Snook - Shocking Reddit Stories

Episode Date: March 11, 2025

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Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today I've got some shocking Reddit stories for you guys. I love these stories a lot. I hope you enjoy them. I enjoy them. And yeah, thank you so much for stopping by. I appreciate every single one of you. Please like the video.

If you haven't already. And please subscribe to the channel. If you haven't already, the channel's goal is 500,000 subscribers. And I think we can hit that pretty soon. So please subscribe. And all right, without further ado, let's get into some shocking Reddit stories. I think my uncle murdered his daughter. Nobody bats an eye when the elderly gets sick.

It's the way of the world after all. You're born, you grow old, and you die. Sure, people will mourn. A few people may even weep at your funeral, and if you're lucky, someone will lay an occasional flower on your headstone. But when the young die, that's a completely different story. My little cousin, Olivia, was only six years old when she fell down the stairs of her two-story house. The fall had snapped her neck somewhere along those 15 fateful steps.

It was her mother who had found her tiny body. I could only imagine the horror she felt when her eyes met the sight of little Olivia's neck at a 90-degree angle. The thought made my spine shiver. My aunt Lizzie now sobbed uncontrollably as we sat in the little chapel. Olivia's casket opened for the few people who know her in life to come and say goodbye. If Olivia had died an old woman, the chapel might be over. overflowing, but in six short years she had not made any connections in her brief life.

While many relatives were present, only a handful, had come to know Olivia as well as I had come to know her. I had been her designated babysitter for many years. Her little lungs drew breath. So many heart shattered when I got the news. My uncle Jesse spoke for his daughter in our hour of suffering. Olivia was a cheerful, energetic and playful little kid, her enthusiasm for life brought joy to anyone in her vicinity. Life can be cruel and unjust, but it is not our place to judge the work of the man upstairs. When it's your time, when he calls you up, when God needs you back, we can only heed the call. Olivia was too precious for this world. I believe our heavenly father knew that. That is why I can smile, knowing that my little girl is in a better place.

I don't know how he could be so calm and composed while talking about his. recently departed daughter. She wasn't my daughter, and even my voice cracked whenever I spoke her name. He must have had a heart of stone, I thought to myself. Who am I to judge how someone mourns their passing of the little girl? After all, we are all different. Those who wish to say one last goodbye to Olivia, please do so now. This casket will be closed in a few short minutes. The funeral director informed, the rustling of a few people standing sounded over my aunt Lizzie sobbing. I didn't want to go up and see Olivia's body in that state, but my aunt clutched my arm and pulled me with her for moral support.

How could I refuse? The line leading up to the casket began to thin, and soon we were faced with little Olivia's peacefully sleeping face. She wore a pristine white dress that seemed to blend with the caskets padding. Her satin black hair created a deep contrast with the caskets' insides. Her skin looked cold and glazed over. Aunt Lizzie's head dropped onto Olivia as she gave her little girl, one last worldly embrace. Why, Lord, why? Tears streamed onto Olivia's dress, darkening some of the areas where they soaked into the fabric. I comforted my aunt and could not help but shed my tears as well. The memories of little Olivia were playing in my mind. Olivia, oh Olivia, my aunt cried. I looked down at Olivia's sleeping face, never expecting her to react to her mother's call.

Olivia, my Olivia, as the last A of her name left her mother's mouth. Her eyes. snapped open, thrusting my heart into the pit of my stomach, my eyes instantly dried up in my terror. Then, Olivia's pupils trained their gaze on me. I wanted nothing more than to scream. But as I opened my mouth, the sound never managed to bypass the lump in my throat. I let my Aunt Lizzie go, taking a step backward in the process. Just then I knocked into someone. My head shot around to see my Uncle Jesse looking at his daughter's face, unfazed by her soulless stare. He then looked at me with an expressionless face and gave me a smile of pity. Before returning to his daughter's facade, I shot back around to look at Olivia, but was once again met with her peacefully sleeping expression.

What the fuck I thought to myself? Olivia was just, I must have imagined it. It must have been my imagination. What other explanation could there be? My uncle's cold hand snaked across my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me, and it did. Before he whispered in my ear, It will be our little secret. You will tell no one of this.

For the rest of the funeral, I was in a state of constant shock, trying to make sense at the situation, but never could. It had been a week since Olivia had died. They had pumped her body full of embalming fluid, and not even read over the coroner's report. A complete eviseration of the C-1 and C-2 vertebrae, resulting in a complete severance of the spinal cord, pronounced dead at the scene.

There was no way Olivia could still be alive, absolutely no way. Those words played in my head as the first few pails of earth began to blanket her coffin. But my resolve was constantly questioned by Uncle Jesse's thousand-yard stare from across the freshly dug hole. There is no way Olivia is still alive. My Aunt Lizzie continued in her emotional state long after Olivia died. It's not hard to imagine given that Olivia was an only child. Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Jesse's lives resolved around my little cousin. I tried my best to stay away. It was hard for me to hear her shrieking cries.

As much as I loved Aunt Lizzie, there was only so much sadness a person can experience. I preferred to push little Olivia as far out of my mind as I could. Well, there was that, but also Uncle Jesse's comment on the day of the funeral. I tried to dismiss it as being a part of my imagination, but no matter how hard I tried, his words were as clear as that day they tickled my ear. It will be our little secret. That fear, however, would it have to be put on the back burner because Aunt Lizzie had called me over to help get rid of some of Olivia's things.

Looking at them had brought too much grief to her heart, and she was having a hard time boxing them up, so it was up to me to lend a helping hand. I walked into their house, the same house where I'd babysat in Olivia so many times. Everywhere I looked, memories of that little girl flooded back into my mind. Then my eyes met the bottom of the stairs. I couldn't help but imagine her little body sprawled out on the hardwood floor. A door creaked open, and I jolted in my uneasiness.

It was Aunt Lizzie stepping out on the master bedroom, situated on the first floor. Her eyes were puffy, she had been crying, and she attempted to compose herself before greeting me with a smile. Our conversation was brief. She had only given me instructions on what to box. up. To my surprise, her instructions were to get rid of everything, but Olivia's twin bed. She disappeared into her room, and I thought I heard her faintly sobbing through the door. I trained my eyes on the top of the stairs, precariously stepping around where I'd imagined Olivia drew her last breath. There was a sense of apprehension as I reached the second floor, and I swore the air was colder

as my foot graced the last step, but I pushed it out of my mind as I plunged myself into the task at hand. There was a lot to box up. About an hour into my work, I saw my breath condense in front of my face. The temperature had plunged drastically. I felt my skin prickle in goose flesh, not because of the cold, but because a familiar figure caught the edge of my eye. Standing in the corner was a little girl wearing a white dress, Olivia. Her skin was no longer the same color as the day at the caskets lid fell on her restful face. It was pale, icy, and cold. The mortician had done a fantastic job of styling her hair,

but it was now draped over much of her face in an unkempt way. She lifted her head, but before it could reach its full extension, it slumped over with a loud crack. Likewise, her cervical spine now pointed to the ceiling as it poked through the skin of her neck. Her head may have been resting on her shoulder, but her eyes looked at me. with the same intensity as the day I swore I saw her open them while she lay in that tiny little box.

I fell onto her bed cowering backward until the dry wall caressed my rear. Our eyes jousted there for what felt like hours, in reality it was only seconds. Little Olivia raised a jagged finger pointing to her nightstand beside her bed. I was too fearful to let go of my knees that were pressed up against my chest, but Olivia did not waver. She stood there steadfast. Her eyes planted on me, her finger gesturing at the nightstand. She wasn't going to be let go until I investigated whatever she needed me to see. I cautiously unfurled myself out of my beetle position and crawled my way over to the first drawer, pointed out while making sure Olivia wasn't going to jump on me.

Inside were many of Olivia's crayon drawings, many were family portraits, and some I'd even helped draw myself on the many nights I babysat. But as I flipped through the pieces, they became less wholesome and stranger. There was a stick figure of a little girl crying, a pair of eyes peering at the little girl through the door. A drawing of a man, evident in the stick figure sporting a beard, covered in blood. I'm pretty sure it was my uncle Jesse and a picture that made my heart sink. The little stick figure drawn girl crying in a corner as a mommy and daddy fought. I looked over at Olivia, but her finger had to be.

not been lowered. I flipped the page one more time and was met by drawing of Uncle Jesse caressing a little girl with her head flopped over to the side. The mommy stick figure off to the side weeping. I looked back over at my little cousin as her finger finally lowered. Did Uncle Jesse do this to you? I questioned, but she made no gestures. I returned my eyes to the drawing. It must have been, I thought to myself. That would explain why Uncle Jesse was acting so unfazed at the funeral, and why he didn't want Olivia coming back from the grave. So, she came back to you, too, huh? My head swiveled to the bedroom door. It was Uncle Jesse, standing there as I held Olivia's

testimony on my hand. I looked at the corner where Olivia once stood, but she was gone. Yo, you killed Olivia? I quivered. No, McKenna. It's not like that. Let me explain. I inched back to the far edge of the bed, ready to run at the moment's notice. What do you mean? She came to me too, I questioned. McKenna, calm down, let me explain. I need to tell someone about this. I don't know what to make of it.

He stepped to me, outstretching his hands. I have to get out of here. I know what he's done. I'm next, I thought, to myself. As soon as a large enough opening presented itself, I darted behind Uncle Jesse, out of the door, down the stairs, and out of the house, all while looking over my shoulder,

but Uncle Jesse never gave chase. I was numb the whole ride home. Reliving all the encounters I'd had with Uncle Jesse throughout the years. He loved Olivia so much. How could he had do such a thing? I don't even know how I made it home in that condition. It's as if I made it home on instinct, but as my tires came to a halt in my driveway,

I remembered. Aunt Lizzie was still in that house with that monster. I had to warn her. Before I could get to my phone at rank, the caller ID said Aunt Lizzie. Had he gotten to her already and was calling to taunt me from her phone? How could I be so stupid? I left her behind to die.

I carefully lifted the phones in my ear and answered the call. He's dead. Your uncle Jesse is dead. My aunt Lizzie cried through a mountain of gut-wrenching sobs. A few weeks had passed and I decided to move in with my Aunt Lizzie. She was all alone in the world now. I was the only family she really had left. She wouldn't eat.

She wouldn't speak. She just sat there looking at some random. wall. It didn't help that the world had this strange sense of irony. You see, my uncle Jesse had fallen down the same steps as Olivia in the same gory fashion. His neck snapped like a twig. I felt there was some poetic justice in how it all happened, but I wished it wouldn't have affected Aunt Lizzie so much. She started to make some progress, and her morning process, I no longer had to hand-feed her every meal. She made sure to sip a few sips of soup sometimes. She'd be a few sips of soup sometimes. She no longer lay in bed until dinner, noon was often the latest, and her gaze began to unglu

itself from the plain white walls that oriented her house. Everything was progressing splendidly. That is, until the night they showed up. Aunt Lizzie sat on the couch watching Saturday night live, the only thing that seemed to tug at the edges of her mouth. As I cleaned up after our broccoli cheddar chicken supper, it was my favorite dish to cook and one of the few solids my Aunt Lizzie could stomach, but it sure was a hassle to clean up. I scrubbed and scrubbed the pan, but the breadcrumbs were baked on like old gum on concrete. I plowed my soapy sponge into the sink as I gave a frustrated grunt. I needed something more drastic to clean the pan.

I needed my wire brush. I kept it in the cover above the fridge, but as I turned around to get it, I gave an ear-piercing shriek. On the other side of the kitchen stood Olivia and Uncle Jesse. Their heads flopped over to the side and almost identical fat. fashion. The decay on Olivia's face was now more prominent, but Jesse's was fresher and less weathered, though still pale, cold, and grotesque, like Olivia's on the day I saw her in her bedroom. Little Olivia held her father's hand by the finger. Uncle Jesse stood paralyzed, that is, until he moved towards the notepad, magnetically stuck to the fridge. He scribbled a few

words on the paper and stepped back to let me read what he'd written. He didn't let me explain. I looked back over at him in confusion. Little Olivia tugged on his pant leg, gesturing to let her write on the notepad next. Her father passed the notepad down to her as she pulled her personal crayon from the dress's little pocket. I saw her face concentrate as she wrote some of the few words she knew how to write. When she finished, she flipped the pad over to me. It was hard for me to read it, with being a mix of lowercase and capital letters, not to mention the grammatical mistakes. It read.

Mommy did it. I mulled over her riding again and again until it finally clicked. Mommy did it. It was all clear to me now. Little Olivia was not trying to warn me about her father, but about her mother. Uncle Jesse wasn't trying to kill me on the day he died. He was trying to explain that he'd had his suspicions about what had actually happened to his daughter. Olivia had given her father the same warning,

but it had been too late. Just then, the father and daughter duo raised their fingers simultaneously, pointing behind me. The sound of a drawer opening, along with the rattling of utensils, met my ear. I pivoted slowly. Their eyes were no longer void,

no longer sad. Now, they were trained on me. My aunt Lizzie had found a very large kitchen knife. My family doesn't remember who I am. Part 1. I've been stuck in my dorm all semester, trying to keep my head above water, clawing at my face in the middle of the night as I struggle to keep my eyes glued to my computer. When finals week, it finished, I was eager to get the hell out of there, but I didn't receive the homecoming I was expecting, and the reality of my new situation is slowly killing me inside. I flew home the week after Christmas, carry on in hand, I walked into the airport lobby, expecting to see my family waiting for me, anxious to greet me,

after months away, but nobody was there. I stood there awkwardly scanning the crowd of travelers, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, but the more I searched, the more disappointment built up in my chest. Clutching my phone, I stared at the screen waiting a text to call any sign that would let me know something where someone was coming. That sign never came. It'd been about 30 minutes after debboarding when I had decided to call my dad, but his number went straight to voicemail. It was odd. My dad never has his phone off. I called my mom and after a few rings, the pre-recorded message played from the other end. The robotic voice filled me with sadness, the tone disingenuous, and cold. We're sorry, phone number can't come to the phone right now. Knowing that they would

probably call back, I took a seat in the waiting area. An hour came and went and I was still waiting their call. I tried Dad's phone again and perked up when the line actually rang this time. Three rings later, my dad's throaty voice came through the speaker. Hello? Did you forget something I said? Annoyed. There was a pause as I heard my dad's breathing distance itself from its phone. I pictured him playfully looking at the screen, feigning confusion.

His breathing returned to the speaker and patiently awaited the punchline. I rolled my eyes when it came to this. I'm sorry. Who is this? I should have known this was one of his pranks and huffed my frustration. through the call. I'm at the airport. Are you coming to get me? A second pause came, this time lingering, fermenting in the palpable tension. I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. He's never known when to end a ruse. Dad. The third pause was just as long and only ended

when I heard the jingle telling me that the call had ended. I was stunned. The lengths this man would go to just to play his little game. When I called back, the line rang, but he didn't answer. I'm sorry, blank can't come to your phone. I angrily ended the call and dialed again. Once again, the robotic voice greeted me instantly. I'm sorry. I was fuming. The Uber ride home was not a happy endeavor, a scow plastered on my face the whole time

as the views of town felt sour under the ridiculous circumstances. As soon as I walked through the door, my dad would be on the floor laughing his ass off at the minor inconvenience he caused me. It would be the highlight of his week. The car came to a stop outside our house, the familiar lettering on the mailbox, bringing slight relief in this shit storm that was my life. I was finally home. Luggage in hand, I walked up to the door and gripped the knob,

but when I tried turning it, it wouldn't budge. It was the last thing I needed. My fury spilled out through my knuckles as I bashed my hand on the door. Dad, open the door, I'm here. There was a movement in the window, the curtain swaying behind the blinds. Someone was watching me from the other side. I waved and the blinds fluttered closed. They were really outdoing themselves this time.

Footsteps walked across the floor on the other side of the walls and stopped just on the opposite end of the door. The knob unlatched and the door swayed on its hinges, letting out an anguished creek. Someone was peering out the small crack. Their gaze dismissive and cold. Hi. How can I help you?

I was clenching my fist, the joints in my hand snapping under the pressure. her. Ha ha, very funny, I said as I touched the door and tried pushing it aside. My dad's eyes panicked as the door pushed against his hands, and he fought my push with one of equal strength. Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the fuck do you think you're doing? Taking aback by his sudden conviction, I cowered back, stepping off the welcome mat. I'd never heard my dad curse. He opened the door the rest of the way, revealing a wooden bat in his hand, his knuckles white, with intent. His shoulders were stiff and hands shaky.

He looked ready to use it, but the fear in his eyes hoped he wouldn't have to. Dad? I questioned. The quizzical look he gave me was gut-wrenching. It's me. Maya, your daughter. My mom peered over his shoulder. Honey, what's going on? When her eyes met me, she yelled. Without breaking his connection with me, my dad answered his question.

This person says her name is Maya. He paused. still calculating the situation himself. Our daughter. Horror washed over my mom's expression, and the words snagged in her throat. My dad finally glanced over at her, confirming the apparent absurdity of the situation. When their eyes returned, my dad raised the bat, shoving it in my chest. Look, I don't know if you're crazy, having some kind of a psychotic breakdown or just some stalker,

but you're not Maya. You. Disgust fluctuated his voice as he, eyed me up and down, or not my daughter. The prank had long outstayed its welcome, and I fought the awkwardness with a fragile giggle, but tears began forming in my eyes. Cracking emotion accompanied the words that left my mouth. Mom, Dad, this isn't funny anymore. My dad buried his teeth, a primal display of anger, a promotion of violence. His jaw unlatched and I saw the fury start to wallow up from his chest, but before he could say anything, a chilling voice drifted from inside the house.

Dad, what's going on? She stepped up behind my mom, craning over both of them, trying to get a look at the spectacle at the door. A void firmed in the center of my chest as they recognized the person standing behind my parents. It was me. It was like staring into a mirror. The blonde hair, glasses, eyes, mouth, tone of voice, an identical twin, a doppelganger, and, Imposter. Shock rang in my ears and the world became distant, muted. It was as if a bomb had gone off beside me. I was woozy, fighting not to hyperventilate. The head of the bat pushed the air out of my lungs. Hey, stop looking at her like you that, you freak. I had been staring at the duplicate but wasn't sure for how long. My mom cradles her baby in her arms, protecting the girl,

protecting me from myself. My dad gently placed the bat under my chin and forced my face in his direction. Look at me, you freak. If I see you around here or near my daughter again, I will take this bat and smash your head in. Do you hear me? Too sun to stay anything, I just stared at him. The bat shoves me back a few feet. Do you hear me? he growled.

My mom held him back. Honey, that's enough. My dad lowered the bat but kept it at the ready. Now, get the hell out of here before I call the cops. My mind sputtered and my feet started moving. It was as if I was on autopilot, as if my body was protecting me from enduring more heartbreak. I got to the sidewalk, the door slammed and I was left out in the cold like a piece of trash. I wandered the street for a while.

My luggage rolling behind me as I tried to figure out my next move and what the hell was going on. I eventually came across a corner store and shuffled my way inside. The clerk gave me a strange look as I walked through the door. I asked for the bathrooms and he pointed me to the back of the store, eyeing me warily as I made my way in that direction. A woman was stepping out of one of the stalls as I walked inside and jolted when she saw me. I tried smiling at her, but she didn't return the gesture. She scurried out of the bathroom to rush.

I thought it was strange, but with so much going on, I put it out of my mind. that is until I walked up to the mirror and saw what everyone else saw. His beard was long, gray and matted. The wrinkles on his face were deep skin leathery. There was a smothered filth across his brows as if he'd been standing near a coal fire all night. I reached for the glass and wiped out its surface, hoping the image would self-correct. When it didn't, I touched my face. The loose skin didn't bounce back as my fingers dragged across my cheeks.

the warmth of my tears streaked down my face and soaked into the fibers of the man's beard in the mirror. Store clerk's reflection came into frame. Sir, this is the woman's bathroom. You can't be in here. My family doesn't remember who I am. Part two. I'm in a man's body. My hair is no longer silky, now wiry and gray.

The blue in my eyes is covered in a milky haze, the struggles of a life I never lived mark my identity with deep ruts. I'm an old man when yesterday I was only 19. I felt sick, the acid rising up my chest, burning my insides. I tried holding it back, but it filled my mouth and I puked into the sink. The vomit was dark, the white porcelain speckled in dots of red. I never liked this out of blood. The man in the reflection looked scared. His bushy brows, slanted, and eleven between his eyes. He lifted a hand and caressed the side of the face. The skin stretched, but took too long to bounce back. His hand trailed down to his long, filthy beard. It felt exactly like it looked, rough, rugged, ugly. I started to saw, but when the sadness left my throat, the thickness

of my voice startled me. That was when the bathroom door pushed open. I hardly noticed who came in. The store clerk, his reflection stepping into the mirror's frame, he looked irritated. Sir, this is the woman's bathroom. You can't be in here. "'Sir?' The voice sent an icy shiver across my skin, and I felt the fear trailed down my leg. It was hot, and it soaked into the fabric of my pants. It trickled onto the laminate floor, pulling under my nose. The stench of fresh ammonia filled my nose.

The store clerk's eyes dropping towards the sudden leak, festering from the tiles, before realizing he threw his hands up. "'Come on, man. Who the hell was going to clean that shit up?' I told them that we shouldn't let homeless people in here. That shit that I deal with on a daily basis. Come, come on. Out. He snapped his fingers, tolerance fleeting, but I was frozen, unable to move to speak.

It was only when the moisture covering my leg started to cool, that I started trembling. I mouthed a quiet plea for help, but the muscles of my neck spasmed. The only thing that came up was a quiet croak. The clerk massaged his forehead. Great, another chunky. Come on, we can't have you shooting your veins in the woman's bathroom. Out. He hesitated when grabbing the sleeve of my jacket that was about the time he saw what I'd done

into the sink. Oh, the fuck is wrong with you, old man. He never touched me. A disgusted look washed across his face as if I was riddled with leprosy. That's it. I'm calling the cops. His feet clattered across the floor and he thrust the door aside, storming out. I started coughing, my hand reaching for my face, covering my mouth.

When the coughing fit stopped, I looked at my hand, finding a wad of cagluted red. I felt hot, and the room started to spin. Obvious affliction aside, I felt sick. I was sick. Further confirmation of that fact squirted out of my lungs and coated my clothes. The room swayed, and I found myself propped up by the strength of the wall. I started toward the door and walked out into this door. The clerk was punching a number into the phone, but stopped when he saw me.

Bloody, weakening. The woman that was in the bathroom before me rounded a shelf, screaming at the horror, the cheap bottle of wine in her hands, chattering at her feet. The clerk slammed the phone and pointed to the door. Out! I stammered in his direction,

outstretching a hand, quietly begging for mercy. There was no mercy given that day. With the fibers of a broom, he swatted me away, carefully not to touch the urine and blood on my clothes. I tripped through the threshold of the door, landing on my face,

The clerk tossed the luggage I had with me onto my back, and the zipper opened. The concrete was decorated with my clothes, woman's clothes. Once again, the clerk looked disgusted. With the handle of the broom, he lifted a frilly pink piece of underwear, holding it up to the light. What kind of twisted shit are you into, old man? He flicked the garment away. It fell on my face.

Get the hell out of here, you freak. I tried explaining. You don't understand, I said. while showing him my palms. The voice that rose from my chest didn't make the statement sound too convincing. Not even to me, I was guilty of being in possession of my own belongings,

a crime I never thought possible. The store was automated bell dinged and the clerk's image warped by the shimmer of the glass's reflection. That was when I caught a glimpse of the pathetic pervert on the ground. I felt sorry for him, for myself. The woman that was inside the store

pushed the glass door open, stepping around me, Objectory, exaggerated. I wobbled to my feet, feeling a shudder through my chest when the ground was once again under my shoes. The asphalt rolled across the ground. It was as if I was on a ship in the middle of a stormy sea. I used the luggage to prop myself up and started walking down the street. The plastic handle barely held my weight. It bowed, struggling to keep me upright, a task that would have been easier only a day ago. The wheels under the bag thunked on a sidewalk's cracks, the sound unrhythmic, a product of my fleeting ability to walk a straight line. I felt embarrassed to be out here like this, but no one paid me any mind, just another bum in the city.

All of a sudden, I wished they were looking at me. If they'd seen the 19-year-old version of me, people would be rushing to aid the tiny girl fighting this reach the street corner. But now burly and unsightly, people refused to look my way, a minor inconvenience. and an otherwise normal day. I felt lonely, alone, scared. I walked past an alley, looking down its length,

the two walls on either side shrouding the corridor in darkness. It was a good enough place as any to lay my head down and die. When I walked into the shadow of the day, the temperature dropped drastically, but at least I was hidden from the winter winds from the cold, cruel world.

I leaned my back on the bricks siding, hugging my bag, holding on to the remnants of a life that was no longer here. I closed my eyes and started slowly drifting away. The anguished thoughts muted in the warmth of the thickening veil until nothing. The gentle hum of fire gently stirred my eyes open. There was a barrel directly in front of me, my logs crackling in the heat. I thought I was dead, but the radiating warmth of the flames told me otherwise.

The sky was dark. It was night. I've been asleep for who knows how long. Not long enough if you ask me. "'You're lucky I found you when I did.' There was a pair of eyes looking at me from the other side of the fire, the flickering lashings of orange glistening in his gaze. "'Who are you?' I thought of saying. But the cough in my chest stifled the question.

Though it wasn't necessary, the look on my face said at all. "'You're freezing to death out here. "'Had a friend of mine go like that last winter.' "'He took a stick and repositioned the logs. "' Angry sparks sprinkled into the air, "'and I sat upright. "'It was about that time I know. I noticed that I was wrapped in a heavy wool blanket.

I was puzzled at its sudden appearance. That's not a gift. I'm going to need that back after you're done. I was just getting tired of hearing your teeth rattle. He was shoveling something in his hands. It wasn't until I looked at the ground that I realized what it was. My wallet was on the ground. He was rummaging through my credit cards, my ID.

He held the little square up to the light, reading aloud. Maya. He laughed as smoker's laugh while eyeing me over the picture. What do we have here? My, my, my, my. you steal these he flipped the card to my direction letting me see the picture turning it back he looked at it through a tired squint not a bad-looking girl his words were accompanied by an astonished whistle wouldn't mind spend some time with my if you know what i mean lust filled his eyes anger boiled

in my chest give those back my voice was throaty rusty well well it speaks patronization engulfed his tone "'She your kin?' he said, pointing at the ID with his eyes. "'I didn't say anything, measuring my words, hesitating to say the truth. "'Well, if she ain't your kin.' His brows were suggestive, hungry, the file thoughts racing through his mind. "'Maya, my, my. "'Man, oh, man, my, my. "'Maya,' someone else said.

"'I turned my head searching for the familiar voice I had called my name. for a second I thought someone had finally recognized me that maybe I was saved, but my heart dropped when I saw the figure that was walking past the entrance to the alley. It was me, her blonde, silky hair shimmered under the street lamp. Her petite frame dwarfed by the scale of the building. It was uncanny to see myself as others did. My, wait up, the voice echoed through the street down the alley. My mom and dad stepped between the gap at the end of the corridor.

they looked dressed up as if ready for a fancy dinner. When my parents caught up to her, my dad put his hand out of round the girl and they walked out of view. I shot to my feet. The ground's still unsteady. I hurried after them. Wait, where are you going? The homeless man shouted. But his voice never registered. I stumbled into the street to see the happy family making its way down the sidewalk.

I hurried after them, hiding behind parked car, still wary of the way my dad had threatened to me. Using the blanket as a cloak. They chatted jovially. My dad making his off-brand jokes, my mom laughing sympathetically, and the imposter beside them, rolling her eyes just as I would. They looked like the perfect little family, my perfect little family. They filed into the door one at a time, the lettering above the building reading, Fork,

an upscale joint in the center of downtown. This was my dad's favorite place. We'd often come here on special occasions, holidays, birthdays, homecomings. I hid behind an SUV on the other side of the street. The waiter sat them at a table right by the window, the warm lighting of the restaurant, spotlights, making the scene look straight out of a hallmark movie. The three looked over the menu as if they didn't already know what they were going to order. Dad always got the steak, mom the trout, me a hybrid, surfing turf.

The waiter took the menus away and they all chatted across the table. I imagined how the conversation was going. Dad asking me how school was going. me telling them how much I hated my major, mom being the moderator between us. Back then, this would all seem so mundane. Now the sight filled me with sadness. I missed them.

My life. A sudden bouts of anger roared in my chest, and I wanted to wrap my hands around the imposter's neck. I wanted to feel the life slowly drained from her face, my fingers digging into the flesh of her skin. She stole my life from me, and I needed her dead. I needed her rotting in the ground. I had never been so angry in my life.

My dad stood up from his chair and made his way toward the bathroom. The imposter and my mom stayed back, smiling, talking, while I imagined driving the dinner fork into the doppelganger's chest. The waiter rolled the food out on a cart, placing it on the table, just as I imagined dad got the steak, mom the trout. But me, the chicken. I hated chicken, the tastes, the texture. Never in a million years would I order the chicken.

I expected my mom to say something about this, but she never did. Instead, the conversation droned on. The two were friendly. Too friendly. My mom and I always got along, but not like this. The imposter would say something, and my mom had burst into laughter. It was as if she would, had her under a spell, as if they were best friends. It was too good to be true.

The imposter pointed to a fixture on the wall, surely commenting on it. My mom turned, gazing into the painting's face. Not like I'd ever been an art critic, so it all felt off. But the more my doppelganger spoke the more. Mesvri's mom looked with the picture until she was fully invested with each brushstroke. That was about the time the imposter's motive became clear. From the depths of her purse, she pulls out a tiny veil, white powder encapsulated within. While mom still studied the painting, she sprinkled some powder over her plate,

did the same to Dad's. Mom turned and the doppelganger hid the vial under the table. I don't know what was in the vial, but I knew it was nothing good. The hair on my neck was standing on end and I had a very bad promotion about what was about to happen. Dad wandered out of the bathroom and that was about the time I noticed the odd way he was walking. His steps were usually fluid, authoritative, and now he was dragging his feet, stepping lazily. There was a blank look in his eyes, a shell of his normal self. He retook his chair, clapped his hands, rubbing them together, ready to eat.

The three of them picked up their utensils and began cutting apart the food. My sense is on overload. I didn't even realize I was halfway across the street. I needed to stop them. I walked in front of the window, catching the attention of my doppelganger. When she turned, the other two took note, looking out the same window. My dad's back instantly tensed in the back of his knees, thrust the chair out from under him. I thought I told you to make yourself scarce, you filthy bum.

Dad's voice was muted through the window, but it was loud enough to vibrate the glass. The whole restaurant was looking to my direction. I ran to the door screaming out my warning. Don't eat that. I just watched the bitch poison you. I pointed accusingly at the little blonde by my mom. Her eyes watery with fear. My dad wrapped a hand around her, quelling her anxiety.

Dad glanced over at her before returning to me his son. teeth clenched with rage. I'd never been punched in the face. But there I was, my nose stinging as every nerve ending fired, the smell of pain filling my sinuses. The next thing I knew, my feet were dragging across the ground, two waiters pulling my arms, my dad growing smaller the further they pulled me. I was crying, fluid streaming down my face, blood, tears, dad's scowled face, mom's worried expression, the impostor's teasing smile. She was finding joy in my torment. Her lips curled devishly. They pulled me out through the back door and tossed me into an alley, the same alley. I wiped the blood from my face and I looked around. The homeless man was gone,

my belongings with them. That was when my cough returned and the crimson particulates festered out my mouth. Something shifted deep inside me. For some reason, I knew that whatever this was, was going to be the end of me. But before I died, the doppelganger. was going to suffer my wrath. I'm stalking this cute little blonde. Part 3. She's pretty. Her face is youthful, innocent,

but I don't get to see much of it these days. No matter. I haven't memorized. It's cemented in my brain. The color of her eyes, the texture of her complexion. I've been too busy walking behind her watching her blonde hair bounce with each step,

watching her hip sway. She's tiny, a fact made more evident the closer I get. I never noticed. how small she actually was, not until she walked past me the other day. Maybe she's not small. Maybe I'm just tall. I don't know. This is all new to me. It was her perfume that got me attention, Dior. The smell was sweet, feminine. I love that smell. It was familiar and it brought so many memories to mine, memories that no longer belong to me. I think she's onto me. She's looked over her

shoulder a few times now. No matter. I want her to know that I'm behind her. Her back stiffens. She's hugging her arms She's trembling Good Ecstasy pulsed through my veins I want her scared To ferment in her sorrow To fear what comes next

To be wary of me My mouth is watering with intent She turned down a side street Maybe trying to lose her tail But I know where she's going I know where she lives A girl like her should be out here all alone But I guess she's an adult

The ripe old age of 19 Her pace quickened and I struggled to stay under the cover of the shadows. She's fidgety, like a gazelle that hears the rustling of the underbrush. When her movements became sporadic, I stop, a predator stalking its prey. When her head returns to the pasture, I inch closer. She makes a left turn, a detour down a busy street, one illuminated by streetlights. I do my best to blend in among the crowd. Her shoulders relaxed a bit.

She felt safe, but security was momentarily. Ahead of her was the obscurity of darkness where I'd blend in perfectly. My soul camouflaged by the colorless void of the night. The last street light brightened, the vivid colors of her clothes before the moonlight caused the hues to dim. The air was cold, my feverish breaths condensed in front of my face and the puff of smoke from my lungs, turned hazy amber under the shine of the yellow street lamp. That too dimmed as I plunged into the void. It would only be us from here on out.

She picked up the pace and I struggled to find cover. her shoes slapping the concrete. I did my best not to let her hear mine. She veered right, her chest started huffing with anxiety, her composure slowly waning. She turned left, her nerves fraying, and her feet spending less time on the ground. She shifted right, and was no longer cowering behind the safety of parked cars. She was now fully aware of the presence at her back. Her arms dropping, swinging at her side.

My thudding steps joined her as a tone-deaf percussion's clatter. When she veered left, she was trying hard not to start running. But when my foot slipped off the sidewalk, she lost her nerve. She was sprinting. The gazelle was on the move. I ran out of her, motivated by the thirst I felt on my throat. Her steps were unpracticed, clumsy. She'd never had to run for a life before, and it showed.

Mine were determined, unwavering. She tried screaming for help between huffs of air, but the bitch couldn't even do that. Help! Snagged in her chest. getting forced down by the air steaming through her airway. She was a pathetic excuse for a human. If I was her, I'd be a lot better. I couldn't weigh.

She turned right, down an alley, one with no outlet. That was about the time she started crying. I couldn't see the tears, but I pictured how they tasted, salty, bitter. She walked up to the brick wall, clawing at the masonry. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and she knew it. She fell to her knees, her sorrow condensed in the air above her head, and I walked closer. The sound of my boots echoed through the corridor, yet she didn't move.

Maybe she'd accepted her fate? Halfway down the alley, I started getting a whiff of that familiar perfume. It was the one I used to wear, once upon a time in a different life, a different body. I towered over the pathetic, bald-up mound of flesh worshipping the wall, the yellow in her hair, silky, smooth. I remember how it felt when I brushed my fingers through it. I missed that feeling back then I had taken it for granted. Now, old, bold, dying, it was all I longed for.

I reached down the golden fibers of her head flowing through my fingers and falling back onto her shoulder. She shivered with my touch. I caressed my arms. They were thin, fragile. Her back stiffened and I smiled. I felt so powerful in that moment. Her heart pounding through her skin. The pulsations in my fingers.

Please, she begged. I didn't listen. She was cunning and manipulative. managing to convince everyone around her a wolf in sheep's clothes, if only I wasn't the sheep who got robbed. She caressed her arms just as I would. I would have believed it if I wasn't the victim. I don't know what the hell is she, no, what it is, but it stole my life from me.

I woke up at an old man's body one nearing its expiration date, while she, it assumed the role I left behind, sleeping in my bed, living my life. My hand drifted to the nape of her neck. I squeezed just hard enough to get its attention. Drop the act. I want what you stole from me. I want my life back. My voice rasped my throat and the emotion billowed out of her mouth.

Please, sir. I don't want to die. I lifted her off the ground and pinned her face of the wall. I said, drop the act. It didn't say anything. Staying as still as a corpse. That was until she. Well, it started laughing.

Her tone was cold, demented. I was wondering when you were going to take those new balls of yours. She'd done what I asked, but the sudden shift in her demeanor was uncanny, like hearing a dog talk for the first time. Still, I maintained my hold on her neck, but that was until she turned around to face me. One second, I was looking back at the back of its head. The next I was staring into its eyes. My eyes, it was like her body had caved in on itself, melting in my grasp,

and re-stiffening in my palm. It felt disgusting, as if I'd briefly held a creamy wad of dog shit. I let her go, her face meeting the ground. She cocked her head and stepped forward. Suddenly I was the one on the back foot. I was a foot taller than her, but I knew that I wasn't the one in control of the situation. Did I corner her here, or was I the one who'd been lured?

Wanted your life back? What if I say no? Her eyes started to go hazy before turning solid white. Despite the lack of pupils, it felt like it was, staring directly into my soul. What if I like being young and beautiful? What if I think you don't deserve this little life? Suddenly we were eye to eye. She had grown taller, more menacing. What if your friends, your family, love me more? What if I want to wear this skin better than you ever would? I was craning my head up now. Now her proportions were off her torso, too long,

legs stubby, its neck curled over the top of me. The plump, youthful skin became shriveled, before flaking off its body entirely, like old paint on a weathered house. You don't deserve to be me, but I deserve to be you. The hair fell off its head, and the flesh clung to its bones. I could have let you die, but I gave you a body worthy of you, as rotten on the outside as it is within. Rotten, the smell that left its mouth. It lifted a hand, one with three long bony fingers.

You want your life back? It's fine. might not like your new reality. It covered my face with its hands, and I felt like my chest cave in on itself. The air was sucked from my lungs, and when the hand left my face, my back was against the wall. I was looking into the face of an old man, his white beard, dirty, and worn. His skin droopy and wrinkly, his eyes milky and judgmental. Without saying a word, the man lured and turned around and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

I looked down at my hands, which were now manicured and lacking liver-sum. spots. I trailed my fingers across my face, the skin no longer rough and wrinkled. I found a phone in my back pocket and held it down in front of me. I saw the blue eyes and the screen's reflection. It was me again. The phone in my hand lit up. New message from mom. Dinner's almost ready. When are you coming home? I had a family again. I stood on the street for a while, looking into the warm glow through the windows. My mom was watching dishes. The blue light of the TV flickering in the background. Dad was watching his shows and I was late for dinner. I opened the door, the house smelled of mom's cooking, the table was set for three and mom welcomed me home.

Finally you're home, honey. Dinner's ready. Dad grunted when he stood up from the couch and ruffled my hair as he walked by. I was still taking in the sight the normality. I hadn't even noticed I was awkwardly standing in the foyer. Dad gestured to the seat across from him and I took my place. It had been so long since I'd felt safe and it felt strange, almost too good to be true. Mom pulled the meatloaf from the oven, the pan hovered over the table as the meaty dish steamed into the air, a home-cooked meal. After all this time out on the street, in the cold, I was happy, ecstatic. But it all came crumbling down when I saw Mom's hands. Her skin was sizzling against the hot pan, the flesh blistering against the middle.

She placed the pan on the table, and the flesh of her palm instantly mended. I looked across the table to find Dad studying me with pale white eyes, equally aware of my strange behavior. Mom took her seat and looked at my direction. Her eyes looked just like Dad's. I felt this revolving shudder in my body, like biting a luminal foil with dental fillings. I was shivering and sweat built up on my brow. It was a person at the window. It was tall, ill-proportioned.

You may not like your new reality. It looks like I wasn't the only one who it was replaced. Never go hiking alone. I've always been an avid outdoorsman. Hiking, trail running, mountain biking, I love it all. There's just something so soothing about being out in nature that makes the stresses of life drift away. I could spend my life out in the wilderness and never get tired of it.

That is until I hiked sweet Connie Trail. The terrain on this hike was pretty difficult, a near constant incline up the face of a rocky mountain slope. It would take about eight hours to complete the hike in each direction. With a hike so hard, it is reasonable not to see many people undertaking this daunting task, and frankly, I liked it that way. The more secluded the better. On my way up, the mountain I only ran into a few other hikers, but there was something strange in their demeanors. I'd give them a cordial, hello, hi, how's it going?

But none of them returned the sentiment. Instead, they just looked at me in shock. I gave each of them a polite smile and continued my way up the trail. Soon, all other hikers disappeared and I was the only other person on the trail. As I rounded a sharp corner, I heard the rustling of leaves coming from the underbrush off to the side of the path. I didn't think anything of it. It isn't uncommon to hear sounds off in the brush while you're out alone. Most of the time, it's just the wind, but as I came closer, the brush thrashed around rather violently.

Like any other logical person, I ran through the list of possible culprits. A squirrel, no. It was too large to be a squirrel. Rabbit? A rabbit would have already darted away in a surge of cover. Suddenly a laugh drifted out from the foliage. The laugh was innocent. High pitch.

Young. A little girl stepped out into the middle of the trail, her back toward me. She was wearing a pink dress, dirty and torn. Her feet were bare. Her back tense. I stood there for a second or two, trying to wrap my mind around what I was seen. She looked hypothert. her skin icy and pale. She caressed her own arms as if trying to get warm. The little girl's

head was slumped down looking at the path beneath her exposed feet. When the site before me finally registered, I stepped forward. Are you okay? I asked. And my most non-threatening voice, there was no response, but the little girl did acknowledge my question. She lifted her head, looking at the long trail ahead of us. What's your name? Taking another step. The girl's chest began hiccuping, and she huffed in spurts as she started to sob. Hey, hey, hey, don't cry. I'm going to help you. I said, while taking off my jacket, ready to drape it against her back.

But as I placed the jacket against her exposed skin, she didn't reach for it. And now lay half-hazardly across her shoulders, ready to fall to the ground with the slightest movement. What are you doing out here all alone? I asked. Concern feeling my voice. Suddenly the little girl sobbing stopped and an uncanny silence fell around us. Nothing made a noise, not the wind, the birds, the trees.

It was as if time had stopped. The silence was broken when the little girl began giggling once again. It started slowly as if she was trying to hold it in, but giddiness engulfed her and she started giving a cheery laugh. The little girl lifted a hand to the air. Her little fingers grasped a handful of her messy black locks, twirling the strands around her grip, and slowly pulling away from her head. Her scalp stretched as her hand pulled harder.

I took a step back in horror when a few hairs unrooted from her head, my jaw dropping when the handful was yanked free. Her other hand lifted to her head. This time she wasted no time in ripping her the hairs from her scalp, my jacket falling to the floor as she did. The hairs hadn't touched the ground when her hand returned to her head. She now frantically ripped her hair free, her giggle morphing into a maniacal cackle. It hadn't been more than a few handfuls and her head was looking more like a Sarda riddle dogs. Hey, stop that, I said as my stiff limbs finally moved, I gripped the little girl's wrist, stopping her from tearing out another clump of hair.

What I did, her laughed, or instantly stopped the fingers on her hand bawling in apparent anger. I felt my muscles tense before she thrust her hand out of my grasp. Her hand returned to her head. Stop, I said, with more conviction, stopping her from yanking more hair out. The little girl didn't take kindly to it this time, and she swung her arm back in a sudden burst of supernatural strength. I'll shove back my backside meeting the exposed earth. I returned to the path ahead, but the little girl was gone.

I looked around, expecting to see the girl running through the trees, but my gaze was only met with the dimly lit pine forest. The hairs on the back of my head stood as a familiar laughed drifted through the woods. It stopped distant and muffled, but as I frantically searched for the little girl, she was nowhere to be found, her giggle mocking me from the darkness. Looking at the path ahead, I saw a figure standing in the distance. She wasn't there before, yet there she stood. Little girl yanking her hair in handfuls.

When there's no more hair to left a pole, she started sobbing again. Freaked out by the situation, I motioned to stand, trying to avoid garnering the attention of the bald figure off in the distance, but as I took to my feet, a few rocks crunched under my weight. The little girl instantly stopped crying as the sound met my ear. Her hands, which once plucked at her head, now fell to her side. My heart thudded in my chest as the silence lingered for a beat or two. She craned her head back, catching a glimpse of me from the side of her gaze,

and for the first time I locked into her eyes, fluid steaming from her ducks. Only it wasn't tears, it was a distinct deep red of blood. She pivoted on her feet and faced me. My senses screaming, run, as her face came into view. Her skull was partially sunken in, like someone had taken a rock and bashed against her cranium. she studied me, looking me up and down, unimpressed. I wanted to say something, anything, but I was in shock. The little girl noticed, and a creepy smile slid across her lips, her mouth parting, producing that sweet, innocent laugh. But this time her laugh got deeper with each inhale,

horror drifted into my body as her eyebrows furled, looking at me like prey. I found my courage, and I started to slowly back away, but with each step, the little girl mirrored my pace. What do you want? I asked quiveringly. The girl didn't answer and continued chuckling maniacly. Please don't hurt me, I pleaded, desperation evident in my tone. The little girl picked up the pace. I found myself stumbling on my heels, but as I turned around facing the path that led back to the trailhead, the little girl stood in front of me in the distance. The red fluid still oozing from her eyes. My feet slid across the trail as I came to a screeching halt. I hide the little girl up and down stopping when I got to her feet that no longer touched the ground.

They now hovered ominously a few inches above the trail. The blood draining from my face, words festered on my tongue but caught at my throat, spilling out as a frantic mumble. What the hell are you? The little girl stopped her deep demonic chuckle and looked at me, mildly offended. Her mouth started to gap open, revealing a larger-than-normal void in her face. With one long inhale, her chest expanded and she let out an ear-piercing roar. Leave, she screamed.

My ears yawning at the base in her voice. She lifted a gnarled finger and pointed behind her, instructing me to run back to the down the mountain. Without a second thought, I shot to my feet and scurried around her. The little girl's witchly cackle followed me back down the trail. But when I looked over my shoulder, no one was given chase. Eventually the laugh stopped and the only noises I was hearing were the normal, rhythmic chatter of nature and my anguished breathing.

But the dread of the situation still played in my mind. I quietly made my way towards the trailhead, but my heart stopped when I saw a lonely figure walking toward me in the distance. My heart was shoved to the pit of my stomach, thinking that I was the little girl again. But to my relief, it was a tall, burly hiker making his way up the hill. His hiking poles dug into the soft ground as he worked his way in my direction. It dawned on me that he was making his way towards that demonic little girl. I needed to say something, but as my warning built up in my chest, a familiar sweet voice, slithered from the trees.

Sh, it said. My skin broke out in goose flesh. The burly man huffed his way around me, giving me a polite smile as he passed. I stood there frozen as he rounded a corner and disappeared from view. I darted my gaze around the woods, realizing that the little girl still watched from the darkness. It is safe to say that the rest of the hike back down the mountain

was the fastest I'd ever hiked. When I reached the trailhead, I looked at the sign marked in the beginning of the trail. Sweet Connie Trail. This is a memorial trail dedicated to Connie Renner, who lost her life on this same hike on April 15, 2016. At the bottom of the sign was a picture of the little girl. It's been a few months since this happened.

I haven't been outdoors since, and to tell you the truth, I never want to go outside again. Fuck nature, fuck hiking, and fuck sweet Connie Trow. And all right, guys, thank you so much for watching some shocking Reddit stories. I hope you enjoyed this video. I enjoyed reading it and comment down below if you'd like to see stuff like this in the future or what you'd like to see changed.

And yeah, I appreciate you watching to the end of the video. It's about an hour-long video. It means the world. That's a long time. I appreciate spending time with me. And you're the best. Subscribe to the second channel. Subscribe to the main channel.

Like and subscribe. You're the best. And this was Snook, and I'll see you next time.