Snook - Scary Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 24, 2025

These are some Scary Reddit Horror Stories! I loved all of these stories! I thought the first story was creepy and interesting, and the second was also amazing! I loved them all! Would you like to see me make similar videos in the future? Leave your thoughts down below in the comment section, and make sure to like and subscribe!Credits -somethinggoeshere2 - We found a cave on my grandmother's property, what's inside needs to stay hidden forever. https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nt42b0/we_found_a_cave_on_my_grandmothers_property_whats/somethinggoeshere2 - I took a $10,000 cash job in the desert. My crew never made it home. https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nna1ut/i_took_a_10000_cash_job_in_the_desert_my_crew/salty_Astronaut77 - I Babysat for $500 Cash. I’ll Never Do It Again. https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ny48ly/i_babysat_for_500_cash_ill_never_do_it_again/Make sure to subscribe to the Patreon for early access videos and many more perks! https://www.patreon.com/SnookYTI was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors.Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video and today we're getting into some scary Reddit horror stories. Today's stories are weird, scary, you know, horrific and just super, super interesting and spine tingling. In all honesty, I love the stories in today's video. I'm sure you guys will love them too. I appreciate you clicking on the video. It means the world. Please like the video and subscribe to the channel. It helps me keep making videos like this. and also consider joining the brand new Patreon for just $5 a month. You get weekly Q&A's with me. You get early access to every single video on the channel.

You get two extra horror stories a month and you get much, much more. So please consider joining for just $5 a month. Check the pin comment in the comments and the description. And consider joining the community over there. And please sit back, relax, and grab a snack, grab a drink, get hydrated, and get ready to listen to some scary Reddit horror stories. I took a $10,000 cash job in the desert. My crew never made it home.

By something goes here too. Look, I'm not going to give you any real names because we did some pretty sketchy shit out there in the desert, but you can call me Jay. And that's close enough for government work. You know what I mean? First thing you got to understand about me is I hate the heat. I mean, I hate it. Can't stand the sun beating down on you like some angry god trying to melt your brain into soup. And I'm never, ever going back to the southwest.

Not for all the green, chilly, and hatch, not for all the silver in the sand days. Not for nothing. See, I still get these nightmares, man. They come when the sun's getting low and turning all orange and nasty. When those clouds light up like some cotton candy at these twisted carnival. In these dreams, I'm back out there sweating bullets. And there's these things, dark things, deep underground in the desert. and the heats like molten lead pouring over everything.

I wake up drenched in sweat even when it's snowing outside my apartment here in Portland. But back in 2005, when I was 19 and thought I was hot shit, dude, I thought nothing bad could ever happen to me. Had that bravado that comes with being young and stupid, you know, thought I was invincible, thought the world owed me something just for showing up.

I was living in a town in New Mexico, not going to say which one, it's safer that way. and I was couch surfing, staying with some shady people, and doing whatever odd jobs I could find to keep myself in ramen and weed money. See, I've been on the outs with my parents since I came out to them the year before, told them straight up, look, I'm not super picky. Sometimes I like hot dudes, sometimes I like hot chicks. Real diplomatic like that. My folks, like completely flipped out, started going on about sin and hell and how I was going to burn for eternity. Hjol, you'd think I had told them I was going to become a serial killer or something. So they kicked me out when I turned 18.

And there I was, just being young and dumb in the high desert, hanging with my friends, getting blazed, thinking I had all the time in the world to get my life together. The heat was always there, pressing down on you like a weight, making everything shimmer and dance in the distance. But I figured I'd adapt, you know, figured I'd grow into it like a lizard or something. I was zonged most of the time anyway, so the heat just felt like part of the haze. Plus, I was 19 and a moment. I was 19 and mortal, right? What could go wrong? Holy shit, man. If I could go back in time and slap some sense into that kid, but everybody thinks that, you know? So I'm living this hand-to-mouth existence, right? Doing landscaping one day, helping someone move the next, whatever kept me in gas money and

munchies, but the work was drying up faster than spit on a sidewalk in July, and I was getting desperate. That's when my dealer, let's call him Miguel, told me he knew a guy, who knew a guy, who had some work. Under the table stuff. Good, good, money, no questions asked. It's like manual labor, Vato, Miguel said, passing me this gnarly joint, but it pays cash, and it pays good. I was blazed enough to think this sounded legit, so I said, sure, hook me up. The median was at this rundown diner on the outskirts of town, the kind of place where the coffee tastes like it was filtered through dirty gym socks and the pie looks older than the waitress. I headed in around two in the afternoon, sweating through my shirt after walking

across town. The guy was sitting in a back booth and dude, he was off. Like, seriously, off. Skin pale as a fish belly, which was trippy as hell because everyone out there gets burnt to leather just walking to their mailbox. His eyes were this pale blue, so light they were almost white, like looking into winter ice. But his hair was jet black, slicked back with so much pomade, it looked like an oil spill. You must be the young man Miguel recommend. You must be the young man Miguel recommended. He said in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a well. No accent I could place just flat. He tells me you work. Well, keep your mouth shut and don't make waves. Yeah, that's me, I said, sliding into the booth across from him. The vinyl was cracked

and sticky, and I could feel my thighs already starting to sweat against it. What kind of work are we talking about? He leaned forward, and I swear the temperature dropped 10 degrees. Does it work? Manual work. You and a small crew will drive out to a remote location, spend one-night camping, complete a job, and return. The pay is $10,000. My brain practically short-circuited.

Ten grand? For one night of work? I was making maybe $300 a week when I was lucky. This job had more red flags than a Chinese parade, but for $10,000 I was in. What's the catch? I asked because I wasn't totally stupid. No catch. Just hard work in difficult conditions. You'll need to be prepared for the heat. His pale eyes fixed on mine. And I felt like a bug under a microscope. Can you handle the heat?

The way he said it made my skin crawl, but for $10,000, man, that was like hitting the lottery. Yeah, I can handle anything, I lied. He slid a business card across the table. It was blank except for an address. Tomorrow morning, 7 a.m. sharp. Don't be late. And just like that, He stood up and walked out, leaving me sitting there wondering what the hell I'd just signed up for. The next morning, I walked up to his warehouse on the industrial side of town. The kind of place that looks abandoned but has too many fresh tire tracks in the dirt to actually be empty. The sun was already making the asphalt shimmer, and it wasn't even 8 o'clock yet. There was a white box truck parked outside and three other guys standing around looking about as confused as I felt.

Oral, this is some serious hardware, said this stocky his spanky. manic dude with tattoos covering his forearms, he stuck out his hand. Pedro. Jay, I said, shaking it. His grip was solid, callous from real work. The other Hispanic guy introduced himself as Xavier, a quiet type with intelligent eyes that seemed to take in everything. Then there was red, who had that weathered look of someone who'd spent his whole life under

the desert sun, native features, but I had no idea which tribe. And finally, Kate, who I could tell right away was the Jafa, the boss lady. short, built like a fire hydrant, with arms that looked like she could bench a press a Honda. All right, listen up, Kate said. Ticking off items on a clipboard. It's a three-hour drive to the site. We're packing food, water, and camping gear because we're staying overnight.

This is serious business, not some weekend camping trip. Anyone who can't handle that needs to walk away now. Nobody walked. Good. Now load up. She started directing us to load the equipment into the back. winch, sledge, coils of rope, thick as my wrist, pullies, camping gear, enough water jugs to fill a swimming pool.

We ran back in the back of the truck too, I asked? No, and the stretched limo were renting. Of course in the truck. This isn't a pleasure cruise, she replied curtly. The drive was brutal, man. Kate drove while the rest of us sweated in the back like sardines in a can. No AC, just the tiny hatch like a hairdresser set to hell. I kept chugging water and watching the landscape get more and more.

more alien as we headed further from civilization. Every so often Kate would pull up the CB radio and say something in code. Blue Jay to Eagle's Nest, checking in. Or, cactus flower is clear. Always got a response in the same cryptic bullshit. Made my paranoid stoner brain start spinning in all kinds of theories about what we were really doing out here. Where exactly are we going?

I asked Pedro, who was sitting across from me, mopping sweat off his forehead with a bandana. Way out near the lava, fields, he said. Near the mile pass. You know, there are dead volcanoes out there on the border. I didn't know that shit either until today. Xavier looked up from where he'd been staring at the equipment. Volcanic activity stopped maybe 3,000 years ago, left behind all these lava tubes and formations. Perfect place to hide things. Hide what, I asked. But he just shrugged. Red spoke for the first time. His voice quiet and gravely. People get killed on digs like this, but money talks

louder than common sense. That should have been my first real warning, but I was 19 and stupid and already counted my 10 grand in my head. The heat was making me dizzy, and I just wanted to get wherever we were going so I could get out of that rolling oven and into some shade. We pulled up to the side around 10 of the morning, and I have to say, it was like landing on Mars. Nothing but black volcanic rock stretching to the horizon, twisted into weird shapes by ancient fires. The heat hit us like a physical thing when we opened the truck doors, and I immediately started sweating harder than I ever had in my life. Set up camp in the shade of that outcropping, Kate ordered, pointing to some rocks that cast maybe six feet of shadow, and drink water

constantly. I don't want anybody dropping from heat stroke. I started joking around with Pedro and Xavier, trying to lighten the mood, but Kate shut that down fast. Stowe that shit and stay focus, she snapped. This is serious business. People have died out here for being careless. Something in her tone caught my attention. This wasn't just about moving some rocks or digging holes. And I was about to find out what. After we set up camp and I used that term loosely because it was basically just throwing our sleeping bags in the only patch of shade we could find. Kay gathered us around and started handing out gear, heavy work gloves, headlamps, and more water bottles.

We're going about 200 yards that way, she said, pointing towards what looked like absolutely nothing, just more twisted black rock under the merciless sun. There was a hidden canyon in the lava fields. He'd walk right past it and never see it if you didn't know it was there. She was right. We'd trudged through the heat for a few minutes, sweat pouring off us like we were melting, and I was starting to think she was leaning us to our deaths.

When suddenly, the ground just opened up. One second, we're walking on solid volcanic rock. The next, there's this crack in the earth, maybe six feet wide, with boulders and overhangs, creating natural cover. Whoa, Pedro muttered, peering down into the darkness. How the hell did anyone find this place? Kate went down first, then called up for us to follow. The canyon was maybe 30 feet deep. In the second I hit bottom, the temperature dropped at least 15 degrees. It was still hot as blazes, but compared to the surface, it felt like walking into air conditioning. This way, Kate

said, leading us toward what looked like a crack in the canyon wall. As we got closer, I realized it was actually the mouth of a cave, a lava tube, probably formed when molten rock flowed through here thousands of years ago. Xavier was running his hands along the entrance. This is natural, he said quietly. Someone carved this wider. Look at the tool marks. He was right. The edges of the opening had been chiseled and smoothed, widened from whatever natural formation had been here originally. Spanish colonists, Kate said, switching on her headlamp. We're here to dig up some artifacts they left behind. And that's when it hit me, what we were really doing out here. Oh, shit, I said. The reality's sinking in through my heat-addled brain. We're grave robbers,

aren't we? Kate shrugged. Call it archaeological recovery, but yeah, basically. You got a problem with that? I thought about the 10 grand waiting for me and shook my head. Nah, man, dead Spanish students don't need their stuff anymore, right? I walked a couple of sides where people got hurt doing exactly this kind of off-book digging, Red said, looking at me with a serious gaze. We need to be careful. We headed into the lava tube, our headlamps cutting through absolute darkness. The cave opened up into a section that was wider than I expected, maybe 40 feet across with a sandy floor, and a massive stone ceiling that disappeared into black above our lights. The walls were rough volcanic rock, but they'd been carved out in places, smoothed and shaped by human hands. Start taking here, Kate said.

pointing to a spot in the center of the cave floor, where the sand looked different, darker, more compacted. We dug for two hours in that swelterling underground oven, taking turns with the shovels and chugging water like our lives depended on it, which looking back they probably did. Pedro was the first to hit something solid. Got something, he called out, scraping sand away with his hands, big something. It was a sarcophagus, stone about six feet long, two feet wide, a foot or so deep, deep. But it wasn't like any Spanish artifact I'd ever seen in museums or textbooks. This thing was

weird. The stone was some kind of dark volcanic rock, almost black, covered in carvings that hurt to look at. Not Spanish writings or crosses or anything Christian. These were symbols that seemed to twist and writhe in the light of our headlamps, geometric patterns that made your eyes water if you stared too long. That don't look Spanish to me, Xavier said. echoing my thoughts. Spanish colonists found a lot of indigenous artifacts, Kate said. But even she sounded uncertain. Probably Anazi or Pueblo, pre-Columbian.

Red was standing at the edge of our excavation, staring down at the sarcophagus with a curious expression. That's not a Nazi, he said quietly. That's not Pueblo. That's not anything from any tribe I know. The thing felt wrong in every possible way, Despite being buried in sand in a cave where the temperature had to be pushing 90 degrees, the stone was cold to the touch, as if it had been sitting in a freezer and heavy.

We barely uncovered half of it, and already I could tell this thing weighed a ton. How are we supposed to move this? I asked, wiping sweat out of my eyes. It's got away like 2,000 pounds. That's what the winches for, Kate said. We rigged pulleys to the ceiling, use the truck as an anchor point outside. It's going to take all five of us in most of the afternoon, but we can do it. Pedro was running his hands over the carved symbols, frowning. These markings, they're not worn down like you'd expect from something that old.

It's like they were carved yesterday. Maybe because it's so dry, Xavier said, but he didn't sound convinced. I was about to say something else when Red spoke up again. His voice barely above a whisper. We shouldn't be doing this. This is federal jurisdiction, BLM, FBI to level shit. My brother-in-law got two years for it. Too late for second thoughts, Kate said firmly.

We've got a job to do. But as we rigged the pulleys and prepared for the long haul of dragging the cursed thing out of its resting place, I couldn't shake the feeling that red was right. The sarcophagus seemed to radiate a strange sense of dread, like it was sucking the life out of the air around it. In the symbols, God, those symbols, even now, 20 years later, I can still see them when I close my eyes. They seemed to move in my peripheral vision, shifting and changing when I wasn't looking directly

at them. We should have listened to Red. We should have filled that hole back in and walked away. But we didn't. And what happened next, well, that's when things really went to hell. It took us until sunset to get that cursed thing out of the cave and drag it to our campsite. Even with the truck and the winch, even with the pulleys and the sledge, even with all five of us working in shifts. It was absolutely brutal work.

The sarcophagus fought us every inch of the way, like it wanted to stay buried. The ropes kept slipping, the police jammed, and twice we had to re-rig the whole system when anchor points failed. By the time we had it pulled to the camp and covered with a heavy canvas tarp, we were all dead and on our feet. The sun was setting behind the volcanic peaks, painting the sky the color of dried blood. And the temperature was finally starting to drop from surface of mercury. to just inside an oven. Tomorrow we drag this thing up the ramps into the truck and get the hell out of here,

Kate said, cracking open a warm beer from the cooler. Even she looked wiped out. Her usual fire hydrant intensity dimmed by exhaustion and heat. Pedro was already working on getting a fire started, stacking mesquite branches and a ring of volcanic rocks. Man, I can't wait to get back to civilization, he said. Striking a match. First thing I'm going to do is find the biggest, coldest,

swimming, pool, and just living it for a week. What are you going to do with your cut, Jay? Xavier asked. Setting down his sleeping bag and pulling off his work boots. His feet were pale and wrinkled with sweat. I was chugging my dozenth bottle of water of the day, trying to replace what felt like half my body weight and lost fluids. Dude, I'm going to get an apartment with an air conditioner the size of a Buick and never

leave. Maybe get a little of refrigerator just for beer. Live like a king in climate-controlled comfort. 10 grand goes fast, Red said quietly. He'd been even more withdrawn since we'd uncovered the sarcophagus, sitting apart from the group and staring at that tarp-covered shape like it might sprout legs and walk away. Hope it's worth pissing off the feds.

Come on, Hermano, Pedro said. Getting the fire going properly? The flames cast dancing shadows across the black volcanic rock. This is easy money. Kate was digging through the food supplies, pulling out cans of beans and packages for hot dogs. Red, what are you going to use the money for? I'm behind on my truck payments and need it to keep working, he said.

Plus my kids meds. But he didn't continue. Just sat there watching the fire. You know what I'm going to do, Xavier said, accepting a beer from Kate. I'm going to take my girl Maria to Vegas. Get a nice hotel room with a view. Eat at those fancy buffets and maybe try my luck at the tables. She's been wanting to go forever.

Vegas, in summer? Pedro laughed, stabbing hot dogs with a stick to roast them over the fire. That's like trading one oven for another, Votto. Yeah, but Vegas has casinos with AC. You could hang meat in, in pools and room service. Xavier grinned. Besides, Maria looks good in a bikini. Even Kate cracked a smile at that.

The mood was lighter as the sun went down, and the oppressive heat finally started to ease up. The beans were bubbling in a pot over the fire, mixing with the smell of roasting hot dogs and mesquite smoke. After the brutal day we'd had, it felt almost normal, like we were just a bunch of friends camping in the desert instead of grave robbers who just dug up something that made my skin crawl. What about you, Haifa? I asked Kate. What's the boss lady going to do with her cut? She was quiet for a moment, stirring the beans with a long, handled spoon.

Pay off some debts, maybe take a real vacation somewhere, or take a little vacation somewhere, or trees and actual grass. Haven't seen grass in so long I'm starting to forget what it looks like. Where'd you grow up? Pedra asked, handing around the roasted hot dogs. Michigan. Near the lakes, used to swim in water so clear and cold to shock your system. She got a distant look in her eyes. Sometimes I dream about diving into that water, feeling it closed over my head, washing all this desert dust away. So why'd you come out here to Hell's front porch, I asked. buying into my hot dog. Even camp food tasted good when you were this tired and hungry.

Same reason we all did, probably. Running from something? Looking for something else. Desert's a good place to disappear if you need to, she said. Red joined the conversation, accepting a plate of beans and hot dogs. I need this money. Things are tight. I have a family.

They're all waiting. Waiting for what, Xavier asked? Waiting for me to get my shit together. He chuckled. The first bit of warmth I'd heard in his voice. The food was warm. The fire was crackling, and the temperature had dropped something almost comfortable. The stars were coming out in the clear desert sky.

More stars than you've ever seen in a town. Stretching from horizon to horizon. You know what, Kate said, leaning back against her pack and looking more relaxed than I'd seen her all day. Maybe Red's right to be cautious, but we did good work today. That thing's been sitting down there for who knows how long, and we got it out clean, no cave-ins, no injuries, no major problems. Tomorrow we loaded up and drive back to civilization, and we all walk away, ten grand richer.

I'll drink to that, Pedro said, raising his beer. We all clinked bottles and cans, even red, though we still kept glancing at that tarp. The fire popped and crackled, sending sparks up into the desert night, and for a while there it felt like maybe everything was going to be okay. Maybe we'd actually pulled this off. Maybe red was just being paranoid. Maybe those symbols on that sarcophagus were just some old indigenous art that meant nothing more than,

here lies so-and-so. May he rest in peace. Man, we were so wrong. It wasn't even funny. I woke up around three in the morning, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. Not a normal desert smell like smoke or dust or mesquite. This was different. Unnatural.

like chemicals mixed with vomit. The second thing I noticed was light. There was this glow coming from under the tarp covering the sarcophagus, not bright, just a dim pulse like a dying flashlight, but the color, man, I can't even describe it properly. It wasn't red or blue or green or any color that has a name. It was the color of fever dreams and bad acid trips. The color of things that couldn't,

shouldn't exist. I sat up in my sleeping bag, rubbing my eyes, thinking maybe I was still dreaming. But it was real. The smell sharp enough to make me wince. The fire had died down to glowing embers, and everyone else was still asleep around the camp. Everyone except Pedro. Pedro, I whispered. His sleeping bag was empty.

That's when I heard it. A grinding sound. Like stone scraping against stone, coming from under the tarp, slow, deliberate. like something heavy being moved by something that didn't care about making noise. The glow under the tarp-pulled spriter, and the grinding got louder. I should have woken the others, should have grabbed Kate and shaken her awake, should have started yelling. Instead, I just sat there like an idiot, watching that impossible light seeped through the canvas. Then the grinding stopped.

The quiet that followed was worse than the noise. It was the kind of silence that presses against your eardrums. Thick and heavy and full of waiting. Something moved in the darkness beyond our camp. Something big. Pedro I called out? Louder this time. My voice cracked like I was 12 years old again.

A scream answered me from somewhere out in the lava fields. High, terrified, and human. It started as Pedro's voice. I'd known that voice anywhere after spending all day working next to the guy. But it changed as it went on, got higher. more animalistic, like he was being torn apart while he made that sound. Then it cut off. The silence came back, and that awful smell and that pulsing light under the tarp that hurt to look at.

What the hell? Kate was sitting up now, reaching for the flashlight beside her sleeping bag. Don't, I whispered. But she was already switching it on, sweeping the beam across our campsite. The tarp had shifted. The sarcophagus was partially uncovered. And even in the dim light, I could see that the lid was open. Not just cracked open, wide open, like the jaws of some stone predator.

These symbols carved into the sides were glowing with the nameless color, pulsing in rhythm like a heartbeat. Where's Pedro? Xavier was awakened out too, his voice tight with fear. Another scream echoed from the darkness. Further away this time. Definitely human at first, then dissolving into something else. Something wet and broken. Red was on his feet, grabbing his boots.

We need to go right now. Go where, Kate demanded. But she was already moving, stuffing her sleeping bag into her pack. What the hell is happening? A shadow moved at the edge of her foul light, not the shadow of a person, too tall, too wide, moving in ways that were hard to follow. The truck, Red said urgently.

Get to the truck. But I couldn't move. I was staring at that open sarcophagus, at those glowing symbols, at the absolute darkness inside where something had been lined for God knows how long. The smell was getting worse, seeping into my pores, making my eyes burn and I realized I was shaken uncontrollably. That's when I heard Xavier scream.

He was trying to run toward the truck when something massive erupted from the shadows. One second he was there, the next he was airborne, thrashing and yelling at something huge dragged him into the dark. His screams echoed in the night. raw and getting fainter and more desperate until they turned into that same wet, animalistic bleeding I had heard from Pedro. Run, Kate yelled. Everyone run. Red was already moving, sprinting toward the truck.

I tried to follow, but my legs felt like jelly. And the oppressive darkness was making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Behind me, I could hear something large moving through the camp, displacing rocks getting closer. I stumbled after Red, tripping over volcanic debris. He had maybe a 20-foot head start with it. when the shadow caught him. I saw it happen in my peripheral vision. This massive dark shape,

flowing over the ground like a liquid nightmare. Red didn't even have time to scream before it wrapped around him and yanked him sideways into the darkness. There was a wet, tearing sound, like shredding meat. Then nothing. That got me moving faster than it ever moved in my life.

I reached the truck just as Kate came running up from the other direction. Her face, a mask of terror in the starlight. She had the keys. Get it started, I guess. I asked, throwing myself into the passenger seat. Her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped the keys twice before getting them in the ignition. The engine turned over on the third try, headlights cutting through the darkness.

Where are they? she whispered. Where is everybody? I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because I could see shapes moving in our headlight beams, strange shapes that shouldn't exist. And I knew exactly where everybody was. Just go, I hissed. Kate put the truck in gear and started to drive,

but we only made it about 50 yards before something slammed into the driver's side with enough force to flip us over. Then the truck slid, metal screaming against volcanic rock, before coming to rest on its side. My head cracked against the passenger window, and for a few seconds, everything went sparkly and dark. When my vision cleared, Kate was hanging in her seatbelt, blood streaming from my gash on her forehead.

The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks, and something was moving outside. Jay, she whispered. Jay, help me get out of this belt. I tried to reach up, but my left arm wasn't working right. Probably broken. Through the cracked windshield, I could see massive shadows circling the truck, patient and deliberate.

That's when the driver's side window exploded inward. Something dark and impossibly strong reached in from the above through the broken glass and grabbed Kate by the shoulders. Her seatbell snapped like tissue paper, and she started screaming out. as whatever had begun dragging her through the window frame, folding her like a lawn chair. Jay, she screamed.

Her face appearing in the truck's lights for just a second. Blood covered her features like a crimson mask. Her eyes wide with absolute terror. Help. Then something jerked her back into the darkness. And the screaming started in an earnest. High and desperate at first. Then dissolving into those same inhumane sounds of abject terror and pain I had heard from the others.

These sounds have been torn apart by something that took its time. I lay there in the overturned truck, listening to Kate Die, too broken and terrified to move. The headlights were still on, pointed at crazy angles, illuminating patches of volcanic rock and shadow, and in those shadows something moved, something big, something hungry, something that have been waiting in the dark for thousands of years.

The screaming stopped. Everything went quiet except for the tick of cooling metal and my own panicked breathing. I waited there for what felt like hours. Sure that any second something was going to reach through the broken windows and drag me out to join the others. But nothing happened. The shadows moved and shifted, but they kept their distance from the truck. Maybe it had enough for one night. Or maybe it was just savoring the fear, letting me marinate in terror before the,

the final course. I don't know why it didn't take me. But as the hours passed and the sky started to light in, these shadows began to fade. By the time the sun came up, painting the desert in shades of gold and red that reminded me too much of that impossible light under the tarp. I was alone. Completely, utterly, alone. It took what felt like forever to crawl out of the truck. My left arm was definitely broken, and I was pretty sure I had a concussion, but I could walk, sort of. I grabbed a half-empty bottle of water and stood up. I must have been in shock when I started walking toward the road, leaving behind the overturned truck, the empty campsite, and that cursed sarcophagus with its lid hanging open like a stone mouth that had finally finished feeding.

I walked for two hours in the desert heat before a state trooper found me, half dead from dehydration and babbling about monsters in the dark. They took me to the hospital, and for the better part of a day, a pair of grim-faced detectives asked me the same questions over and over, making it clear they thought I was either high, crazy, or a murderer. I told them we'd had an accident, vehicle rollover. The others had wandered off into the dark, looking for help, and never came back. Search and rescue found the truck, but never found any bodies. They never found the box either, or at least they didn't say. Then, just as they were getting ready to haul me to a county jail cell, he showed up.

The pale man from the diner. He walked into my hospital room wearing a crisp black suit in defiance of the desert heat. He didn't say word to me. Instead, pulling the lead detective into the hallway. I saw him quietly show the detective some kind of identification in a leather wallet, the cop who had been ready to charge me with four homicides, just went pale himself and nodded. A minute later, the detective came back in,

told me I was free to go, and that my story of a tragic camping accident had been corroborated. He couldn't get out of the room fast enough. The pale man stepped in as the cops left, his icy blue eyes fixing on me. He tossed a roll of cash on the bed, $500 for your time, he said.

voice was like gravel scraped from the bottom of a well. The job wasn't completed. Completed, I croaked. Trying to sit up. They're dead. They're all dead. What the hell was in that box? He didn't blink. Risk was part of that deal.

You thought 10 grand was for a camping trip? My mouth was dry. Throat raw. What was it? Who are you? What is this? His expression darkened. Too many questions.

He took a step toward. the door. I've got a mess to clean up, he said. Quieter now, almost to himself. And he don't want any of it landing on you. I stared at him. I was broken, confused, terrified. He paused, hand on the knob, and for the briefest second, something like pity flickered across his face. Take the money, leave town, don't look back. Find somewhere to go, kid, don't think too much. Then he was gone. leaving nothing but the antiseptic stink of the hospital and the weight of everything he didn't say. I used the money to buy a Greyhound ticket to Portland, as far from the desert as I could afford to get. I never got my 10 grand, but I got something else.

The knowledge that there are things in the dark places of this world that make death look like a mercy. And sometimes, when the sun is setting low and orange, and those clouds are lit up like cotton candy, I still have the dreams. Dreams about symbols that glow with colors that don't exist, about blood-covered faces in the dark, and about the sounds people made when something ancient and hungry takes them. Survival's guilt is a bitch.

I never went back to New Mexico. Never will. It's a hard lesson to learn, but some jobs don't pay enough, no matter what the money looks like up front. In some things, should definitely stay buried. We found a cave on my grandmother's property. What's inside needs to stay hidden forever.

By something goes here too. I was 17 the summer we found the cave on my grandmother's property in eastern Kentucky. I have never told the story to anyone. Not my wife. Not a therapist. Nobody. Sealing the cave after Grandma Edith passed should have helped, but it did not. What Chester and I saw down there,

has never let go of me. I was what you'd call the nerdy kid back then. Thick glasses, skinny as a rail, the type who spent lunch periods in the library. Every summer my parents shipped me off to Grandma Edith's farmhouse in the foothills of the Appalachians, figuring the mountain air would be good for me. The house was everything a city could like me thought was cool about the country. High ceilings, creaky wooden floors, wrap-round porches, and dense forest in every direction. The nearest neighbor was Chester's family, and their place was nearly a mile down the road.

Past that, nothing but trees and hollers until you reached the county highway. Chester was a year younger than me, and he was everything I wasn't. He could fix engines, hunt, fish, and navigate the woods like he'd been born into it. Where I was pale and awkward, Chester was sun darkened and confident. Where I worried about everything, Chester just did things. We were the only kids for miles, and boredom breaks down barriers. He taught me to shoot his BB gun and which berries were safe to eat. I helped him with his summer reading and showed him how to use his family's ancient computer.

John, you worry too much. He'd say when I hesitated at Creek Crossings or complain about spiderwebs. It's just the woods. Ain't nothing out here to hurt you. I wanted to believe him. Chester made the forest feel like his backyard, and his confidence was infectious. Around him, I felt braver than I actually was. That summer, we were both restless in the way teenagers get when the days are long and the possibilities seem endless.

We'd already built a rope swing over the creek, explored every deer trail, even tried to build a tree house that collapsed before we got the roof on. We needed something new, something bigger. We just had no idea what we were about to find. We made it into the third week of July, during a brutal heat wave that made the air shimmer and even drove the birds into shade. Chester and I were wandering the property, desperate for something to break the monotony. Man, there's got to be something we ain't explored yet,

Chester said, wiping sweat from his forehead. We were on the ridge at the back of Grandma's land, where the trees were thick and the underbrush hadn't been touched in decades. Maybe the creek again, I suggested, though we'd been there twice already that week. Nah, that's boring. We need something new. Chester stopped and pointed. What's that?

I squinted. Through the foliage, I saw a darker shadow. Something that didn't fit the natural pattern of trunks and branches. I squinted where he was pointing. Through the dense foliage, I could make out what looked like a darker shadow among the trees. Something that didn't quite fit the natural pattern of trunks and branches. We shoved through brush. scratched by thorns and wrapped in spider webs.

Chester led the way, while I followed and complained about the bugs. Quit whining, he called. You want to find something cool or not? In the hillside, we found a depression about 15 feet across, and at its center, the mouth of a cave, half covered by a rusted iron gate. Time and weather had rusted most of it away, leaving gaps just big enough for nosy teenagers to squeeze through.

Holy crap, Chester breathed. The first time I'd ever heard him sound impressed. John, look at this. I crept closer. The opening vanished into blackness, a cool breeze drifting out with the smell of damp earth and something I could emplace. Think it's an old mine? I asked.

Chester shook his head. Nah, wrong kind of rock. Limestone country. It's a cave, a real cave. He was already kneeling at the gap. peering into the dark. We should tell my grandmother, I said. She just tell us to stay away, he grinned.

The kind of grin that meant trouble. Come on, just a quick look. We don't have lights. My phone does. I wanted to argue, but Chester was already squeezing through the gap. His movement echoed strangely inside. Chester, wait up, I called. Being alone outside seemed worse than following.

Just for a minute. His voice came back, muffled and strange, just to see what's here. I slipped through after him, scraping my shoulder on the rusted metal. The passage opened immediately into a chamber 10 feet high and twice as wide. Chester's phone light swept over smooth limestone carved by water through the ages. This is so cool, Chester whispered, and his voice echoed back at us from deeper in the cave. The floor was mostly level, covered with a layer of dirt and small rocks that crunched under our feet. Chester played his light ahead, revealing that the cave can

continued back into the hillside much farther than either of us had expected. Okay, we looked, I said. Now let's go back and get real flashlights if we want to explore. But Chester was already moving deeper. His phone light bobbing as he walked. Chester, just a little further, he called back. I want to see how far it goes. I followed.

The alternative was standing alone in the cave mouth, and that wasn't happening. We made it 50 feet before Chester's phone died. The darkness swallowed us whole. the kind you never get in a city. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. Chester? My voice sounded small. Right here, don't panic. His hand grabbed my arm. Stay close. We'll follow the wall back. We shuffled for five minutes along the wall, trying not to trip, when daylight finally appeared. We were both shaking, though neither admitted it. That was awesome, Chester said, though I heard the relief in his voice,

it goes back really far, I said. Yeah, we need real lights and rope. Explore it properly. I nodded, though something about the cave felt off. Maybe it was the darkness or the way our voices echoed. Tomorrow, Chester said, we'll come back with supplies. As we walked back through the woods towards the house, I kept looking over my shoulder at the cave mouth behind us.

Even with the afternoon sun filtering through the trees, that dark opening seemed to pull at my attention. I should have listened to that feeling. Should have told Grandma Edith. Or just found something else to occupy our time with that summer. But I was 17, and Chester made everything seem like an adventure. Even the things that should have scared us away. We came back the next morning, loaded like explorers.

Chester had his dad's heavy flashlight, a coil of rope, and glowsticks from his birthday. I brought a headlamp, extra batteries, chalk for marking our path and a notebook to map it. You sure like to be prepared, Chester said, at the cave entrance. Better than getting lost. He was already squeezing through the gap. We won't get lost, we got lights this time. With real lights, the cave felt different.

What had seemed mysterious in the dim glow of Chester's phone now looked like a normal lifestone cavern. Water had carved smooth channels into the walls, and the floor sloped gently down as we moved deeper. This is way bigger than I thought, Chester said, sweeping his light around. Several passages branched off, each fading into darkness. We spent an hour exploring the obvious roots, marking chalk arrows and dropping glow sticks.

Chester sketched a rough map while I called out measurements. Left passage goes about 60 feet in dead ends, I said. Right passage curves back and connects with the center, like a loop. The center passage drew us in and ran straight back, sloping steadily down, and our lights couldn't find the end. That's where we need to go, Chester's. said. His voice excited. Two hours in, he made the observation that should have sent us back. You notice anything weird about this place? He asked, studying the walls. What do you mean? No bats,

no bugs. Nothing. His light swept the ceiling in walls. Every cave should have bats at least. Spiders, crickets, something. But look, nothing. I stopped and looked. He was right. The place was sterile. No cobwebs, no droppings, no life. Even the puddles were clear and still, with none of the algae you'd expect. Maybe it's too far from the entrance, I said. Chester shook his head. Nah, caves are ecosystems. There should be something living here. We kept going. We were too caught up in the adventure to let a little oddity stop us. The cave was giving up its secrets, and we felt invincible. The center passage dropped a hundred feet over 300 yards. Our chalk marks and glow sticks glowed faintly behind us. Then Chester spotted the elevated passage. John, look up there. I followed his flashlight beam to where the wall rose to our right.

About 15 feet up was another opening. Unlike the others, it was perfectly round. Four feet across, with a steady current of airflow flowing out. Feel that breeze, Chester said. moving closer to the wall. I felt it. Cool, mossy, damp, but with something else underneath.

Something I couldn't place. We can't reach it, I said. Not today, but with a ladder or a rope. He was already planning our next trip. I stared at the dark hole. Uneasy. The air was too cold, carrying scents that didn't belong in limestone.

I think we should head back, I said. We've been down here a while. while. Chester checked his phone. Yeah, past lunch. Your grandma's probably wondering. We followed our chalk arrows and glow sticks back to the surface, faster this time. Sunlight hit like a flood, and I had to squint against it. Tomorrow, we bring a ladder, Chester said. Maybe we should tell someone where we're going, I suggested, in case something happens. He gave me that look again, the one that said I worried too much. Nothing's going to. to happen. It's just a cave. But as we walked back through the woods, I kept thinking about that

opening and the air flowing from it. The scent felt familiar, like something half remembered from a dream. That night, I dreamed of deep places and moving air and woke with a taste of moss in my mouth. Chester showed up the next morning with his dad's aluminum step ladder, strapped to the four-wheeler, grinning like he had solved everything. Borrowed it while dad was at work, he said. Wrestling it off, He won't miss it for a few hours. The ladder was heavier than it looked, and hauling it through the woods was an expedition in itself. We stopped every 50 yards to rest and untangle it from branches. By the time we reached the cave, we were both sweating.

This better be worth that I muttered, helping him force it through the great. Trust me, it will. Getting the ladder down the sloping passage was another challenge. It was awkward in the tight space, and my headlamp cast confused in shadows. But Chester was determined, and we finally got it against the wall. Hold it steady, he said, climbing. I braced it while his light swept the opening above. At the top, he went quiet.

What do you see I called? It goes back a long way, he said, muffled. He climbed down and we switched places. The ladder felt shaky under me, but I reached the opening. His flashlight was shown down the tunnel stretching back, and what struck me was the sound. Water. dripping, echoing as if from a much larger space.

You hear that I called? Yeah, sounds like water, a lot of it. I climbed down and we stared at each other in the glow of our lights. Underground river, I said? Or a lake, only one way to find out. The elevated passage was more open than I expected. We could walk upright. The wall smooth limestone worn by water.

The smell grew stronger as we moved, and the air felt thicker, carrying sunset reminded me of things long dead. After 200 feet, the passage opened. I have spent years trying to find words for what we saw, and I still cannot do it justice. The cavern was vast, the size of a cathedral, with walls fading into darkness, and the center was a lake.

The water was blackened still, like a mirror reflecting nothing. Our lights reached only a few inches, and when Chester tossed in a pebble, the ripples died too quickly, as if the water swallowed them. Jesus, Chester breathed. His voice echoing from the ceiling above. I swept my headlamp around the edges. The far shore was almost beyond reach, maybe 50 feet away.

How deep you think it is, Chester asked. I don't know. Deep. He was already digging in his pack. Let's find out. He cracked a glow stick, tied it to a rock with a rubber. band and tossed it in. The green light sank, and sank, and sank. It never reached the bottom. The glow vanished into distance under the surface was black again, showing no trace of what we had

dropped. That's not possible, Chester said. His confidence gone. I step back from the edge. The lake felt alien. The air too still, the silence too complete. Even our voices seem muffled. as if the water absorbed them. We should go back, I said. But Chester was staring at the far shore, his light barely catching shapes in the dark. There's something over there, he said, on the other side. I looked.

In the faint circle of light, I saw what might have been structures on the rock, regular shapes that did not look natural. Chester, let's go back and think about this. We need a boat, he said, ignoring me. In inflatable raft, we could. paddle over. The thought of being on that water clenched my stomach. That's crazy. We don't even know what deep it is. What if we fall in? We won't. I'm a good swimmer. In a lake that might not have a bottom? He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw he felt it too. The sense we had found

something that should not exist. But Chester never backed down from anything. Tomorrow, he said. Well, think tonight and come back with a plan. As we left through the the passage and down the ladder, I kept looking back. The darkness seemed deeper than it should, and I felt something in the water watching. That night, I could not shake the image of the glowstick sinking into endless depths. In my dreams, I sank with it into darkness so complete, I could not tell if my eyes were open or closed. Chester showed up the next afternoon with a small inflatable raft strapped to his four-wheeler, the kind meant for lazy rivers. He also had life jackets, waterproof flashlights, and a hand pump.

Where'd you get this? I asked. Though I already knew. Borrowed it from my cousin Jake. He won't miss it. I eyed the raft. It was six feet long. Built for calm water, not underground lakes. Chester, I don't think that's going to work.

It'll be fine. It's ready for two people. We're light. Despite my doubts, I helped him haul it into the cave. His enthusiasm was hard to resist. And I was curious about the far shore. But the image of that glowstick sinking into black water never left my mind. Launching took longer than we expected.

The rocky shore wasn't ideal, and we had to clear stones for a spot. The whole time I was aware of the water beside us, still as obsidian and reflecting our lights. You sure about this, I asked? It's just water. Worst case, we get wet. But it wasn't water. and we both knew it. The lake was unnaturally still.

No lapping at the shore, no movement at all. Even when disturbed, the ripples died too fast, as if the water was heavier than it looked. Chester climbed in first with a flashlight. The raft barely dented the surface, as if it floated on something solid. Come on, he said, steadying it. I climbed in reluctantly, paddle in hand.

The moment we pushed off, I felt the lake take hold of us. It wasn't like floating, more like being suspended over an abyss. Paddle, Chester said, shining his light ahead. The rowing was strange. The water gave almost no resistance, yet the raft cradled forward, slower than it should have. It felt like paddling through oil, though the water looked and felt normal when I touched it. This is taking forever, Chester muttered after what felt like 20 minutes. I looked back and my stomach dropped. The rocky was much farther away than it should have been, barely visible in our glow. Ahead of us, the far shore seemed no closer than when we'd started.

Chester, something's not right about this. Just keep paddling, we're almost there. But we weren't. The harder we paddled, the less progress we made. The far shore stayed distant while the shore behind us kept proceeding. It was as if the lake stretched itself, bending distance in ways that defied sense. Then Chester's light touched the far side. and we both went quiet.

What the hell was that? He whispered. I don't know, but I don't like it. The structure was 30 feet across, ringed with strange stone pillars. The rock was darker than limestone, smooth and almost metallic. Carved channels ran toward the water,

and in the center stood something like an altar, though it was built for no human shape I can imagine. We need to get closer, Chester said, but without his usual confidence. No, we need to go back now. I turned the raft, but he grabbed my arm. Wait, look at the water. I followed his gaze.

The water glowed faintly, as if light rose from something far below. The glow was subtle, but unmistakable. The surface shifted, a slow bulge rising as though some unseen current was pushing up from the depths. There's something down there, Chester said. Something big. Then our gear failed. Chester's flashlight flickered and died. My headlamp dimmed despite fresh batteries.

Even my watch froze at 347. Chester, we're leaving now, I said, cracking a glow stick. He didn't argue. We paddled hard toward what we thought was sure, but the darkness pressed in and our failing light showed almost nothing beyond the raft. Then we heard it. A sound from beneath us. Deep and resonant, like rock and metal groaning underpresent.

pressure. It rose from the depths and vibrated through the water and into our bones. Ripples spread across the surface and faded too quickly. The raft shuddered. Paddle faster, Chester said. And for the first time I heard fear in his voice. The sound came again, closer. The water around us began to glow. The light moving upward as if something vast was rising. We paddled in silence. Our failing lights barely cut into the dark. The shore seemed to impossibly far, and with every stroke I was sure we would not make it. But somehow we did. The raft scraped the rocks just as my headlamp died. We dragged it out and collapsed on the cavern shore, shaking in the shine of our last glow stick. We can't tell anyone, Chester said finally. They think

we're crazy. I nodded, though part of me wondered if we were. The whole thing felt like a nightmare. As we packed up, I made the mistake of looking back. The water was still again, but I was certain something in that blackness was looking at us. For three days, I avoided the cave. I stayed close to the house, helped grandma with chores, even started reading one of her old romance novels, just to keep busy. But Chester would not let it go. He showed up with a restless energy I had never seen. You can't just pretend it didn't happen, he said one Thursday morning on the porch.

We found something incredible. We found something dangerous, I said. Our lights failed, Chester. All of them. At the same time. So, we bring backups, more batteries, better lights. I looked at him and realized what I had mistaken for confidence was obsession. He could not sit still.

Dark circles under his eyes showed he was not sleeping. I need to go back, he said, leaning forward. Don't you want to know what it was? No. I don't. Chester stood and paced the edge of the porch. Fine, then I'll go alone. You can't.

Watch me. I felt trapped between two choices. Let Chester go alone or return to something I wanted to forget. The thought of him down there by himself was worse than my fear. If I go with you, I said. We go at dawn. We bring extra everything, and at the first sign of trouble, we leave. No arguments.

Chester grinned, hollow, deal. That afternoon we gathered supplies. Chester had found a larger raft, more stable than the first. Borrowed from my sister's boyfriend, we packed flashlights, batteries, glowsticks, rope, even a first aid kit. Looking back, it was an expedition, not an adventure. One more thing, Chester said as we loaded the four-wheeler, I want to actually reach the far shore this time.

Get a closer look. Every instinct screamed no, but I had committed, and despite my fear I was curious. The shapes we had seen haunted my dreams. I needed to know. The forest felt different on the way back. Quieter. Even the birds were silent. We slipped through the grate and down to the lake, our equipment heavier with every step. The cavern was as we left it, vast and still. The water stretched into darkness, smooth as glass. Against every, Every survival instinct, I helped him launch the boat. The crossing dragged, and with each stroke, I was more certain we were making a mistake.

But something was different about the far shore. Are those lights, I asked, squinting? Chester raised the binoculars and went still. There's something over there. What? On the far shore, I see movement. And you're right. There are lights, not flashlight, something else, something that glows.

I snatched the binoculars. In the distance, a fan. blue-green glow flickered, like the bioluminescence in the water. Chester, we're turning around right now, I said, handing them back. My voice was a hoarse whisper. He looked through them again and gasp. Chester had gone completely silent. His mouth moved, but no words came at first. Then in a whisper that grew louder, he began repeating. It comes out of the water. It goes into the water. It comes out of the water. It goes into the water. I shook him, but he

wouldn't stop. His eyes were fixed on the far shore, wide and shining, as though he was watching something emerged that I wouldn't see yet. That's when the water around us began to glow. The luminescence rose from the depths like we'd seen before, but this time it was brighter, more intense. And in that glowing light, I could see the true scale of what lay beneath the water. It wasn't a lake at all. It wasn't a lake. It went down forever. An eye, a well, a portal, An abyss, eternal and bottomless. Vast and deep. Alien light forever and ever.

I screamed. I know I screamed because my throat was raw afterward, but I couldn't hear the sound over the roar of blood in my ears. Chester was screaming to, or maybe laughing, I couldn't tell which. The eye blinked. The entire cavern shuddered as something the size of a mountain move beneath us. Water that wasn't water displaced around us. And our tiny raft was suddenly riding waves that shouldn't exist

in an underground space. This shook Chester out of his fugue. We both dug our paddles into the glowing surface, fighting against currents that felt more like muscle contractions than water flow. As we stumbled out of the boat onto the shore, I made the mistake of looking back. The eye was there, staring up at us through bottomless layers of water that should have blocked any light.

And in that ancient gaze, I saw recognition. It saw us. It saw into us and through us. Something in Chester's mind shattered. I could see it in his eyes. I grabbed him and dragged him down the tunnel. We abandoned the raft and ran for the passage, leaving our carefully gathered equipment scattered on the cavern floor.

Up through the elevated passage, down the ladder, we didn't even bother to retrieve, through the cave system toward the blessed light of day. We burst from the cave into afternoon sunlight that felt impossibly bright and clean. Chester collapsed immediately, retching under the forest floor. I managed to stay upright long enough to drag him away from the cave entrance before my own legs gave out.

Chester was never the same after that day. His laugh and easy confidence that used to pull me along into trouble, all of it vanished. He hardly spoke, and when he did it was whispers about water and eyes that never stopped watching. Before the summer was over, his parents sent him away to a hospital in the big city. Some place special, they said, though they never used the word I knew they meant. I never saw him again. At first I thought he'd come back the next summer, that we'd pick up where we left off like nothing had happened,

but his absence became permanent, a hollow space I couldn't fill. I carried the weight of it alone, pretending normal life was still possible while the memory pressed against me, like the dark water under the hills. That was 10 years ago. I've been in therapy on and off ever since,

cycling through doctors who nod sympathetically while I tell them about reoccurring nightmares of black water and washing eyes. They prescribe medications for anxiety and sleep disorders, but nothing stops the dreams completely. Chester wasn't as lucky. The last I heard, he was living on the streets, talking to things that weren't there and insisting that something was still watching him. When Grandma Edith passed a year ago and left me the house, the first thing I did was hire a contractor to seal the cave entrance with concrete and rebar. I told him it was a safety hazard. I paid him extra to use twice as much concrete as necessary and to never mention the job to anyone.

Some doors, once open, need to be close forever. Late at night, I swear that sometimes I can still hear the sound of water moving far beneath the ground. I babysat for $500 cash. I'll never do it again. By some. Salty Astronaut 77. I almost didn't take the job. Something about the ad felt off. Looking for responsible sitter.

One night only. Good pay. Cash. Must follow instructions. That was it. No details about the kid. No address. Nothing about the hours.

Just a burner email account to reply to. I was broke enough to overlook all that. My rent was due in three days and my fridge was down to half a jar of pickles and an expired yogurt, so I sent a message, figuring I wouldn't get a reply. I got one back in less than an hour. Thank you for reaching out. The job is simple. Watch our son, Matthew, from 7 p.m. to midnight. $500 cash. Please do not let him look into mirrors. Please do not answer the door if someone knocks and claims to be us. Address attached. I stared at the screen, rereading the message.

No mirrors. Don't open the door. Those weren't instructions. Those were warnings. But again, $500. $500 for five hours of sitting on a couch while kids sleeps, I could ignore it with the creepiness for that. The house was out in the suburbs,

tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac with no street lights. Every house on the street was dark except theirs. A faint yellow glow behind heavy curtains. The parents greeted me at the door. They looked normal, almost aggressively normal, like the kind of people you'd see in stock photos. Mom and a cardigan, dad in khakis, both smiling too wide. We're so glad he could make it, the mom said, ushering me inside. Matthew's upstairs, already in his room.

I nodded, clutching my backpack strap. Any allergies? Bedtime routines? The dad cut me off. The instructions in the email are the most important. Don't let him near mirrors. Don't answer the door. Right, I said.

Trying to sound casual. Can I ask, uh, why? The mom's smile faltered for half a second, but she recovered fast. Just follow them. We'll be back at midnight. $500 cash, like we promised. Before I could press further, they slipped out of the door. The lock clicked.

The house felt wrong once they'd. left. Too quiet, not the cozy suburban quiet where you can hear the hum of a fridge or a distant dog bark. This was sterile, like the silence in an empty hospital wing. I wandered through the downstairs. Every reflective surface was either missing or covered. The bathroom mirror gone, the TV screen dragged with a sheet, even the glass in the picture frames replaced with paper. The air prickled against my skin. I checked on the kid. Matthew was sitting cross-legged on his bed,

staring at me while I opened the door. He looked about eight. Blonde hair, pale skin, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. Hi, I said, forcing to smile. I'm your babysitter. He didn't answer. Just blinked at me slowly. Then asked,

Do you know which ones are real? My stomach dropped. Uh, no, what do you mean? The people, he said. His voice was flat, like he was reciting something. Sometimes they're not them. Sometimes they're copies. I laughs nervously.

That's, uh, that's creepy. Would you hear that? He tilted his head, bird-like. From the other Matthew. I swallowed. The other, Matthew? He pointed toward the darkened window. He comes when the glasses open.

I pulled the curtain shut tighter. The first knock came around 8.30. Three slow wraps on the front door. I froze on the couch, my phone in hand. The instructions screamed to my head. Don't answer the door. Another knock. Louder this time.

Hey, a man's voice called. Muffled through the door. It's us. We forgot something inside. The parents. My pulse thudded in my ears. It sounded like the dad but flatter, like someone replaying a recording through a bad speaker. I crept closer.

Careful not to touch the knob. We just need to come in for a second, the voice said. Behind me, I heard movement on the stairs. Matthew was standing halfway down, clutching the railing, staring at the door with wide eyes. That's not them, he whispered. The knocking stop.

The hours dragged. Every time I thought the house was quiet again, something else happened. 915. I heard footsteps pacing the upstairs hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. Except Matthew was sitting on the floor next to me, coloring with broken crayons. 947. The TV. Even with the sheet over it, flickered to life with static. I yanked the plug from the wall. It kept flickering for a full 10 seconds before finally going black. 1022. Another knock. This time the mom's voice. Please, he's dangerous. Let us in before it's too late. Matthew started crying, covering his ears. I didn't open the door. At 11, I heard whispering. Not from the door this time. From upstairs. I crept up, leaving Matthew on the couch with my phone flashlight. The whispers grew louder as I reached his bedroom.

The door was cracked open. Inside, the moonlight from the window illuminated a figure sitting on the bed. Matthew. Except I had left him downstairs. This Matthew looked identical, but wrong. The way a wax figure almost looks real until you see the eyes. His lips moved, whispering to himself, words I couldn't quite make out. Then he snapped his head toward me.

I slammed the door shut. and bolted down the stairs. The real Matthew was exactly where I left him. He looked up at me with tears strick in his face. You saw him, he said. I didn't answer. 1140. The knocking came again. Both voices this time. The mom and dad in perfect unison. Let us in. The door rattled like they were trying to break it down. Matthew was shaking, curled against me on the couch. Don't, he begged. If you let them in, they'll take you instead. The pounding grew vise. Island. Wood splintering, I dragged Matthew with me into the kitchen, searching for a back exit. That's when I noticed the one uncovered reflective surface left in the house, the oven

door, and in it, I saw myself. Except my reflection wasn't moving the same way I was. I staggered back, nearly dropping Matthew. The other me smiled, wide and wrong, teeth too many for a human mouth. The reflection pressed its palm against the glass from the inside. A hairline crack snaked across the oven door. Midnight couldn't come fast enough. I huddled in the kitchen with Matthew, the pounding from the front door shaking the walls, the whispering upstairs turning it into full-on giggles, in my reflection grinning from the oven, cracks spider-webbing wider with every second.

I thought I was going to break. Then the noise stopped. All at once. The clock on the microwave blinked 12 a.m. The front door swung open. The parents walked in, smiling, normal again. You did well, the mom said. She handed me an envelope of cash.

My hand shook as I took it. What the hell is wrong with this house? With him, I pointed at Matthew, who clung to my leg. The dad crouched down, prying the boy off me. He's not our son, he said simply. My mouth went dry. What? We lost Matthew years ago, the mom said.

But things still come through. Things that look like him. Things that look like us. We can't get rid of them, only contain them. They each took one of Matthew's hands. He didn't fight. Just look back at me with hollow eyes. You did your job, the dad said.

You kept him from escaping. That's all we need. And before I could say a word, they led him upstairs. the door slammed shut behind them. I stumbled outside, clutching the envelope. The night air biting my lungs. When I got home, I dumped the cash onto my kitchen table. Every bill was crisp.

Perfect. Except when I flipped them over, the faces weren't of presidents. They were of me. Smiling. Too wide with too many teeth. And all right, guys. That wraps up some scary redatorial. stories. I hope you enjoyed today's video. I enjoyed recording it. Let me know down in the comments

below. What was your favorite story? And yeah, I'll read every single comment. So comment down below and I hopefully can reply to them all. And please subscribe to the Patreon for weekly Q&A's, early access videos, extra story videos, and much, much more. So please look at the pin comment or the first link in the description or one of the links in the description and subscribe and join the community on Patreon. It's a great community. and only $5 a month for hours and hours of extra content. So please consider. I appreciate it so much.

Please like the video and subscribe to the channel. It helps more than you know. And this is Snook. And I'll see you next time. Bye.