are in a ballgame and end up probably being hustled by an unhoused guy in a top hat. This is so fucking stupid, I said, barely holding back my laughter. They said the same thing about the dog launched into space. Hey, Lyca, how dark is it up there? I asked.

Not very. Paul said, his voice muffled by the cardboard, he started a giggle fit again before adding, I feel like a dumb ass. If the shoe fits, I said, the box suddenly jostled violently. It went still for a beat before rocking back and forth again. From inside the box, I could hear Paul moving and adjusting. Bro, stop moving, I said. I'm not doing that, he said.

30 seconds, the street performer yelled out. Wait, wait a second, it just got dark, really dark. You can't see the neon light from the bar? No, he said. His voice unsure. Wait, there's some kind of white light off in the distance. The distance, I asked, confused? You're inside a box.

The farthest distance is a foot away. Hey, Mr. Top Hat, is there a screen hidden in here? Like a TV screen or something? The street performer ignored him. What's going on? I asked. There's something approaching the box. Yeah, the Uber, I said with a drunken laugh. No, like, there was someone walking toward the inside of the box, Paul said.

It looks like a person. But that doesn't make any sense. His voice went from playful drunk to concerned drunk. He was sloshed. But a small part of his brain was still on guard. It told him there was danger around him. But it didn't make any sense, as he was sitting inside a cardboard box on the sidewalk of an empty street. 45 seconds.

Paul, stop fucking around. Bro, I'm serious. He said some guy. I think it's guy. Anyway, it's walking towards me. Wait. Oh shit, there are two, no, three, fuck. Four.

I'm surrounded by. shadow figures. Shadow figures, I asked. They look like people but, but different. You fucking with me? There aren't any features that I can see. They, they look like silhouettes. Dude, stop. The joke's not funny anymore. Get out, huh? The Uber is almost here anyway. Shh, he asked. I think they can hear your voice. I turned to the street performer. What's going on here? What's the gag? He ignored me. His eyes stayed, trained on the pocket watch as quickly rotating second hand. One minute, halfway there, he yelled. I, I, I, I can hear them speaking. It's faint, but, but what? It doesn't sound like any language I've ever heard. Paul, enough's enough. Come out and out, man. Our ride is turning down the street.

Oh, fuck, I think they saw me, he said. It's a voice quivering. Who's they? These shadow figures, oh, fuck, he said. Fear lacing his words. I heard him start kicking the side of the box from the inside. The cardboard bent with each kick, but never broke. Get moving, I said. I'm trying to run, but my body isn't moving. Dude, you're kicking the box, I said. said. That's not me. My body's frozen and they're coming. Holy shit. Get out of the box, Paul. One minute, 30 seconds to street performer, yelled. Best time of the night. One of them is coming for me. Paul said in a panic. Oh God, they have eyes, but not like ours. His eyes, I can, I can see. I can see. Paul trailed off. You can see what? Everything, he said. They're showing me

everything. One minute 40. The money is as good as you are a stranger. There's fire. It's everywhere. I can feel the heat. It's burning me through my pants. Oh, fuck. What is this? Get out of the box now, Paul. The other three are closing in. Their eyes are glowing white. I can see the ends of the earth, the end of the sky, the end of it all, the fires, they burn. Oh God, they burn. Then Paul started screaming. Not I stub my toe screams, but I'm being murdered. And the only person who will ever hear my screams is my killer screams. Open the box, I yelled at the street perform right fucking now. But he didn't even move an inch. He kept his eyes trained on the watch. Ten seconds remaining, the street performer yelled.

Ten. I leaned over and tried to rip open the flaps on top of the box, but they weren't moving. They felt like a thousand pounds, and I couldn't budge them. I slammed my hand down on the cardboard, and it felt like I just hit concrete. My hand throbbed, but I tried again to rip the box open to no avail. Push up, Paul, I screamed at the top of the box, listen to my voice and come for it. Nine, eight, seven. Why are you all showing me this?

Paul said through sobs. I don't want to watch them all die. Paul sit up. Come on, man, sit up. Six, five, four. The box was jostling back and forth, being shaken by unseen forces. It jumped an inch off the ground and rocked around like bored kids, beat it up with bats. I'm watching them tear me apart, Paul said with a whimper. I'm, whoa, I'm above them now.

I'm being pulled away. But I can see my body. There's so much blood, so much fire. Get out. What's pulling me into the air, Paul asked, his voice sounding distant? And three? Paul, I'm coming. I threw my whole body at the box, trying to knock it on its side.

I hope to see Paul come tumbling out, but when I hit the cardboard, it didn't move an inch. It clanged like it was made from pure steel. I braced myself on the ground and kicked this out of the box with all my might and it instantly felt a lightning bolt of pain rushed my leg up and spine. There was nothing I could do. Two. I'm so high. I can, I can see it.

I can see the, oh my God. No, no, it can't be. No, Paul screamed. and it sounded like it was falling now. Oh shit, the ground. It's opening. From the sidewalked, I looked up at the street performer with hating my eyes and yelled, Let him go, you fuck. Open the box. I'm falling through the world. How?

Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, God. Please let me go. One and time. The street performer yelled, raising his hands in victory. The box went still. Paul, you won. The street performer exclaimed triumphantly, the first of the night. He calmly tucked his pocket watch back into his jacket pocket.

He replaced it with a small dollar store confetti popper. He gently yank the string of the popper and blasted bits of colorful paper and glitter into the air. It landed all around me. I lunged to the box and tried to rip it open the top again. This time, the flaps moved as easily as I expected. But when I pulled them back, Paul wasn't inside. Not a trace of them. The only thing I found was a crisp new $100 bill.

Paul? Paul? What the fuck? Where are you? He's left the box, the street performer said. His two minutes were up. I leaped onto my feet, ready to be the street performer to pulp. When I glanced at where he had been standing, he was gone. I hadn't heard him run away or catch a cab or anything. Like Paul, there was no trace of him. It was like he'd never been there. From behind me, I heard a car down shift and come to a stop on the curb. There was the familiar whine of an electric window being rolled down, followed by a monotonous voice calling out my name. My Uber had arrived. I looked to where the box was, and it was gone, too. All that was left was the $100 bill. You still want your ride, my driver said. Did you,

did you see anyone with me? No, he said. There wasn't a man in a busted top hat and a large refrigerator box standing here as you came down the street. I think you made a good decision calling an Uber. I drive her deadpanned, adding, if you peek in my car, there's a cleaning fee. So if you're going to yak, just do it now, huh? I felt my legs go weak. I didn't know what to do. My friend was gone, and the man who sent him away had vanished. I didn't even know what to say to the police. Uh, my friend climbed into a cardboard box and disappeared. No, I'm not drunk anymore. You coming or what? This is my busy time. I looked down at the $100 bill, and something caught my eye. Instead of Benjamin Franklin's face staring back at me, someone had scrawled a note.

I picked up the note and held it close to my face. I'd known that handwriting anywhere. It was Paul's. The note read. I've seen him at the end. You don't make it. Buddy? You coming?

My driver asked. Yeah, I said, I'm, uh, I'm coming. That was several hours ago. I've been sitting at my kitchen table staring at the $100 bill. I'm not sure what to do. My mind is mush and it has nothing to do with the alcohol. I'm at a crossroads and I don't know where to go. I don't know what to say to Paul's family.

How do I even begin to explain this? I keep thinking I'm having a nightmare as I sleep went off, but I'm not. I'm sitting stock still in my kitchen as the first rays of the sun turned the black sky purple. There's advice around my heart, a profound loss for my friend and fear for the message you left behind. I've seen the end. You don't make it. You try falling to sleep after this. And all right, guys, that wraps up some eerie stories from Reddit.

Today's stories were definitely unique, definitely entertaining. I enjoyed them a lot. I hope you enjoyed them as well because, yeah, I just loved reading these. It was a lot of fun. I really love the Reddit Story series. And if you like it as well, please comment down below, like and subscribe. It helps more than you know. And yeah, I have a lot of fun kind of voicing these, doing little, you know.

know, I'm not a great voice actor, but, you know, some little voices for some characters or whatever. So comment down below if you'd like to see any improvements or what you thought about the stories. Would you like to see creepier stories, more creative stories like this? Because these stories were definitely, you know, less creepy and disturbing, I'd say, but definitely entertaining and unique. And if you enjoyed this video, I'm sure you'll enjoy another video on the channel. So please check out some other videos. I'm sure you'll love them. And I'm sure you'll love the channel. So might as well subscribe. I appreciate it so much. And thank you so much for watching to the end. This was Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.