Snook - Mysterious 4Chan Stories

Episode Date: March 27, 2025

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Hey, what's up guys, and welcome back to another 4chan stories video. You guys have been loving these videos a lot, and I've been loving recording them, reading these stories, they're scary, weird, and like the video title says for this video, mysterious. And I hope you enjoy this video, this entire stories and, or the one main story in this video, is so good and so weird and scary and mysterious and just great. And I think you guys will love it. So thank you so much for stopping by.

And yeah, please consider subscribing and liking the video. The channel's goal is 500,000 subscribers. So please subscribe to the channel. And yeah, all right, enough yapping. Let's get into the video. And yeah, like the title says, this is some mysterious 4chan stories. Sunday. My father passed away.

He'd be 55 come April. He and I were never close. Although we had no bad blood between us either, we just had nothing in common and I never cared, perhaps assuming we'd always have time to form a relationship later on. He wasn't unhealthy, so I never put much effort into going out and visiting him. And in fact, I haven't, or hadn't past tense as hard to get used to, seeing him in three years. Possibly I'm feeling guilty for never showing interest in my father.

Perhaps I just miss him and want to talk about him. But tonight, I want to tell you a story about my father and maybe get some information on a thing he called the white man. Just to tell you now, we are not Native American, and the white man didn't steal his land. My father was a very typical suburban dad, and frankly very boring. He had typical dad interests like fishing and hunting and bowling. He wore crocs and turtlenecks and drove a hatchback with a custom license plate, despite his very upper middle class white dad exterior, though he was a hick, a major hick.

You see, my dad grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in the 60s in a family that was dirt poor and very religious. I never met most of my extended family on his side, aside from his brother, Philly, who became pretty important in this story. But from what I heard about them, I gather they were deliverance on ice. They lived in what had once been a cabin in the woods. They raised pigs and chickens and sold lumber for most of their income. His father beat my father and his siblings during drunken bouts, which left my father with some major scars, mostly physical, but a few pretty obvious mental ones too. Sorry, riding as I go to avoid timeouts. I'm also a little tipsy, roads closed, no work, been drinking with a buddy. So my riding is

slower than usual. What's important to note is that my father wasn't bright. He wasn't creative. He wasn't a storyteller. He could remember things and repeat them, and he could focus his energy into things, but he wasn't bright. Brains were not how he got where he was. So it's with this in mind that I ask you to handle his stories. My father used to talk freely of the white man to my sister, and I more her than myself, as they were much closer, but I was always careful to not mention him in front of my mother and Philly.

Philly would make fun of him relentlessly for his boogeyman, and my mother never knew of any of it. I suppose he was afraid of her thinking. He was crazy. I grew up hearing about the white man, who seemed to be a combination of all your typical boogeyman. He was capable of changing shape but not color. In his regular form, he was vaguely humanoid but featureless. However, he could change into actual people or animals.

He was old and not stupid, but still more animal than man. He chose people, follow them, and brought bad luck to them, and most importantly, he liked to make deals. The white man wasn't a grim reaper sort, but he was a predator who showed up when a person was about to die or was hurt, and it was such that my father first saw him. Now, pardon if this isn't told that well. I admit, I have little flair for stories, and I've not heard any of these old tales in a long time, so a few details may be missing. One year, about January, my father and Philly went out into the woods to go hunting. The two were about 10, and nine respectively, although Philly was apparently the leader. They wandered further from their home than usual, and it quickly got dark, which led them to getting disoriented and lost. What had initially begun as a simple afternoon hunt was now potentially life-thrining,

for they didn't have the gear to easily survive the night. Things got worse, though, when the ground beneath my uncle gave way, revealing that in the dark they had wandered onto a pond which had frozen over and been covered by snow, but couldn't handle the weight of the two boys. My father, being, as I said, a bit stupid, took a moment to react to the situation before he began trying to help his brother out. After a short struggle,

during which time my father got soaked as well, they managed to get Philly out of the water, although they were both now exhausted and wet and truly had no idea where they were, for there wasn't a pond anywhere near their house. The two eventually managed to get off the pond, and into the woods in an effort to find shelter or their home. Eventually they found a crevice beneath a tree and ducked into it for shelter,

although it wasn't big enough for them to both fit at once. Being the drier of the two, my father volunteered to take the first shift out in the cold while his brother tried to dry off in the crevice. Now, here the story splits. The more reasonable one is Philly's version. He dozed off. My father woke him up a while later, told him they should keep moving. They did, kept wandering until they saw lights.

Those lights were flashlights. The neighbors were out looking for them. They met up with the neighbors, went home, their dad beat them. The hillbillies were all happy except my dad because he was crazy. And then there's my father's version. My father told me he sat out there, scanning the horizon and listening carefully for anything of moving in the woods. Animals may mean better shelter or danger in a person or some sort of vehicle meant to rescue.

Considering my dad was religious, Ned Flanders would be closer to the truth, but not far off either way. Sorry for being slow to respond. After about 20 minutes, he begins to hear something. Footsteps. According to him, it sounded like a large man, and not all that far away, although he couldn't see anything, which surprised him a bit. As it wasn't all that dark, and even back then, most people wandering in the woods tried to wear at least one bright item on them to avoid getting shot. But despite that, the noise got louder and louder until they finally saw it. A figure as white as snow walking through the trees towards him.

It was clear to him that it wasn't human, and he described it as being about nine feet tall and shaped like Gumby. It had two arms, two legs, and two eyes, but no features. Everything was rounded. Scared to move, my father sat as still as he could, although it was clear that the thing had already seen him. Slowly, it moved towards him and began to speak. When it spoke, it didn't speak with a man.

mouth. Instead, it was just words. One heard and one responded the same. What that means is up to you to decide. Next response will be faster was trying to decide where to cut this shit off. The order of the conversation in the length I'm not sure of, but it told them that it was an old thing that lived in the cold and that it needed them. It came whenever people got too cold or too lost or hurt from animals or accidents and it took them away if something else hadn't already. It had no interest in the dead just the dying. Conversing with it was unsettling, but not unpleasant according to my father. With that, it told him to get up so he could get his brother, and then they were to follow him away. My father, of course, refused and demanded they be left. Why, though, the thing asked,

it was as free as anything, so it doesn't matter. Still, though, he refused to move, and eventually the thing asked him why he was so stubborn. It sounded a bit surprised, as if most people didn't argue much. I just don't want to die or have him die. Was the best my father could come up with. Then we'll need to make a deal. My father told me the thing, which never, not over any of their visits, told him its name, if it had one, talked like a car dealer or game show host. They tried to convince him what he really wanted, what he really needed.

Wouldn't it be easier to go with him? Wouldn't that be simpler? But still my father refused. Eventually they settled. They would get out, but their lives. would be a loan. It would be owned interest, and one day it would still come for them. The thing, which he eventually began calling the white man, then began to walk off. Although it didn't say anything to him, my father said he understood that he was being let out now and that he should

follow it. He then woke up Philly and the two headed off. Of course, you'd think he'd have been more suspicious of following a giant snow monster that had already tried to kidnap him. But my father wasn't bright or likely a great storyteller either. Before Philly was even awake now, the monster had disappeared. The giant footsteps vanishing. At first, my father thought for sure he'd been cheated or simply abandoned before realizing there was a trail of rabbit prints, which he began following instead. Somehow understanding that somehow, those belong to the monster. Occasionally, he'd catch a glimpse of an all-white rabbit, and it was then he understood the thing could change shape. After a while, they saw the lights of their neighbors in the distance and headed towards them.

Of course, as a kid, the story was a lot scarier, and I'm sure I'm missing a few details. Even then, though, I understood the plot holes and how far-fetched it was. My mother used to tell stories of how her childhood home had been haunted, all while telling us ghosts didn't exist, so I assumed this was similar. A tall tale. Now, before I keep going, I want to say a couple of things. First off, I don't really believe my father's stories. Although I think he believed them for some reason or another, I just thought you guys would get a kick out of them and that maybe there's some Yupor legend Google didn't pull up that he adapted this from. I also want to say that my uncle again thought this was all a load of shit.

When he would tell the story, it was just a story of how they got lost, almost died, and eventually got home to an asswopin. A few things my father added is he did agree on though. There were rabbit of a prince and possibly some bigger ones, although these looked like indents in the snow to him rather than actual prince. And my father did end up following a rabbit, which could have been white or blue for all here members, out at one point which he thought was stupid even then. My uncle also didn't hear anything of the white man, not until my father saw him again a year after they got lost. My father's excuse for not sharing this story with him was either he'd think I was crazy or think he was going to die. And only the shock of the next incident,

scared the story out of him. A year passed and my father began to think he had maybe gone crazy that night, or they'd fallen asleep and dreamt it and just woke up without realizing it. That is, until one night. Again, winter, again with snow on the ground. He was outtending to the hogs alone with his dog. As a boy, my father had only two close friends, Philly and this dog, a Basset-Beagle mixed named Shorty. This was a fact he repeated it time and time again during many stories of his childhood, which always made me wonder how his sisters felt. Were they not close? Guess not since I never met them. Anyway, they're in the pig barn, which was far enough away from their house that in the summer, implying there is one, the smell of shit and pigs didn't waft indoors. The barn was capable

of being opened on both sides, and in the warm of months, the back would be left open so that the hogs could enjoy the outdoors. While in the colder months, it'd be closed up tight. So, of course, my father was a little surprise to find the back of the barn open wide. This has happened once or twice before over the years and usually meant he had to run back home and get his father in Philly so they could hunt down all the pigs, who even in cold weather would head out in an effort to find food or get into something. But tonight, this wasn't an issue.

For all the hogs were huddled as far from the door as possible and very reluctant to go out, even on a clear night. Assuming the pigs had gotten a bit of sense and didn't want to deal with the weather, he headed through the pen to close up the door, with Shorty following him the whole way. He gets there and Shorty takes one sniff before darting out the door howling and barking the other way, obviously chasing after something. Shorty, my father would say, was a bit of a tattletail.

If something was misbehaving, he tried to stop it. When sneaking out or getting up past bedtime, you had to make sure the dog didn't see you do it. This applied to other animals too. And if a pig or chicken didn't do what it was supposed to do, the dog would get in it. So with that in mind, my father didn't think perhaps a dog was after something, but that instead was scolding a hog that wandered off alone into the pen. As quickly as possible, after all, pigs all look alike, move a good bit and my father wasn't brilliant. My father counted up the pigs and noticed that one, an adult boar, was missing. So he headed out after Shorty to find the lost

pig. In the still and the snow, it was easy to find Shorty. All he had to do was follow the dog's footprints, but that was when he realized something was wrong. Jordy's prints were in the snow, but they weren't following the tracks of the hog. In fact, there were no prints from the hog, which there should have been. No new snow had fallen, and there wasn't enough wind to easily cover them. And furthermore, there were tracks. They just weren't from a pig. Instead, they were large, vague, dense in the snow.

These, my father recognized, he had seen them before in the words the year before, If only briefly, and here they were again, was Shorty on hot pursuit of the creature, mustering up his courage, my father followed them as well. After all, he wanted his dog back, and scared or not, he wanted to at least look for him and the dog, or his father would kill him. The pen was decent size for a hog pen, but soon he hit the fence, which was made up of a five-foot-tall hog panels. Shorty was capable of climbing these, I'm assuming his build was more beagle than Bassett,

because the image of a basset hound climbing a fence is hilarious to me, and he could see that the dog had already gone over the fence and into the woods. Of course, the fence hadn't stopped the white man, either. His tracks simply went right over the fence, as if he hadn't even had to break a stride to get over it. So he climbed the fence soon was in the woods. For the UP, it's really just woods and cleared woods for pens and dogs, and it wasn't long before he heard the barks of Shorty,

in the squeals of a frightened pig. Running now, he came to the scene quickly, standing among the trees was the white man, who had seemingly grown bigger over the last year. In one arm, he held the struggling and screaming hog, which had to have weighed at least 400 pounds. A few feet away from him carrying on was shorty, his hair on end and teeth bared, acting as if he had cornered the beast. There was no communication or confrontation between them. There was just an impression, an impression that the white man had waited for him, that he had stood there, ignoring the dog, so he just could get a glimpse of him.

There was a brief pause. Then my father realized something terrible. The white man did, in fact, have a mouth. Below the beady black eyes was a slit, a long line, and it opened just a bit to reveal teeth as white as the rest of him that shined in the moonlight. Just as quickly as he flashed his grin, he was gone. The white man silently took off, running into the woods,

gracefully dodged between trees, with just the soft crunch of snow following him. Shorty took a few steps after him before my father had the mind to call him, back, and the two headed home with my father sobbing the whole way. Of course he got in trouble. He had the sense to not tell his parents what he saw, but still got in trouble for losing a hog. He only ended up telling Philly because he couldn't stop crying. And even then, he couldn't stop. Philly didn't apparently believe him much, but he didn't say anything to argue against it. Philly eventually began to write off everything as my father being

schizophrenic, and the white man being the manifestation of it. I know nothing of mental disease, so I don't know how that diagnosis would ever hold up. Anyway, years went by before my father saw the white man again, although he claims to of known he was there during that time. Every winter, without fail, one hog or a group of chickens in a single night would go missing. Only once was there an exception. One year, a local boy went missing in the woods and never turned up. That year, no hog went missing from the farm.

It was the livestock, as well as the sharp teeth, that led my father to the conclusion that the white man had to eat and that he wasn't a vegetarian. The white man, though, never once told him he killed his victims, nor that he ate them. Considering what he took, though, my father thought it was easy enough to figure out. When he was 16, he saw the white man again, the exact age I remember, for it was when my father began driving. It was late at night and my father was driving home. He had begun to work at the nearest gas station, sometimes not coming home until late.

It's worth noting that my father had his own set of skills and talents, such as being a hard worker or an excellent cook. But driving, especially in the winter, was not on that list. Driving scared my father. He was terrified of slipping or crashing and drove very slowly and very cautiously. Never one to yell at us. He'd snap if we talked too loud in the car or turn the radio up too high because it began to make him nervous. With that in mind, what I'm about to tell you shouldn't surprise you. He crashed.

Granted, he crashed trying to stop and help someone else who had crashed, but he still crashed. Another car had slid into the ditch along the rarely traveled road towards his house, and in the process of trying to stop and help, he too had an accident, one that was much more violent than the one he was trying to help. Somehow, or another, he ended up hitting a tree hard enough to seriously damage his car and injure his leg. The other driver of the other car came out to help him, and after realizing he couldn't walk back to town, decided to walk back on his own and get help for the both of them. My father thanked him, and the man went on his way. Now granted, it was hillbilly hell, winter, in the middle of nowhere, but it would. But my father's

calculations take less than an hour for the man to get back to the gas station and find help and less than an hour for them to get back to him because then they'd be driving, right? So in two hours, he'd be in the heated cab of a tow truck, either on the way to his house or a doctor's office. It was about midnight at that point, and my father had a wristwatch on, which he'd check occasionally as he shivered in the dark. 1 a.m. comes around. 2 a.m. comes around.

3. 4. He notices off and wakes up shivering to the sound of footsteps, big and heavy like a man. For whatever reason, he assumes that the guy couldn't find help or that help couldn't get down the road and he's come back to help him, or maybe the guy just up and left and some of the traveler has come to see if he's live. He pulls himself up enough to look out the rear view mirror, and that's when the pit dropped out at the bottom of his stomach. For, you see, there wasn't a man in the snow. Even though he should have been able to see if someone if he could hear them, there isn't anyone there. The footsteps are, but there isn't a person. According to him, he felt like he was in a nightmare and began looking frantically behind him, trying to see someone, hoping he was just overreacting.

But then he saw a long, white form step in front of the brown and black of the trees. And realized it was the white man again, slowly stepping towards the car. His movement's slow and graceful, but he seems a little worried. My father's never seen him in the open before. but here he is, moving cautiously, like a cat, when it's worried about being seen at night. Eventually, the thing gets to the car and stops. Again, there's no angry words, no begging. In fact, although my father was scared shitless, he again just clammed up and held still as he began talking.

This time, the conversation was short, one sentence not said inside my father's mind. Don't worry. Already paid. With that, the giant keeps on moving, making a point of going across the road and into the woods on the other side as my father watched. Comedically, he always made a point to tell us that the white man stopped before crossing, making a point of checking for traffic before heading across. Once the beast was out of sight, my father began sobbing and kept sobbing until the mailman, even in the UP, you got to get mail, found him four hours later. My father recovered, although he ended up having to spend a small fortune getting the car repaired. The other driver, a bit less lucky.

He simply never showed up again. He left to find help but never made it back to town. An investigation was opened, but leads all sputtered out. Mind you, this last story is probably the last one for a bit that I remember clearly. Some of the others may be a bit fuzzy because it's been about 10 years since I really heard any of them. Somehow, my father knew that the white man was attached to the winter. This surely wasn't a surprise to anyone at all, seen as though he was a white man in the UP.

That only showed up when snow fell. The issue, of course, was that it was often winter in the UP. A few more years went by with no really noteworthy incidents. The white man would take something every winter, but it didn't get my shorthy or my grandmother or anything. By now, my father was 18 to 19 years old and getting ready to, to leave. His family was poor, and even if they hadn't been, my grandfather did not believe in college. With his sons, now men, he gave them an option, become farmers, clergymen, lumberjacks, laborers, or

get out, and don't come back. It was because of Philly that they didn't do that, although I'm sure my father wanted to get away from the winter. Philly decided they both joined the Marines and get out of there. Vietnam had recently ended in that he would joke that he thought he'd get somewhere warm, that had never seen snow. I guess I could lie, and for comedy's effects, say that they were both sent to Alaska or Russia, but the truth is a bit more boring. They were accepted and went through basic training,

but neither ever saw combat. Philly was removed from service for a birth defect, eventually, and my father stayed in, but never did anything until his contract ran up, merely working on bases those few years. He has to be transferred somewhere warm and being liked by his higher-ups, found himself in Texas. With it getting late, I'd admittedly going to wrap things up a bit faster

than I'd planned. My father had tons of stories about weird things they'd find in the woods before he left the UP and other odd incidents he tied vaguely to the white man, but it was sometimes before he saw them again. After all, if he was tied to winter, it'd be a while before there'd be a reunion in Texas. But towards the end of my father's military contract, a storm hit the area he was stationed in and brought with snow. Being one of the few on the base who had any knowledge of how to handle the mess, he saw himself outside a lot during the storm, and it didn't take long before he realized the white man could travel. The storm lasted two days. On the second day, he woke up early to de-ice paths and roads, and a desolate part of the base, he was surprised to see another soldier

in the distance and grew a bit concerned when he realized the man wasn't moving. Quickly, he approached him only to realize something. Again, there were no footprints leading out to this man, who he now realized was devoid of any color. A detailed white shape with two dark eyes. If he hadn't been so surprised, he'd have screamed. Instead, he claimed he probably looked as white as the white man as the color left him. No interest. With that, the figure vanished. My father was found sometime later by a fellow soldier, staring into the distance across an in field. Exhaustion was supposed excuse. Two days later, he received a call from his older sister informing him that his father had died. There wasn't much detail to go into. His father had

simply fallen over in the field and died while feeding hogs, and that was that. No mess, no fuss. My father, understandably, didn't care much. If the white man did it, it wasn't much of a punishment. But he eventually came to decide the white man was, if nothing else, a bad omen. Admittedly, it's now 4 a.m. for me, I'm heading to bed. But if the thread's still up tomorrow and there's any interest, I'll wrap it up with the last two to three stories they have that are of any interest. I hope at least a few of you got somewhat of a kick out of it, which leads me to asking a question.

Anyone have any idea what this thing is if he wasn't just blowing smoke out of his ass slash crazy? Any legends of anything like this? Okay, fine. One more. Give me a moment. Needless to stay. my father grew afraid of snow in the winter. When his contract ended a year or so after that,

he returned to the U.P for one summer to help his mother deal with the mess that was the home place. I need to pause here to describe my family on my father's side. You need to remember as well that I never met most of them, knowing them only through old family photos and family stories, which don't all involve winter monsters. My father was 28 when he married and 32 when he became a father. On the other hand, his parents had been together since his mother was 14 and his father 18. His parents were not old when all their children moved away, but they were old in the way only hillbillies and hicks can be. Furthermore, his mother had never done anything by herself and with her husband dead

had no one to turn to. Only my father was willing to return home and help her. When he got there, the place was a mess. Despite his father dying less than six months previously, it looked at him as if a monster had come and torn apart the whole place. The Pigs Barn's roof was ripped away, trees had been knocked over, buildings had collapsed, and everything looked in disrepair. When he asked what had happened, he was less than happy with the answer. The year he and Philly left, an enormous storm had blown in off the lake, springing with

it, both snow and wind. That night they'd woken to find the roof of the barn folded up like a sardine tin in the hogs gone or killed. Most notably, one pig's corpse had been left high in a tree, as if some giant had picked him up and put him there. Oddly, none of their neighbors had had such damage. The next year, now even poorer, the family had struggled more. Troubles multiplied after the chicken shed collapsed when a whole heap of something fell into it, apparently freeing the birds to nature. Another storm the following year took down the trees which destroyed their sawmill and ended their lumber business. The year after a car had been crushed under an enormous grandfather of a tree, so on, so forth. The only year, supposedly, that had been free of damage, had been the winter just prior.

His father had been feeding the few replacement hogs and fell over and died on the way home. Obviously, the news shook my father up. He couldn't tell his mother the white man did it, nor did he believe the white man had entirely, but some part of him just couldn't help but feel there was a connection. That a debt had gone unpaid in the collective. had been unable to find him. Hastily, he helped his mother move and sell what few items of value remained. Before the winter returned, he made sure to be well back into Texas where they had a short, warm winter free of snow, during which time you met my mother. Perhaps ironically, a year later, they got married in January. Furthermore, her birthday was in December. My father always liked having

happier things in the wintertime, though, so it didn't bother him in the least. It's good to see white men can be helpful, friend. Make sure he to be a little. Make sure it is doesn't kill your hogs for payment though. I'm going to sleep. If it's still up in the morning, I'll finish it all up. Although there were more stories prior to this, there are mostly small ones or more detailed accounts of how animals are stolen.

My father probably had dozens of these, but I can't remember most of them, and I apologize for that. If I can get in touch with my sister, who was much closer to him than I was, I may ask her a bit. I'm mostly telling the big ones, which I'm done,

I may include a few of the littles that I forgot. Anyway, although my father met my mother in Texas, she wasn't from there. She was from Pennsylvania and her family still lived there. About when their lease in Texas ran up, the holidays rolled around, and she suggested they head up to where her parents lived for an extended vacation. So a few weeks before Thanksgiving, they headed up there. Apparently my father was terrified. For if the white man could travel, then he'd surely be there over the winter, and he owed him a great deal of debt. But he couldn't tell his new wife that he couldn't go somewhere where an actual winter

because of a demon he made a deal with. Now could he? So he tried to play it off as a fear of meeting his in-laws for the first time. Unfortunately, he hid it off with them. So when he continued to act nervous, he began to raise a few questions with my mother, who one night confronted him and asked if he was all right. This was the closest he ever got to telling her about the white man. He asked her if she believed in demons or monster.

and she told him no. Well, if she didn't, did she think she could? No, if someone told her they believed in demons, she'd think they were crazy. The conversation was thus dropped. Considering he told my sister and I of the white man from an early age, part of me think she must have eventually known something about him, but it never came up. Certainly, as time went on, my mother thought of my father as eccentric, if not harmless. Back to the story, though. By now it was cold, although snow had him fallen yet. One night, a few days before Thanksgiving, he woke up to ice outside the house. In this ice, he swore he saw shape, slightly darker than the surrounding, the shape of a vague humanoid creature. By now, he's terrified. He's either gotten so wrapped up in this thing

that he's going mad, or he's being taunted before the first snow even falls, which is why, when it does fall a few days later, writes on Thanksgiving Day, he loses it. My grandparents were wealthy and had a large family. And for every holiday, they threw enormous parties. Thanksgiving was arguably the largest of these parties, and everyone had been planning it and working on it for weeks. By the evening prior, people were showing up, and by Thursday afternoon, the house was packed. It was about then it began to snow. It all started with my uncle, not the hillbilly one, joking they were going to get snowed in, as just the lightest of powder began to fall. Like in a horror movie, my father inched towards the window and looked out. The skies were gray. Snow was wafting down.

In a panic, he switched the channel off whatever pregame event everyone was watching to check the weather, which of course began to upset people, knowing he'd come up from Texas and that he had a bit of an accent that could have been Southern Hick. People asked if he'd never seen snow before. No, my mother assured him. He's from Michigan. He's seen it before. He just doesn't like it. By now, panicking though and people are joking about him or just weirded out his issue wasn't just the white man it was that he owed the white man that the white man was angry and that he was stuck in a house with 40 other people while he dealt with the white man eventually my mother escorted him out of the bedroom where they were staying they argued briefly and he was told to stay there until he was come or dinner

came out like a child being put into time out my father among other things was very obedient so the thought of arguing back and leaving didn't really occur to him. Instead, he now was trapped in a smaller area, and unfortunately for him, the room overlooked the large backyard, which was fence with just a sort, iron fence, and backed up directly to an empty lot, and then the woods. As the snow accumulated and it grew darker, he grew more and more anxious. His time was deviated between watching the yard in woods like a hawk and trying to ignore said yard and woods. Finally, at around 7 p.m., he was taken downstairs to eat. But being locked up there had had the opposite effect. He was now more nervous and anxious than ever, and it showed. I could go into detail on the dinner, but really,

it's not relevant to the story. The long story short, it didn't go well, and eventually he was sent back upstairs well before anyone else was done. By now, it was dark. Part of him expected the white man to pop up as soon as it was dark. But like a girl, getting ready for a date, the white man made him wait. Hours ticked by, and he sat waiting in front of the window, with just the sounds of the party downstairs keeping in company. Slowly he began to calm down a little. Maybe the white man wouldn't show up. Maybe all he could do was appear vaguely when he was this far from home. With a sigh of relief, my father decided to head to the bedroom. When he came back, though, he saw just the briefest flash of white against the trees. His heart sank, his

His fear returned, but still he knew he had to go and take a look. Sure enough, lumbering out of the woods and through the field was the white man. He was smaller now than my father had ever seen him, but still larger than a man. It stopped at the fence and looked up towards him. It was clear to my father that the white man knew he was there and wanted something, but was unwilling to come closer. For a long moment, he stared at the creature. It was clear it was willing to wait until he came out, and something he said.

compelled him to just go and meet it and be over with it. It took him a while, but eventually he got his wits about him and decided to do just that. He would not follow it. He would scream if it touched him. Surely with 40 people in the house, who'd drop them and run, or they'd come out and save him, people didn't vanish like that, and no one had ever written about a snow monster actually killing someone in their yard. So with that logic, he dressed and headed downstairs.

By now, many of the partygoers were in talks about. or had headed to bed slash left, and apparently his escape to the backyard went unnoticed. You would think with his logic being that they would save him if something went wrong, that he would have stayed inside, seeing as they were all too wasted to notice him leave, but still he went on. At this point, six inches had fallen and snow was still falling heavily. It was a bad storm, especially for this time of year, and it seemed to be feeding the creature before him, who had now grown a bit and was closer to his original size. Without words, it once more spoke to him.

It told him that he had left and had been paying his debts. Had they not made a contract? Failure to go against that would result in that contract being null and void. You have to go and gather up my father in Philly and take them away. Perhaps feeling cocky for once in his life, my father pointed out he could simply move to a more climate, perhaps Hawaii or Brazil. But the white man counted that. Philly would not move there. His other family members and friends would not also move.

move and eventually making snow anywhere. The contract could not be avoided. And even if that had been a solution, here he was now, in the snow. What stopped him from just taking him now? With that, the beast reached out towards my father. Although the white man moved quickly, far quicker than any man could have moved, time did not. It slowed so that while he was aware that everything around him was happening very quickly, it also lingered on, giving him enough time to tell the white man to wait before he was ever touched. It was, he would have sured my sister and I, the selfless idea that he had to keep Philly safe that motivated him to do what he did next. It wasn't him saving his skin. It was him saving his brother's skin. This did not, he told us, free him of

sin. It simply made an excuse for it for what he ended up doing. The white man waited, recoiling from my father. His mouth opened slightly, as if he were almost smiling. He knew what sort of idea my father had. What if I made you another deal? My father asked, it would need to be impressive, was the answer. My father thought about it for a moment, but could come up with nothing. This was not an effort to be difficult, but he simply couldn't think of something that interests the white man that he could sacrifice. Understanding this, the white man suggested something for him. Will you personally give me interest? Will you let me take what you owe? To this, my father agreed.

He would allow that. He would let the white man take something that covered his almost ten years of debt. He assumed this meant himself, that the white man would just take him and perhaps give the debt to his brother to continue paying off. And said, though, the monster simply opened his mouth wide. Deal done. Nothing more was said. The beast simply turned around and headed back into the woods.

The soft dents in the snow left behind quickly being filled by new snow. A little confused and more than a little worried, my father headed back inside as he grew more and more uncomfortable. Some parts of him was sure he had made a horrible mistake. That mistake did not come to light until a few weeks later, when my mother grew very ill. Eventually she was rushed to the hospital, where they found she had been miscarried, but not past the entire fetus, resulting in a major infection. She nearly died and was believed to be infertile until she had me a few years later.

My father, of course, always blamed himself for it, although, he never told her. He simply apologized over and over for it. He was convinced, though, that all of it had been due to his contract with a white man and at the loss of his unborn child was the payment he owed. The incident, ironically, convinced my mother to stay close to her parents in case some other medical issue happened. She wanted to be near them and the doctors she grew up with. My father reluctantly agreed, I might as well move home or to Alaska was his opinion on it. The next year, my One uncle, mother's side, she had two brothers, drove off a bridge during a particularly bad snowstorm. By time they recovered his car, not until the next spring, his body was no longer in it.

The year after, my grandfather lost two German shepherds, he kept in an indoor kennel, the both of them simply vanishing from a locks pen. On the third year, the family suffered no loss, but two locals went missing on a poorly timed camping trip. My father was a religious man, the sort where every time anything went well, he'd thank Jesus or God. On the same note, whenever anything went poorly, if it was during the colder months, it was certainly the white man's fault. Whatever creature this was, he believed that it had followed him to Pennsylvania, that it now took its interest here instead of back in Michigan. The logic there I never entirely understood. Did it do this all over the world, or at least America? We're all

missing people who vanished in the winter months of victims of the white man or just people near my father? Had it really moved across the country just for him? Once I asked my father some of that, he didn't know the answer to any of it. All he knew was that it followed him like a curse. BRB, need to head out and do some stuff. We'll finish if threads still up when I get back. I think there's two more major incidents and then I'll just post some little stuff if anyone wants it. I appreciate the compliments, friends.

Imagine if my father had given up the first time he met, the white man, things would have been a good deal easier for my mother. To be honest, sucks for her, I guess. Anyway, continuing on. The winter before I was born was the next time my father met the white man. Like I believe I have said, my mother came from some money. After she found out she couldn't have children, a fact that didn't bother her, even after my sister and I were born, she joked that her diagnoses had been good news to her. Her parents, who were far more traditional than her, bought her a puppy to help ease the pain and work as a child substitute. The dog in 1980s dollars had cost them $800 and was a papered Borizio, breed pictured, imported from Russia.

Despite my mother's disdain for children, though, she absolutely adored the dog and the dog wished for nothing. It was to the degree that my father feared she loved the dog more than him. When winter rolled around that fourth year, my father grew nervous as usual. Every year, something had been taken, even if it hadn't been. from him personally, and every year he worried that the white man would take his wife or some close friend. Halfway through December came a storm that left them with two feet of snow, and it was then that my father was sure the white man would appear. The dog that my mother had was a very regal fellow. He was also white, very fast, and prone to running off after anything that moved. All these facts are facts

you need to understand. Being such a regal, noble dog, he was quiet beyond peeing in the house and never had accidents. In fact, he'd rather make himself sick than do anything of that sort. While this had made him easy to housebreak, and it had also made him a challenge during the winter months, for it meant he needed to go out even in the worst of weather. During the middle of the storm, the dog begins to whine. Although my father was usually quiet, the gentleman and dotted on my mother, often more than she wanted, he would not walk the dog in the snow under any circumstances. It was cowardice, he believed, but he simply couldn't bring himself to be alone out there in the cold. Of course, he didn't want his wife out there alone either,

and had thus fenced in a large yard. So out goes the dog, who cannot be without a leash or a fence. My mother hangs by the door, something that drove my father nuts, as she wouldn't close it either and waits for him. A few moments pass, and then the dog begins to bark. For those who have been around Borseos, you should know this is a bit out of the ordinary, and they are usually very quiet, timid animals, and would rather run home when confronted by something they can't hunt that make a fuss. Concerned, my mother followed him outside. What happened next is how my father described what my mother saw,

so it's not even a direct retelling from him. The snow had piled high, and although two feet was what they had gotten over the course of the storm, they'd gotten more prior to that. Some of the snow had been shoveled against the fence to clear a walkway, and with the added few feet on top of that, it had made a ramp. Along the fence line, something big moved away. quickly enough that all my mother saw was a streak of white against the snow. It was this that her dog had been barking at from atop this ramp. And when it fled, the dog went after it. Of course, my father

claimed this thing she saw was the white man, although my mother simply thought it was a cat or some other animal that had been the wrong place at the wrong time. Regardless, the dog was gone. It runs my mother, screaming that her dog is gone and they have to go after it. It's chased something, and if they don't find it soon, he'll freeze to death. He refuses to go after it. He makes every excuse he can't. Honey, he'll be back. Sweetheart, it's not worth risking our lives.

Look, Pumpkin, we'll leave the door open so he can come back in. My mother's having none of it, though. If he doesn't go with her, she'll go without him, and then they have a talking to him when she gets back, if she gets back, since it's so dangerous, according to him. Guilting always worked on my father, so with a sigh he got dressed and headed out with her. her holding the dog's leash and a squeaky toy and him holding a loaded shotgun just in case.

So off they wander after the dog's rapidly fading footprints. My father's stomach doing cartwheels as he realizes there's another set of tracks. A set of vague indents that only look at footprints to those who know. He realizes he's going into the lion's den after this stupid dog and nothing less than picking up his wife and running back home is going to prevent it. So still he trudges on after her. feeling more and more like a scared child, especially after the trail takes them into the woods. My father did not like the north due to the weather and wasn't crazy about the woods despite

enjoying hunting. My father especially did not like Pennsylvanians woods. They're not like most woods, he would say. They're empty. They're quiet. As they got deeper and deeper in the woods, the trail begins to pick up. The footprints are less filled in, the gate dropping from a run to a walk, My mother's calling for the dog, squeaking the toy occasionally, and trying to convince my father the dog will be just around the bend. This continues for a while until they're deeper in the woods than they thought possible. It was just like being a little boy again, my father told me, unfamiliar woods going on seemingly forever. Eventually, he almost convinces her to turn around, but that's when they hear a low whine, like a dog that's been hurt. She spins around and catches just briefly a glimpse of snow white fur in her flashlight.

of my mother takes off to the dog, calling and squeaking her toy, with my father frozen spot behind her, not yet pursuing. That's because he's looking down on the tracks. There's my mother's, his wife footprints, and there's the prince of a dog. But there's no vague indents. The prince that had now until now been consistent are gone. He calls back to her. Nothing. He can hear her, but she's not going to listen to him. And that means he has to run after her. Every step of the way, she's just enough ahead of him that he can't see her, but not call her, and the path they're taking is taking them further and further from home. Back then, where they lived, the suburbs had only just hit the area. There was their subdivision in their backyard. Beyond that was

another backyard and then a street, and across from them was a construction site and fields, before you eventually hit hundreds of acres of practically untouched woods. If you went far enough, you would get to more fields and old farms, but there was nothing but relative wilderness for miles and no other big neighborhoods. It was a very real possibility you could get lost and not be found right away. It was a very good place to lure some poor, cursed fool away. What happened next would be best described how my mother told it to my father. Every so often, she'd catch a glimpse of the dog, just the snow-white outline of him or the fluff of his tail. Whenever she'd give up hope, there'd be a dog. Eventually, though, one last time she lost sight of him.

It was then that she heard a snapping sound, followed by the yelping of a dog that sounded far too familiar. The sound was carried by the wind, she said, and sounded high and distant, which made it impossible to find where the animal went. Then there was nothing. The trail ended. There were no more prints. The dog didn't appear no matter how much she called for it. Eventually, my father caught up. He claimed the trail did continue.

She simply didn't understand what she was seeing. and hopefully never would, for in front of the dog's prints, where they ended, were those in dents again. After a few minutes of the two checking around, they found the dog's collar, snapped and hanging on a branch just high enough to seem off to my father. Of course, my mother believed the dog got caught, broke the collar, and simply never was seen again, but my father took it as a sign. The debt had been paid for another year. Without the adrenaline of the chase, my parents came to realize how tired they were and how far from home as well. By now my mother's sobbing. It's too late and dark to keep chasing the dog, and even she understands that,

and she's unlikely to get it back with how fast and far can travel, assuming it wasn't sprinted away by a demon, of course. My father's crying too because he knows they're probably lost and probably being watched. The next hour or two, they spent wandering back home, getting more lost at times before spotting familiar landmarks and eventually making it back. Those few hours, my father said, were some of the scariest of his life. He felt like an animal being stalked. like one wrong move would mean his contract had come up.

For while he had paid it off for now, he didn't entirely trust the white man's word. He had little doubt that if they got lost too, well, that's just too bad, isn't it? Still though, they made it home, my mother now emotionally and physically exhausted, begged him to do her one last favor. While she went in, undressed and got ready for the long night, could he please go around back and make sure the dog hadn't somehow beat them home,

that he wasn't whining along the back gate, asking to be let in? Reluctantly, he agreed. Along the back of the fence, he saw him. A gigantic white form blocking out the natural light of the moon. He was waiting, waiting to make another contract, his white teeth sparkling in that almost smile. Without words, they spoke once more.

Would you like to be free of your debt? Well, of course, was my father's answer, even as he got a bad feeling about what the white man may propose. The white man spoke of a rare opportunity that next year, he assured, could be the last year. No more debt. All he had to do was agree to one last deal. Or the white man would get to take twice in one year. Something, though, about how he spoke frightened to my father.

And after the last deal they had made, he wasn't sure he wanted to agree. He thought about it for a moment and refused. It was then he saw the white man frown as he described it. It was not like. like how a human would, but rather it was as if the slit mouth inversed on itself, sucking itself in some sort of alien expression of displeasure. Well, that's unfortunate, the white man remarked, before simply slipping back into the snow.

My father headed back in, the dog never showed back up. At spring, her parents bought her another dog, another, borsoy, although this one was black instead of white. This dog I grew up with. He unfortunately was not as regal or noble as the dog before him and had no issue pissing inside if the weather got too bad. Now, before I get to the next part, which I guess is the second to last big part, if I'm remembering everything clearly, I'm going to get myself some food as I've not eaten all day,

so I'm going to take this chance to make something clear. My father spoke with this thing multiple times, but it never used its voice. It had a voice, he told me. But it wasn't one you heard and you didn't speak to it with your voice. It all happened without actual audible words and things were more gestures than actual sentences. You'll understand one another. Things were translated into rough sentences, but exact wording wasn't there. With that of mind, the white man didn't necessarily say exactly, well, that's unfortunate. My father often could translate these sentences better into things that sounded less corny, but

I've honestly not cared much to make it sound great. Since the white man was telepathic or something of that sort, and probably wasn't speaking the King's English anyway. Like I said, the following year I was born, my parents did not use birth control. Of this, I am unfortunately certain for my mother was adamant that we shouldn't make the same mistake when it came time to teach us the birds and the bees. Of course, in their defense, they thought they couldn't have children. Eventually, though a little miracle, me happened. This was something they didn't discover until fairly late in the pregnancy when all the

symptoms simply couldn't be ignored. Upon finally heading to a doctor, they found not only was my mother pregnant, but she was pregnant with twins. Twins were common in my mother's family. With pretty much every generation having at least one batch of them, my mother herself was a twin. This wasn't a major shocker. My parents began planning accordingly. Everyone was excited most of all my father, who loved children and had wanted a big family.

What did not excite him was my mother's due date, in the middle of February. Throughout the year, perhaps cruelly, my mother, and more so uncle, teased him. His sons were going to be born in the middle of winter. Wouldn't his little boogeyman be pleased? These jokes, of course, didn't amuse my father in the least. As the due date approached, my father grew more and more nervous, although nothing thus far had indicated any issues with the pregnancy. Still, he was just certain something would happen.

Partway through the January, sure enough, it did. Another storm hit, which caused a few power outages in the middle of the middle of the of the night, with the power flicking on and off and the storm raging, my mother went into labor. Her due date was a month away, but she was quite certain this wasn't false labor and demanded, despite the conditions, to be taken to the hospital. My father, despite his fear of this winter, snow, driving, and driving in the winter, while it snowed, agreed without hesitation. He was prepared for something bad to happen after all, and said he stilled himself and headed out to warm up the car. Unfortunately, if the white man truly existed, he had also

have steeled himself and was quite ready for a battle. As my father left the house, he noticed two things. The first scared him the most. Of course, it was those now very familiar incidents in the snow, the almost footprints of the white man. Then there was the weather, which would have been the most responsible thing to be worried about. The cloud cover was thick, thick enough to cover the moon and prevent any natural lighting.

It was bitterly cold, with a strong wind and a heavy snowfall. The drive would be unpleasant. The more sensible person would have called. an ambulance, especially if they didn't like driving in the winter. But my father felt that, for some reason, it'd be safer driving her there himself. That if he was in control, the white man would be less likely to pull something. And so once the car was warm, he escorted my mother to it and began the drive to the hospital. Remember, of course, that this was over 20 years ago. These were new suburbs outside the city. The hospital was going the speed limit, a little over 20

minutes away. In this weather, it'd be longer. Eventually, a hospital was built closer to her home, but I was born in the recent dark ages. The journey started with a few hitches. The car did not want to leave the driveway. The windshield wipers did not want to work in the slush of the snow. The heat refused to go very high. Before even leaving the neighborhood, the small hatchback that became part of my father's persona over the year slid twice on the poorly maintained roads of our suburbs. But once they got out on to open, main roads, which were better salt in is great, everything seemed to be turning up in their favor. Traffic was non-existent. The winds died down slightly, slips were avoided. My father relaxed as much as someone in a snowstorm with a woman in labor can,

and that, he said, was the biggest mistake. Ahead of them, it appeared some snow had blown into the road, forming a short blockade. Confident, my father drove over it and promptly became stuck in the surprisingly solid slush. No amount of backing up or revving forward freed them, and with a nervous my father had to exit the car and try and push them over or dig them out. It was then that he realized he had not hit the snow. He had then hit the white man's hulking form. He lit out a slight screech and when his wife asked why, he had no words for it. He couldn't in the few moments he had explained a lifetime of demonic harassment.

And even if he could, he didn't think this was the time or the place. It's nothing. I was startled by something, was his answer. while closing the door and staring down the beast, who simply stared back with beady eyes. Again, there was no real confrontation in. It was like having a conversation with a car dealer once more as the white man tried to make his deal. This thing was here to collect interest, but wanted to offer last year's chance once more. Twice in one year, no more.

Again, remember, my father was not a bright man, and it took him a moment to understand what the white man meant. Once the image clicked into his mind, the white man echoed it. as if to confirm. Two boys for two boys. If he offered his own unborn sons, the white man would finally consider his and Philly's debt paid. It was that simple, but my father continued to refuse. He would not offer his sons up as a substitute, and that was final. There was one last push for it before the white man gave up. There was no confrontation, although my father always used to add, I would have fought him if I had to. Fortunately, though, he didn't have to. The white man simply slid away from under the car and into the white of the snow without anyone ever noticing. You must be

asking, of course, what my mother thought happened. My mother simply thought that snow had gotten the car stuck and that my father got the car free somehow. If there was a giant monster, she never saw it. He got back in the car, drove her to the hospital, and she had two healthy boys, of which I was the slightly older, despite us being three to four weeks early. We were a bit small, but not sickly. I'm sure you thought this would have been a more dramatic conclusion, but it didn't. There wasn't one, but if you would have been paying attention, you probably noticed something as well. I've mentioned a younger sister, but never a brother. To be honest, if the thing did exist, my father wasn't crazy, I'd imagine the thing was just fucking with him at a certain point.

Before anyone asked, my slightly younger twin brother didn't somehow become my sister either. Everything went relatively well, although my brother and I remained in the hospital a few days longer than usual to monitor any health problems. The next month, things continue to go well. Although my father acted more nervous than usual during the winter months, if the white man had shown such interest in us, why had it suddenly disappeared? Why had it taken nothing else?

There hadn't even been any missing persons, which seemed to occasionally subside its hunger in the curse. It was the middle of February when things came to a heed. Ironically, perhaps, it was on the day my brother and I were expected, to be born on initially. My brother and I shared a room, although we had different cribs. My mother was not a champion caregiver, and my father more frankly cared for us. So when I began crying loudly in the middle of the night, it was him who came to see what I wanted. And it was him who discovered the window beside my brother's crib open. No, he wasn't missing. He wasn't gone like the pigs of

the dog or my uncle who drove off the road into a lake. They didn't put out missing posters like they did for the poor man who tried to help a 16-year-old version of my father after he drove off the road. Instead, he was simply dead. A cold body and a cold crib in a room much too cold for babies. The official cause of death was S-I-D-S, although I'm sure it'd have been something else had my parents not close the window before the paramedics arrived. My father's logic with the white man was often faulty. Why did the white man sometimes leave bodies, my brothers, grandfathers, and other times not? Not to mention there's the logic holes, some of you had pointed out. Why didn't he just go back on his deal?

Why didn't he take two boys and everyone else? Who knows really? My father never had an answer for it either, but it was clear to him that since no one else died, it was that year's interest. Now, I want to say one more thing. Before I move on to the next part of year, my mother was not a good mother, at least not until I got somewhat older. She loved me, I'm sure. And she was definitely my favorite parent. We simply had closer interests and better conversations, but she was not a good mother when I was an infant.

She hid babies. She wasn't crazy about children, and she would have not had kids if it had been her choice alone. She suffered badly from postpartum depression, which didn't clear up entirely until my sister was about three. With that in mind, I want to note that she was the last one to care for my brother and I before going to sleep. Of course, that sounds like I straight up blame my mother for that one. I don't entirely. I think it could have been some accident on my father's part or some half-hearted kidnapping attempt or who knows what. I just always thought it was a possibility, and I believe my father knew that as well. My uncle never knew of that window. My grandparents never knew, only myself,

my mother, my sister, and my father ever knew the window was open, and only because my idiot father left it in the story when he told us. Years later, I asked my mother about it. She confirmed it. She confirmed they closed it before her help arrived to make things look less irresponsible. She asked me to never tell anyone. Despite that major detail being left out of the official kind of things, other people had their suspicions too. It's important to tell you that because the white man was never my excuse for any of these things like it was my father's. It was just a spooky story he'd tell that I thought other people would enjoy. My grandparents never believed the S-I-D story entirely. My father never went to bed without making sure all the windows were locked and we were

safe in our beds, not until my sister and I were well past the age that an open window would kill us. After that it was the death of my grandmother, father's side that my father blamed on the white man. My grandmother, never quite capable of taking care of herself, had wandered off into the woods near her trailer. Yep, that's where she ended up. It wasn't found for three days. The official story was that her wood burning stove, yep, in a trailer, had run out of wood and she'd gone in to find more and gotten lost. To be honest, considering how my father got as he grew older and suffered a few last shocks, she may have simply been senile or incapable of handling a life without her husband or nearly 30 years. The only time I met my grandmother was at her funeral when I was barely a year old. There's a picture of us together, taken by my uncle Philly, with me sitting in the coffin next to her.

I came from real class on that side, you know. The year following, it was my grandmother's. Other one, the one who was still alive. Scottish Terrier who wandered out one cold evening and never came back. A missing hunter the next year. An aunt on my father's side. Again, never met the year after. The aunt's a bit of a fun story, I guess.

She just disappeared. And to this day, they never have found a body or even evidence of foul play. The popular theory, i.e. not my father's, is that she got sick of her husband and kids and drove off and didn't come back. Then my sister was born. Another accident. Even after my birth, my parents were told my mother was practically sterile and that it had been a fluke.

No need to worry. Well, one accidental pregnancy is a fluke and another is proof your uterus works fine. After she was born, my mother opted to have her tubes tied and end the cycle once and for all. She just really wasn't crazy about kids after all. I'm actually not ever sure she told my father that she did that. Not that it matters anyway. My sister was born in the summer, and unlike with my brother and I, the white man made no effort

to make a deal for her soul. He never came for her either, perhaps because by time it became winter she was already an amazingly active baby and he didn't want to deal with her anymore than my mother did. The next few years list of collections, I don't remember clearly. I probably got a few of the ones prior out of order, to be honest. One year the black Borzoi ran off, another of my sister's pet cat. Overall, though, the next few years of our child were relatively drama and monster free, although my father swore up and down that it was a scheme, that it was all leading up to the big finale. There is no overly happy ending. Just to warn. When my sister was 10, I was almost 15. My mother began drinking heavily. My mother had always liked to

drink. Had always shown more interest in partying and spending money than working or spending time with her family. To be honest, I didn't see this as an entirely negative trait. I thought it was kind of cool having a mom who would give me a shot of vodka and talk to me about things only adults talked about, which is probably why I preferred my mother so much to my father. She and I were good friends and I loved her dearly, but we didn't have a great relationship as family members. Mom was who you went to if you needed permission to go out and party or wanted something to buy you something. Dad was one you went to if you actually needed something and had the time to listen to a boring story. This drinking escalated over the course of the summer and by winter

She was a full-blown alcoholic. I know none of this is really relevant to the story, or at least not spooky, but it's important to know because it's about the line between my father's imagination and probably delusion and reality. My parents' relationship was failing, at least on her end. Her mental stability was falling short, but for a lot of different relationships.

And no one saw it. I thought maybe they divorced or end up in therapy, although they didn't fight much, so I don't know why that was the conclusion I drew. and my father thought trying to get her to go to church more would help, but no one did much. And so it didn't surprise us when one morning she didn't come home. When she didn't show up from her drinking one cold January morning, the police were called and an investigation begun. It didn't take long for them to reach a probable conclusion.

Remember how many years ago an uncle had driven off a road and into a river. That road was between our house and my grandparents' house and had once been used frequently. Now it was more of a side road, used less frequently, especially in poor weather. An investigation showed someone had driven off the road once more, but with bad weather rolling in again, they'd be unable to pursue much of an investigation for a bit. Eventually, though, they found my mother's car at the bottom of the river, where her brothers had ended up close to 20 years before. Again, there was no body, just a car. But fish in the current can carry away a lot in just a few months. Case closed, investigation over, funeral with an empty casket.

Motives. Wasn't an accident. Intentional. No one knew. Everin had their theories. To be honest, I feel it was probably was an accident, and she was simply a bad, drunk driver. My father, of course, knew what had really happened and told my sister and I once. It was the interest for that year.

He'd seen the white man since then. It was enough, though. And the contract was almost up. we would not need to worry so much anymore. After that, my father spoke less to the white man, mentioning him only when prompted. In general, that was how he behaved most of the time, though. He spoke less, talking about when prompted.

He had spent close to 20 years taking care of my mother, even when she didn't need it. He had spent most of his life worrying about some boogeyman. Now his children were, almost adults. He was mostly alone, and he was less and less needed. without someone to take care of, he couldn't take care of himself either, much like how his mother had ended up. Until I left at 18, I drove in places and helped him with things he could no longer do. It wasn't that he was senile, exactly, for he wasn't old. It was just that he couldn't do it.

Something left him, and he needed help. Every year, Winter still scared him, and he still wouldn't go outside. But he was less nervous and almost bitter during the time. those months. His debt was paid, I think, he thought. When I left, my sister began caring for him. We weren't close. My sister and I or my father and I, as I've said, so I didn't check in much, and I didn't visit at all. My uncle, Philly, moved nearer to the area after his own lifetime of bad luck, which brought some pet back to my father, at least so I heard, and gave him a proper babysitter. This is, of course, all leads us back to the start. On Sunday, he died. I wish I could say it was something dramatic, like the house was torn up by a Yeti, and they never found his body,

but it wasn't. My father did not drive wellness now. My sister wasn't home to drive him. He went out to the store that night, slid off the road, going too fast, and wasn't found until morning. By which time he had died from his injuries and shock. We buried him fast, and I saw my sister for the first time in four years. My father looked much older than 54 in his coffin. I remember at how old my grandmother looked from picture.

when she was his age, how old she looked in her coffin that I once laid inside. My family doesn't age well, I guess. Is there some plot twist to this all? No. But there's one more piece of information, and I've been saving it for the dramatic end. Philly's saying things are looking in his windows, that he's hearing someone stop around his house a night and catching glimpses of movement from outside.

But when he goes out there, he can't even find any footprints. go to Texas, and for the love of God, never venture out in the snow. How long has Philly been saying things are looking in his windows? Maybe he's been denying it all these years. Apparently, since a few days before my father's death. Although I didn't ask for details, nor did I imply it was the white man, seen as Philly never appreciated the stories when my dad was telling them, I didn't want to upset him.

After the semester is up, I was considering moving someplace warmer anyway, so I might do it. not because of spoopy ghosts, but because I don't like shoveling my drive or falling on my ass because of ice. And wow, that's a quick ending to a long, long story. And in all honesty, that was really almost touching, because touching in a way to me, really dramatic, really just interesting, seemed very believable. Like I don't know whether. or not I should believe this if this is some sort of weird creepy pasta or this is honestly someone's experience and they told it and they told all their dad's stories and on a 4chan thread but this was a very interesting story to me um yeah I just sat down read this and it's just really

I got into it this was a very interesting story and I hope you guys found it interesting too um I'm trying to think of some other things to say about it I really wonder if the white man's real or is family suffered from mental illness, which definitely could have been a possibility. That if this story is 1,000 or 100% true, then mental illness is the only way to explain it, which they did say schizophrenia in the beginning, which never was, you know, diagnosed by anybody. But I think some sort of paranoia or something of the delusions in general could be an explanation to that.

Yeah. that's really, really interesting story and really did not end on a good note. Like he even said, it doesn't end on a good note. That was depressing as fuck. Wow. Yeah, that was a sad end to the story. His mom died. His dad died. Philly has something looking at his windows. That gave me goosebumps. Wow, that was a great story. And I know I'm yapping, but you guys told me to add my opinions at the end of the story. and I really like that story. This actually might be one of my favorite 4chan stories I've read because it just felt so, I don't know why.

Maybe it just felt honest. And it felt like just somebody was just telling it. It didn't seem like over the top dramatic, like a lot of these other stories we read on the channel, that people just add a lot of fluff to it to make it seem scarier. This seemed like it was straight to the point, straight information, and that made it so much more scary.

Like it wasn't like over the top. It's scary, like I said, but that seems very honest, and that makes it sad, and it makes it depressing it, in my opinion, but I enjoyed it. I really enjoyed that story, and I hope you did it as well. Comment down below what you thought about that one, a long story, over an hour, which is a huge story. And if you have any sort of recommendations for the comments, what type of stories you'd like to see in the future, editing tips, any other sort of things, but I really appreciate

you watching the channel. And this is the end of the video. I have no more stories for you. That was a long enough story already. And that one was, you know, I think just a solid one to have an entire video about. If you're still watching, still listening to my app session, I appreciate it. Comment, um, sad snook in the comment. I'm not sad, but that's just, you know, sad story, sad snuck.

I don't know. That's how I'll know you watch at the end of the video that I hope some of you guys do. You guys are the best, best fan. base on YouTube and I appreciate you guys watching the end this was snook and I'll catch you next time bye