Snook - Spooky Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: March 21, 2025

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Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today we will be going into some spooky stories from Reddit. And these stories that are in this video are so great, so scary, so spooky, and just so interesting and fun to listen to. And these stories are great to listen to if you're just studying, relaxing, want something to just put on in the background, sleep to, et cetera, et cetera. This video is great for any of that. And I'm just excited you're here.

Thank you so much for stopping by. and before we get into it, please like the video and subscribe to the channel. It's the channel's goal to be at 500,000 subscribers, so please subscribe. It'd be awesome for you to join the community, and just it helps out the channel a lot. And all right, anyways, without further ado, let's get into some spooky stories from Reddit. I saw something on the evening news that I can't explain. My work friends and I were out at our favorite pub last night. Not a really fancy place, but, you know, cheap beer and close enough to home.

that I don't have to drive. The night started out normally enough. The four of us crammed into a small table off in the corner, mostly talking shop and shitting on her boss. Being this was the middle of the week, there weren't too many other people around. Maybe around eight or nine others in the whole place. Everybody just kind of keeping to themselves,

sort of people you'd expect to see in a pub on a Wednesday. Anyway, from where I'm sitting, I have a pretty good view of the TV behind the bar. Jesse, the bartender, is kind of lazily flipping through channels and passes by our local news channel. There's a brief burst of orange and red on the screen, which I register as a fire happening somewhere, which then disappears as Jesse switches over to the next channel.

Something about the image looks oddly familiar, though. Hey, Jess, can you switch that back? I call out to her. The news comes back on. And suddenly I recognize the building in the frame. It's my building, and it's burning. Holy shit, I say it loud. Enough for a few people to follow my gaze at the television.

That's my apartment. The crowd in the bar falls kind of quiet, everybody staring up at the screen now. The screen shows a wide shot of the outside of my building. The camera must be set up on the north end of the block because I recognize a lot of shops on the ground floor, property management, dry cleaner, convenience mart, etc. The top left corner of the building is a flame. It's not a huge fire by any means, but it looks like a few units between the top four floors or so have already been engulfed by the flames. Jesus, man, one of the co-workers says, that, uh, that sucks. There's an uncomfortable murmur of agreement that passes around the table.

I mean, I don't blame them. I wouldn't know what to say in this situation either. Yep, I agree just as awkwardly. Thankfully, my apartment is only about halfway up and located on the west side of the building. I crossed my fingers, hoping my stuff will be okay. The camera cuts to the reporter on the scene. He's standing a little further way, looking at the shops in the background. I can tell he's across the street in the northwest corner of the building.

Firefighters are expected on the scene any moment, he's saying, and hopefully they'll be able to contain this horrible inferno before it spreads any further. As I was saying before, it's very unfortunate that everyone was able to evacuate the building before things got too bad, or who knows what tragic events may have unfolded. He's really laying it on thick, my other co-workers' jokes. I chuckle a bit, all things considered. At the moment, it really didn't seem all that bad. But then, a few moments later.

Uh, hang on, the reporter on TV says. We're getting some updated information. It seems, hang on one moment while we readjust the camera. The previously locked down camera starts a shift, the angle focusing on the area of the building about halfway up on the west side. All the lights in the building are out except for one. I feel a weird, creeping sensation as I start counting the windows from the bottom. Five up, two over, that's my place.

I swore I turned that light out, I think at first. Then I see it. There's a person standing in my window. The camera is zoomed out too far to make out any features, but it definitely looks like a man, and it's definitely standing in my apartment. I watch Petrified as the camera zooms in closer. The reporter babbling out about the overlooked, ill-fated soul,

still trapped in the blazing such and such. As the image gets closer, I start to make out more details. The person is, dancing or something. I don't really know how to describe it, but he's moving around a lot, and everything he's doing has this bizarre rhythmic quality to it. He starts waving his arms in the air back and forth, back and forth, and then he's waving

them up and down at the sides. Then he's banging both fists on the glass. Then he's waving his arms over his head again, back and forth. Everything he's doing is to the exact same tempo. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He starts jumping up and down, waving his arms over his head like he's trying to get someone's attention from a long distance. But everything is to the exact same rhythm.

Over and over again. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. What in the fuck I say? My voice, a hoarse whisper. And then the camera gets a little closer. And finally, we can make out the person's features. It looks almost exactly like me.

It's wearing the exact same clothes that I'm wearing right now. Clothes I changed into moments before leaving the person's features. the apartment earlier. Its face looks almost exactly like mine as well, except for its eyes. Its eyes are far too big for a normal person. It also has its almost comical look of horror on its face. I don't even know how to describe it. Imagine if someone were pretending to be scared but as a joke. It would have almost seemed funny if the circumstances were different, but instead it was just extremely unnerving. No one in the bar is talking now. Everyone is fixed on the TV. The person is still swaying and waving around, beating its hands on the glass or jumping in circles.

I almost don't hear the reporter mention the fact that the firefighters have rushed into the building and are now heading up for my floor. Oh God, I think. Without really understanding what was happening. Please don't go in there. I stare transfixed at the screen. From this angle, you can just barely see the top of my front door through the window. Not too far behind where this creature is flailing around. Right now, it's holding its face in his hands and shaking it.

its head from side to side as if saying no. Suddenly the door behind it bursts open as presumably the firefighters have entered my apartment. The creature stops moving. For a second I see its expression change. The comical look of horror is gone, replaced by a huge smile filled with enormous pointed teeth. Then the lights go out. We all just sat there staring at the screen as the camera slowly zoomed out from the now dark window. No one says anything as we all quietly pay our bill and leave. to my sister's place across town and asked to stay with her. I told her there was a fire at my apartment and that's it. When I tried to find footage from the news online later that night,

it seemed like they all had edited that last part out. I don't know if any of you on this subreddit know what that thing was, but I hope they didn't put out the fire. I hope they let that whole fucking place burn to the ground. A conversation with a stranger on the bus. Huh? I asked, pulling off one side of my headphones. I said I like your boots, the man repeated. Oh, thanks.

I had a bunch of pairs exactly like them for years and years and good working boot, you know? They definitely are. I use them every day on the job. Where is that at? Turner Construction. Ah, yes, yes, you're building that big old thing up on East Avenue, ain't you? Yes, sir, it's going to be one of the biggest in the city. So it seems.

I used to do construction too, you know. That was way back in the day. I started back when your mom was probably a toddler. Oh yeah, with a company or a freelancer. My papa had a small construction and carpentry business. He hired me on when I was, oh, maybe 15 or so. That was all the way back in 1962. We built houses mostly, a couple small apartment complexes,

nothing as big as what you're working on. Did you like it? Boy, you bet your ass I did. Working all day was a free gym membership, ha. Plus, all the perks that came with it? Perks? He smiled. Can you keep a secret boy?

Uh, yes sir? You ever play in a construction site as a child? When I was a little one, me and my buddies would sneak into houses being built and explore them. Maybe break a couple bottles here and there. Yeah, my neighbors and I used to do that when I was a kid. My house was one of the first built in the neighborhood. Then the rest came later, where we probably explored every house in the block before they were finished, when they were just wood skeletons.

Maybe breaking in a couple bottles too, to tell you the truth. Of course he did. Who wouldn't give him the opportunity? But that's all childish stuff. The real perks came later in life when I was an adult. Oh? Oh, yes, boy. Imagine this.

The year is 1980 with no cell phones in sight. You talk about a pretty lady at the local barn headed off. You tell her about your new construction project, and she wants to go see it. Uh-huh. Well, then you take her there. You and her are all alone in a skeleton of a home, as you said. Wouldn't it be a little bit more private back at your own house? More private, sure.

Maybe, but much messier. I paused. How so? Well, you don't just take a girlie down to a construction site at night just to get your didly filled with. You take her for, you know. No. I don't know. For the easy disposal, boy.

Disposal? Yeah, cut the girly up or do whatever her preference is. You do whatever you want to do with her, and you put her under the house. you bury her and your stained clothes under there too. Once the job's done, no one ever see that stuff again. It's gone. Eventually, a brand new house is sitting on top of your deed. The bus rolled to a stop. Well, this is my stop. He stood, patted my shoulder, and I recoiled. He walked off the bus. The only thing running through my mind was a memory. I was a kid no older than six. My friends and I were playing hide and seek. I hid in the crawl space under my front porch. And when I was hiding, I found a pair of

boots half buried in the dirt, the exact same type of boots I was wearing on the bus, the exact same type of boots we'd found in the crawl spaces of every house in our neighborhood. I work as a waitress at a diner, and I think one of our regulars might be the devil. I work at a rest stop diner at a town people pass through as quick as they can on their way to something or someone better. It's called luckies, which is a little ironic because if you've ended up here, you're anything but. If you stay too long, the dust settles, working at Lucky's, you never see the same license plates twice, or faces for that matter. I've lost count of the amount of times the answer to my where you're heading, has been anywhere but back. The lights flicker more often than not, and the

jukebox sometimes spits out songs that aren't on the index cards, but the coffee's hot, and most people who try them say the pancakes are the best they'll ever have. and I'm inclined to agree. The embroidered name tag on my uniform reads Isabella, but that ain't even close to my real name. It was my mom's. Lucky's has been here a long time. I wear it because I like hearing her name said by other people.

It's like she's still here, still coming up in conversation, like she might walk through the door any second and isn't buried in the cemetery just past a strip club. Lucky's is also always open. Always. Working long shifts serving drifters and truckers, and runaways, those who have become impermanent out on the highways. You might get to know how

to read people pretty quickly. When you move around that much, always on the road, you leave parts of yourself behind sometimes, lost between the miles. Sometimes people are just driving because there's nothing else left to do. Working at Luckies, I've seen all sorts of lost things. I once saw a man hit a deer with his truck and pull over to bury it in the red dirt, digging as the sun went down. Tears, a steady flow on his feet. face as he fought the ground to cover up what he had done. I once had a man I recognized from the news leave me a bloodstained 20 eyes a tip, sad-eyed in a denim jacket that barely hid the gun tape to his ribs. I once saw a one-armed girl, no more than 16, stand up on the roof of her car and sing

until a coyote came and sat in front of the hood, howling along. I once saw two women, fist fight in the parking lot in the night outside, until one was spinning blood and teeth, and then they kissed in the blue lights of the police car that happened to pass them by. Faces lit up by red and shining. I've seen the highway on fire, lines of flames between tires as the asphalt set itself a light in the heat. I've seen roadside baptisms, preacher pulled up with a van in a kitty pool. I've seen things walking down in the desert just behind the reach of the neon sign for the motel that don't look quite like people, shifting out in the blue night. I met a woman who showed me a photograph after the place he was buried.

I often met people you can talk with a while until their face starts to flicker. Can't quite hold up the pretense that long. I've met people who have to be invited inside before they can cross the threshold. I've met some lovely members of a sacrificial cult who tipped well and were oh so polite, even when they asked me if I'd ever considered

letting them harvest me. But this is a story about, well, you read the title. It was a Friday, and I was working at night shift. I prefer nights because when I drive home I can pretend for a while that I'm going to follow the taillights at the car in front of me until I leave everything in my rearview mirror. Until it gets light in the desert changes to ocean. Like if I rolled my windows all the way down, I taste salt in the air. That, and I'm one of the only waitresses, shall we say, qualified to deal with the night customers.

Besides, tips are always better when the moon is out. We only have three true regulars and luckies, and only two at chivalves. and only two had showed so far. Rose, Mary, our first and most frequent regular, was sat by the window in her brown fur coat, always drawn about her shoulders come rain or shine. Not that if it ever rained here. Her hair was long and white down her back,

like the moon through a glass. She waved over to me, gracing me with a wink, that made her crow's feet deepen, all the more beautiful for it. Rosemary liked whiskey in her tea. Sometimes she fed cake crumbs to the, the voodoo doll she carried in her pockets. She was also a chronic insomniac and like the company of Luckies when sleep was hiding from her. She continued to shuffle through the deck of cards

she had already set up on the tabletop. I watched her thumbs flipping over two jokers. Rosemary liked to divine the future when she had the time. She used a frayed pack of hotel playing cards, and if she was in a good mood, she'd read you, your coffee grounds. I didn't ask her too much because those coffee grounds had a startling way of coming true. Table 6 was empty and spotless as usual. It was the only table without a salt shaker, and the only one I never placed a coltrion. Only one person ever sat there, our second regular, Jones,

who sat in his usual booth. Dregs of his black coffee held tight between his hands, badge resting on the table. He had his eyes closed, head bent down like he was repenting, steam curling off the lips of the mug, and wrapping around his fingers. fingers. Jones was my favorite of our customers. Not that I'd ever tell him. I walked past the booth and slid a bowl of sugar packets along the tabletop until it hit the mug with a soft clink.

He jumped, reaching for his holster out of habit, until his eyes focused, and he saw me. He smiled, embarrassed, and it changed his face, dragging him back to life. When he smiled, it was like a storm and a drought, made you want to stand and watch, and maybe stay out in it just a while long I wanted to put my hands over his where they had resumed their place on the mug, to feel the second-hand heat through his palms. Sometimes I can sense the saddened people just by the feel of their skin. They'd carry it around with them, bone deep, trying to hide it from the world. But sometimes you can lift it from them for a minute or two.

If you have enough kindness to spare, it doesn't take much most times. Jones was too young to be that sad, and yet, tired today. I jestered with the coffee pot to his half-empty cup. Everyone knew about the little girl he'd pulled from the dumpsters outside the swimming pool last week. She was the fifth one missing in three months. I could tell from the shadows like purple thumbprints beneath his eyes, he'd been dreaming about her. She'd been found without her shoes on.

He'd carried her to the ambulance in her socks, pink with little daisies on him, small in his arms like she was asleep. Lou the fry cook had cried when I told him that the other day. I really liked Lou. He was almost too big to fit through the service door and had a tattoo of his dog just below the one of the angel of death on his shoulder. Lou sheds a tear for most things.

The dead raccoons were always finding by the back door with their hands missing. Whenever there's a new missing poster plaster over the cracked glass of the phone booth in the parking lot, every time he hears I will forever hate roses when it decides to pop up on the jukebox, big guy, bigger heart. Always tired, Joan said as I poured.

Another girl I'd gone missing yesterday. As I poured, I made sure to brush his thumb where it rested on the cup handle with the inside of my wrist, lifting out that sadness as far as I could. He smiled up at me, shy, and I smiled back before I could stop myself. I walked on to the next booth, two truckers with faces that had seen too much sun. One was showing the other the photos of his new baby in his wallet. He had tobacco-stained teeth, a scab on his cheek, and wind-chapped lips. And his smile was the most beautiful damn thing as he talked about his kid.

lit up like Christmas morning. He showed me too as I refilled his coffee, and I stayed and talked to them for a while. The other trucker, with gold-backed teeth, told me how he'd used to drive pigs but couldn't handle the guilt when he handed them over to the slaughterhouse, said he'd look right into their pink faces through the slats, and their eyes looked right back, bright and pleading like they knew what he'd done, said he still drums about them. Now he drove freezers of seafood, specialty deliveries for fancy hotels. He'd never seen the ocean. Lou slammed the bell from the depths of the kitchen, and I got back to work.

Taking orders from a woman with a Labrador who ordered hot dogs to them both, and three teenage boys in their blood-stained varsity jackets in the corner, who had $10 between them and asked for as many waffles as they could get. They often came in on full moons, leaving their bikes chained up in the parking lot. They were always hunting something, with their baseball bats, backpacks filled with bullets and their daddy's guns. But they were nice kids, so I always get to. gave them extra scoops of ice cream. Besides, I knew they needed the energy because when they were

hunting, they had to run fast. Real fast. There used to be four of them. I cleared the table from the two women at the next booth on my way back. They looked to be twins, both dressed in long silk skirts and hiking boots. Red hair piled up messy on top of their heads. Neither of them acknowledged me, Not out of rudeness, but because they were too preoccupied, packing up their bags, overspilling with maps and notebooks. I spied a roll of duct tape and a bottle of vodka in there too, along with some steaks and crucifixes. They were deep in conversation, waving their hands, and I caught a little of it as it stacked their empty glasses, lipsticked around the rims.

I know where I buried him, Sylvia. You don't know Jack's shit. We took for hours, and... My mom always taught me eavesdropping was rude, so I... I left into it and headed into the kitchen. But I got the sense that wherever they had left, whoever he was, he certainly wasn't there no more. I felt like telling them, but like my mom said, it's not polite to listen to other people's conversations. You never know what you'll wish you hadn't heard.

Lou was dancing to the radio, swaying his hips to Sugar Hill as Dolly sang down the wires. He waved at me with a spatula. He was using his microphone. Carlos handed me a plate of pancakes. Carlos had worked here so long he'd know my mom. and was the only one who knew my real name. He sometimes came with me on the weekends to change the flowers on her grave. He always bought her desert flowers, growing from the same earth she was.

Carlos was also the only one who knew the recipe for the Lucky's pancakes, and the only one that could cook them right. On days when he wasn't working, we had no pancakes, simple as. That was just the way it went. I learned that the hard way, but that's another story. Along with the pancakes came a warning. He's back, he gestured through the doors. Table six. Our final regular had showed. It had been a while since he'd been around. I haven't even

seen him come in, but that wasn't unusual. He moved in mysterious ways. I raised an eyebrow. Shit. Carlos raised one back. Oh shit. He tossed me the salt with a grimace, and I filled the pockets of my apron. Lou banged around in one of the staff lockers for a moment until he emerged triumphant, waving a Bible that had definitely seen better days. He placed in on the counter, next to the syrup jugs and flipped to a random page. We leant over his shoulders to read what it said. Keep far from a false charge. You do not kill the innocent and righteous,

for I will not acquit the wicked. Lou shrugged and patted me on the shoulder. I don't get paid enough for this shit. I took the pancakes to table six, which had been empty the last time I'd looked. It was now very much occupied. The man sat at table six with smiling as I walked over, if you could call it a smile.

It was more like Rick, lips straining deep red at the corners of his face. His eyes kept darting from side to side, too fast to count, like his pupils couldn't make up their mind where they should be. His hands shook as I got closer, hovering like flies on a carcass. I tried to lean as far away from him as I could as I placed the plate on the tabletop. But as I pulled my hands away, he darted his neck out fast, whipping his head up and tilted his face toward me.

He sniffed in, hard, eyelids fluttering. He giggled. shrill like it was stuck on the roof of his mouth. I recoiled, trying to hide the urge I had to run back to the kitchen. There's something about hearing a grown man giggle that makes the skin crawl. Can I get you anything? I asked, Faking Bright. I take your name. He gripped one of the pancakes in his fist, turning it to mush.

I tapped the name tag on my uniform. He shook his head, grinning, shoulders almost vibrating with this strange fluid roll as his smile slipped for a second, front teeth jutting suddenly, tongue sharply poking out. Filth was caked under his nails, red like the dirt on the sides of the road. Then he was smiling again, swaying slowly from side to side, feral in his hunting jacket. His hair hung in greasy strings around his ears, like blonde rat tails, and they swung with him back and forth. Isabella. Isabella.

Isabella. It don't suit. He suddenly slammed his hand up to his face, shoveling the crushed pancake into the gaping hole of his wide mouth. I jerked back. The movement was so sudden. I shoved my hands into my apron, reaching for the salt, and his eyes narrowed. There's no need for that, came a voice from behind me. It rolled across my shoulders, deep to the bone. Mr. Prince. I turned to face our third regular, relief mixing with fear in a swirling pit in my chest. Kind of like that feeling you get at a fairground in midsummer. when you've been on a carousel too long. And part of you knows you need to get off, but the other part doesn't want to leave because

you know as soon as you stand still, you're going to be sick. Mr. Prince had that effect on people. Mr. Prince was dressed, as always, in his black pinstripe. His stetson was darker than the night outside, and his boots shone like they were wet. If you didn't notice the upside-down crucifixes embroidered daintly onto his custom labels, you'd think he was just a man with money. maybe mixed up in something in a little shady like oil or pharmaceuticals. He was handsome by the way of his jaw, with his bone white smile,

but his black sunglasses were balanced on the bridge of his nose. Silver rimmed and gleaming, hiding his eyes as usual. When he spoke, it was a drawl, dragged up from the depths of the south. I'm sorry for my acquaintance. He's a little. Mr. Prince glanced at the man sat at table six as he panted with his tongue hung out, like a dog. Over-excited, Mr. Prince sat down, and the lights over the booth flickered.

He tilted his hat back on his head, and the jukebox coughed and skipped, and suddenly, Robert Johnson was on and singing about that damn crossroad again. Mr. Prince popped a marlbo red between his teeth and pushed the window open to silver with the knuckles on his left hand. The silver pentagram ring on his wedding finger clacked against the glass. Mr. Prince smiled, the way snakes do when they're watching you from the grass in their bellies. The cigarette was now smoking between his teeth, although he hadn't moved. Besides, Leroy didn't for the type of salt. He's just a man. He looked him up and down and his

top lip curled. Barely. He turned to Leroy. I see you start on my pancakes, but what's the point of good food if it ain't for Sharon? Leroy giggled that strange high sound that made me want to run and shook a little. Everything about Leroyd made me nervous. Fight or flight getting ready to flood my system. Mr. Prance handed Leroy menu. Whatever you want. He leant forward and the lights flickered. Leroy ordered four cheeseburgers and glass of milk. Well, if that's all, I managed. I could feel Leroy's eyes clinging to my back as the left. Rosemary waved me over before I could get back to the safety of the kitchen.

I wouldn't worry about him, darling. She crossed herself and tapped the card on top of the pile, the jack of spades. It had its eyes scratched out, but not by Rosemary. It looked like it had been printed that way for years. We won't be seeing him again. She wasn't talking about Mr. Prince. She cupped to my cheek and I leant into it, her hand rough with age but warm. I could tell she thought I looked tired. She paid for her tea and toast and walked into the warm night waiting outside the doors. I finally made it back into the kitchen and was immediately attacked. Cold water doused me in the face and I threw up my arms on instinct, trying to protect my hair.

Lou aggressively squirted me in the face with a spray bottle we also kept in the staff locker, the kind you used for attending houseplants. Ours was filled with holy water. Lou, Jesus Christ, get off, I'm... I sputtered, and he spread me again. I spat Holy Water out, dripping down the front of my dress and wiped it from my eyes, makeup running a little. I grabbed the bottle from his hands.

I think I'm good. I wasn't really mad, though, better safe than sorry, especially when it comes to possession. Sorry. Just checking, Lou sheepishly handed me a dish towel. I already did me in, Carlos. He looked down at his shoes awkward. He was a foot taller than me and a decade older, and I hid my smile because he was twisting the toe of his back foot and forth like a little kid been kept after class. Carlos kept his eyes firmly fixed on his hands after he started flipping patties. But I could sense him holding back a laugh, desperately clenching his teeth.

I narrowed my eyes and aimed the spray bottle at him. Maybe you need some more, I threatened. Lou snorted and then Carlos was laughing and I was too, and that heavy feeling that had hovered over us since Mr. Prince had walked in and lifted. Sometimes when things get too dark, all you can do is laugh. Mom always said that when shit gets rough, you can either choose to laugh or cry.

I never saw my mother cry. It was coming up on three in the morning as I took the burgers back to table six. Leroy visibly drooled and clapped his hands as I walked over. I put the plane in front of him as a quick as I could, but as I pulled back his head darted forward, and he licked the inside of my wrist. His tongue was long and wet against my pulse. I recoiled like I'd been bitten, and he laughed, shrill and manic.

You taste better than they will, he said, grinning and gesturing to the burgers. Mr. Prince watched this unfold, calm and unreadable like the sky before summer lighting burns down a tree. I frantically wipe my arm on my apron, but I could still feel that tongue of my skin as if it left my hand in his mouth. I fought off the tears that suddenly burned at the corners of my eyes because something told me, Leroy would enjoy them just a little too much. I shuddered and cleared Mr. Prince's plate. Tell Carlos the banks were good as hell, he said, from behind his sunglasses. Then he chuckled, low and raspy, as if something he'd said was funny. He popped another marble bro between his teeth and it started to glow. As Leroy shoveled meat down his throat, I tried not to gag as I watched

it clogged beneath his long nails. I walked by Jones on my way back. He waved me over, eyes creased with worry. He ran a hand over his face as if he was trying to wipe all the bad things away. Is he bothering you? He gestured over to Leroy, who was rocking back and forth drinking his milk. Jones suddenly looked so tired, uniform creased as his face, looking 50 instead of his 22. Nothing I can't handle while I shook my head and thought about Rosemary. We won't be seen him again. It felt like hours waiting for Leroy to finish. I took the order of a man with a butterfly tattooed on his neck. and some truckers pouring Jim beating into the coffee. They asked me for an extra cup, which they place at the empty seat on their table.

For absent friends, they said. I cleaned down the countertop, re-stocked the sugar packets, and took out the trash, ignoring the man in the rabbit mask that often waits out by the dumpsters. As long as you don't look at him, he doesn't bother you. I refilled coffee cups and took the orders of the large group of biker girls that came in, leather clad and rode wary. At 303 a.m., Mr. Prince stood. Leroy had licked his plate clean and was sitting there,

staring up at him with his teeth, bared in a smile. Hands gripping the tabletop so hard as knuckles were going white as milk. Mr. Prince handed me a roll of bills wrapped in black plastic that I knew better than to count. He tipped his hat. See, Leroy? We all got to pay eventually, he said. He leaned in and spoke softly.

For I will not acquit the wicked, he smiled. He held out his hands of Leroy, palm-flat waiting. Leroy's hand shook as he reached into the hunting jacket and pulled out a pair of shoes. A child's shoes, small enough that both could fit in one hand. Little pink sneakers, dirty, with brown stains on the toes that I knew could only be one thing. Mr. Prince considered them a moment, under the lights, and shook his head. He seemed like he was sorry before he handed them to me. For your man over there, tell him to dig deeper where they look.

looked last. He noted to Jones, who was watching us, his badge gripped in his hand. But Jones knew better than to come over. Mr. Prince turned to Leroy and grinned around a cigarette. We've got a ways to go. The road were taken. They say it's paid with good intentions. He chuckled, and I felt sick to my stomach. He took Leroy's hands like a child, and they walked down to the night, warm and waiting. The door swung shut behind them, even though nobody had touched them. The jukebox sputtered, and Chris Ray was on, singing about that road again. I placed the shoes on the table by Jones' empty coffee cup and passed on the message.

He sat still for a long time after, just watching them on the tabletop, trying not to cry or scream or punch a hole in the plaster. All I could do was refill his coffee, because when someone is trying to hold themselves together like that, there's nothing left to say. My shift ended, and I drove myself home, following the taillots in front of me.

I knew when I woke up, it would be dark, and it would be time for my next shift. But for now, I just drove, dreaming about the ocean, and watching the sun come up like it always does, despite everything. Come to Daddy. You'd probably be surprised at the number of bodies one can find out in the desert. You'd probably be even more surprised at how often people play with the bodies. But I don't know, since most of us are tweakers or disadvantaged youth's doomed to repeat the mistakes

of her alcoholic mothers and abusive fathers. Maybe you wouldn't be surprised at all. My best friend Cameron found last winter's corpse du jour, an old man in a dilapolated trailer. A white beard matted with corpse juice hung past his bony knees, so Cameron brought him a Santa hat from the dollar tree and christened him, Satan Claus.

Satan Claus was a popular attraction among the high desert's underbelly until Gidget Gagoon blabbed to her brother, who was a deputy shot. sheriff. This pissed Cameron off. He didn't grow up here, so he didn't understand the rules. There's always a snitch. There's always a whiner. There's always a freak. And there's always someone who fantasizes about killing you. Even if he understood, he'd never have believed that I was both a freak and the person who fantasized about killing him. I'd known Cameron since we were

teenage patients at a county psychiatric facility. It was the first time in our lives either of us had a security or structure. I miss it, honestly. We moved in together the second we could. For the record, we aren't lovers. We never even experimented. I couldn't separate sex from trauma and didn't particularly want to try,

so I was voluntarily celibate. This enchanted Cameron because he has a Madonna-slash-hor complex the size of Babylon. I was his pure, unsolied princess. This is why I paid half my bill, supported me emotionally,

and asked nothing in return. That's not to say he didn't have sex. Cameron was a bona fide man whore. That's the only reason he wants to raves and parties, the girls. We're at just such a party the night I met Daddy. The party was in a bashed up warehouse that smelled like road killing alcohol. Cameron stayed glued to my side for a while, I guess to make sure no one else was souped in to fuck his Madonna off her pedestal.

But it didn't last. It never does. A girl I recognized vaguely. waist, length, black hair, and makeup you could scrape off with the putty knife, was eyeing him ostentaneously. I thought it was disrespectful to the untrained eye. Cameron and I were a couple, after all. Now, Cameron was drunk by this point. He gets handsy when he's drunk, even with me. So I culled it up and wrapped myself around him. He was enjoying it. Cuddling doesn't break the Madonna pedestal. It just makes him feel special. But I messed up. We were sitting in the corner, starting to play around,

He was looking at me in a way no one else ever does, bright and warm and hopeful, like I'm the most important person in the world. I could feel myself teetering on the edge of the pedestal. Then he leaned in to kiss me. I panicked. Before I knew it, I was running. I pretended I was flying that I dash outside and leap into the air taking flat among the mad whirl of constellations.

I could almost see it. The warehouse shrinking as I gained altitude, the night wind cooling the sick heat inside me, for a mad moment felt the feathers spread around. for my skin, itchy and hard and growing fast. I made it outside and halted. No feathers, no flight, no night wind scraping the brokenness sky away. By the time Cameron found me, the night's chill had settled into my bones and I was shivering, only when he tapped my shoulder that I realized I'd been crying. I wiped my eyes hastily and turned. The black-haired girl lingered several feet away. She had a small smile halfway between anxious and satisfied. Hey, Cameron slurred slightly.

Dmitriya and I are leaving. Will you get home okay? Her name's not Dmitria. I said in a bored as tone as I could muster. It's Brittany. All at once, he looked a lot less drunk. You know her name doesn't matter, don't you? We stared at one another for it, felt like a terribly long time.

He was waiting for someone and I knew it. But I couldn't give it, even if I could. I'd stop mattering the second he got it. Don't keep her waiting, Cameron. His face somehow drew upward, then fell into a flat smile. He gave me a half-ass wave and left with Dimitria. I counted into 1,000, then went back inside. A humid rush of sweat, piss and beer burbs crashed over me like a wave.

The crowd writhed and squirmed like maggots. Music blared. Bargand, bin, lights spun over everything. It all seemed so pointless. Nothing would be accomplished here tonight. Nothing would ever be accomplished here on any night. I looked down at the floor. Amid that chewing gums, spilled drinks, gouges, and stains,

I saw three words written in the black Sharpie. Come to Daddy. An arrow underneath pointed east. I looked up at the pointless party, and I thought of Cameron. Of the way he looked at me. You'd be given that look to Demetriot just now. I followed the arrow. Halfway across the warehouse was another message and another arrow.

Keep coming. I followed it to the back wall, to another Sharpie message. Hurry, Daddy's waiting for you. This arrow was absurdly long. and pointing to a bland door I wouldn't have noticed otherwise. I opened the door. Cold, foul air swept over me. I gulped a deep breath.

It was preferable to the sweat-heavy humidity behind me. Before me was a set of rickety metal stairs. I descended and found myself rewarded with another message. Daddy's coming through the back. I turned into a low concrete corridor lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Something came into view at the other end, bony. Huddled and terribly small. A body.

Its head lay tilted against the wall, open jaw yawning up at the ceiling. Overhead, painted in streaky letters was a single word. Daddy. An oil drum sat next to Daddy. I withdrew gagging when I saw the half-wroughton sludge of dead vermin at the bottom. A nightstand sat on his other side, bearing a plastic container filled with Hershey kisses. A hand-lettered sign read, Give Daddy a kiss.

This crazy bullshit was enough to salvage the night, smirking slightly I unwrapped a kiss and popped it into daddy's gaping mouth. A second later, he shuddered and began to chew. His head lulled weakly. With a heavy grunt, he flopped forward so that his eye sockets were trained on me. Something glinted within, dark and iridescent like dirty oil. He swallowed the kiss and spoke. What do you want from me? Terror and mirth whirled together in a magic tornado. What? He lured forward. Desiccated body. hitting the concrete with a clatter. I can give you one thing, any one thing, what shall it be? I thought about it. I really did. If wish-granting, Hershey-loving corpses exist, might as well take advantage of the wish, except I didn't know what to wish for. I didn't want to be normal.

People like Dmitri are normal. I didn't want another life. Why bother when I barely want to live? I couldn't have Cameron. He'd have to turn into something he's not before that would ever be a possibility. I didn't want money. I didn't want a house. I didn't want a better job. All of these are changes. At some point, every change causes pain. I've had enough pain for a lifetime. I don't know, I said. Daddy's dark eyes flared. That does complicate things. He smiled, papery skin, cracked and split like porcelain varnish. But it makes them interesting. Give me a rat. He pointed to the vermin barrel. I need protein. It didn't occur to me to me. to resist. This was the first time in memory that I actually felt alive. I snatched a mushy tail from

the morass. Only half a rat emerged, melting into a translucent wrap before my eyes. I tossed it to Daddy, who lunged like a spanel and caught it in his mouth. He swallowed it whole, then said, I can tell you the deepest desire of your heart and give it to you. Why? Because I can. This was the only justification I recognized, the only one I believed, the only one. The only one that made sense. Then do it. Not that simple. I need energy. More rats? Well, of a kind, he chuckled, but not exactly. He watched me expectantly. Those sockets glinted madly, reflecting every color under the sun and several I couldn't describe. Music thumped from upstairs. Losing, trickles of dust and reverberating through Daddy's layer. I don't get it. People. I need people. I need people, or

rather parts of people, skin, eyes, hair, livers. I eyed him suspiciously, wondering just how fast this monkey's paw motherfucker could run. You get all of those for me. You're my client. Clients pay the provider's price. You pay this provider's price and bodies. I need two eyes, two lungs, one stomach, one liver, one skin. He continued rattling off seemingly every organ in the human body. Then he finished, and each must come from a different person. I contemplated this briefly. You'll show me what I want. Something, I added silently, that will make me happy, and you'll give it to me? I swear on my name, which is, he wagged a finger. Sorry, darling, names are power here, but on oath upon my name, spoken or otherwise, is unbreakable. I watched him. He smiled widely. The thin remains

of his mummified skin split and flaked off like snow. Under the lights, he looked like a cross between a Halloween decoration and a bad Photoshop project, except for his eyes. Those dark, writhing masses of nearly hidden color, I turned around and went back up to the party. Almost immediately I spied a long, shimmering curtain of black hair across the floor. For a triumphant moment, I thought it was Demetria, but no. She resembled Demetri, though, and that was enough for me. She wandered around nervously, a tragically overgrown little girl lost. I pretended I was her right home and let her downstairs. Daddy warped and shuddered and grew into something that blotted the lights,

something I couldn't look at without panicking and swallowed her whole. I kept my eyes closed until Daddy cleared his throat. He'd grown skin, thick and fleshy, lipless. He reminded me absurdly of a squashly upholstered sofa. Dull, cracked teeth, glinted in the recessed mouth. Will I have more tonight? I got Daddy a stomach, two eyes, and a liver before the night was done. I chose dirty, dusty men, the kind that looked as if they've been sucked dry.

Homeless tweakers, people who, for all intents and purposes, have already disappeared. I know how sick it is, but please try to understand. The only things I ever feel are fear and panic, and that only happens when someone touches me unexpectedly. Can you imagine what it's like? To be dull and empty like a reptile? except when you're accidentally triggered into reliving the worst moments of your awful life, I'd have given anything to change that, anything to have something that would make me happy. So I fed daddy people that no one would miss.

It's easy to find them if you know what to look for. Men with sucked in faces who ride children's bicycles, women with nice bodies and ancient haunted faces, dust-cake teenagers and old men sleeping under tarps in the desert. It took a month. In that month, Cameron began to date Demetriot. She spent more time in my apartment than I did. After I walked in on her blowing him after a long shift,

I went to my room started to pack. I don't have much, so it didn't take long. Cameron caught me as I dropped the last bag in the trunk. His eyes were wet. She doesn't mean anything, he said. I slammed the trunk shut. Then that makes you shitbag, Cameron. Tell me to dump her.

I'll do it. I'm not your mommy. He ran his hands through his hair. His lips started to tremble, loathily and exploded through me. You're the most important person in my life. only because I can't be. I climbed into my car and drove off. After a couple of brutally cold nights under the stars, I moved into the warehouse with Daddy. He sang lullabies and fed me hursty kisses

from that dirty plastic bowl. No matter how many I ate, the bowl never emptied. Daddy didn't expect conversation, affection, or any attention at all. All said and done, it was relief. I still went to work, of course. Cameron came in every night. I felt a cruel surge of triumph wherever he wandered in. He still looked at me as he always had, like I was the only person that mattered. Then Dmitri followed him. The fight was a truly spectacular example of a white trash beatdown. He and Dmitri were banned, and I got written up. It didn't really bother me. Then I found a raggedy fat man in foul-smelling clothes out behind the restaurant. I told him he could stay at my house if he wanted. He was slow, childlike, and took me at my word. Daddy ate him out quickly and spit the bones into the rat barrel. Then he burped. A norm was

fleshy cheeks beating like sails in the wind and sat down. We're almost done, he said. Only one body left. I did a quick calculation. Two, a heart and a brain? He chuckled indulgently. I've had a brand in all this time. All I need is a heart. By this time, Daddy looked like a cross between Nosferato, Frankenstein's monster, and a Picasso painting, pale, fleshy, and muscular, with ridiculous fabio hair and a thick and decently red mouth that didn't quite fit his skin. He had only one green eye and one brown eye, in place of whites, that murky, oily, rainbow continued to squirrel. I'll find it tonight, I told him.

He hesitated theatrically. There's a special rule from the heart. My skin tightened. I need your heart. My pulse beats slow and heavy in my throat. That's against the rules. He laughed. You misunderstand.

I don't need this, he tapped my chest. Tired little muscle. I need your heart. Only it's inside someone else. What? I asked Levilly. Are you talking about? A heart that is yours is a heart that loves you.

You mean Cameron? He smiled and nodded. I almost left. But why? Cameron doesn't really love me. He loved his illusion. His pure little princess. Someone he couldn't touch.

Someone who was too good to be touched. It was a paradox. The moment he got what he wanted would be the moment he lost it. but he could help me get what I wanted. If he really loves me, that would make him happy. Wouldn't it? I drove to my old apartment and knocked. Cameron answered the door, smelling like dirty clothes and whiskey.

His eyes went wide when he saw me. Then he started to cry. She's gone, he said. I'm so sorry. I've got nothing to be sorry for. I came inside, held him. He got Hansy. I let him.

Maybe because I was expecting at this time, or maybe because there was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. It was okay. Not enjoyable. My heart raced and I felt sick, and he was too intoxicated to do a whole lot, but he was gentle and careful. He got what he wanted. Before he could realize that he knocked his angel off his pedestal, before he could take my heart away, I talked him into a drive. The drive to the warehouse was the happiest I'd ever seen him. I led him through the warehouse, pausing every minute or two for a hug or a kiss. That was fine. It was good to make him happy. Quid pro

quo. Only when he saw Daddy, hulking and grinning under the fluorescent lights, did Cameron realize that something was wrong. Daddy stood up. He looked awful, nine feet tall and completely wrong, a hybrid of every childhood nightmare. Get back, Cameron told me. Daddy charged. Cameron shoved me towards the stairs. I felt his hand on my back, felt his pulse beating through his wrist for a fraction of a second. Then Daddy grew, bolting the lights, bones creaking and cracking as he exploded into something I couldn't comprehend. And then, like all the others before him, Cameron was gone. My heart began to pound from grief or excitement. I couldn't tell. We're done, I said. So where is it? Where is what, Daddy's stretch look seriously? What I want. I can feel my blood pressure rising,

the thing I want. You mean the deepest desire of your heart? Yes. He grinned and dropped to his haunches, posing like a runner about to take off. Here it is. He took a deep. He took a deep, breath. The stillness was excruciating, poised overhead like a crushing weight. Then Daddy opened his mouth and threw up, bloody and foul, full of shattered bones and flesh. It flooded toward me like a tide, and floating within it, a pale crown jewel was Cameron's head. Daddy girked up a final outpouring of viscera and settled back. There it is. My skin prickled and stung. I thought of feathers, small and hard and piercing the skin as they forced their way up. I turned and ran. I'd not fly through the air, but I flew across the sand. Stars lit my way,

a million eyes glazing the desert in silvery darkness. Sometime around dawn, just as gold and red bloomed across the horizon, I tripped and fell. I remember watching the sunrise. Then everything went dark. Cameron found me. When we got home, he helped me into the shower. I sat blankly as dust and dried blood scurled around the drain. After 20 minutes, he helped me out and put me in put me to bed. I fell asleep quickly. I woke around mid-afternoon. Sun streamed through the window. Cameron slept beside me. His shirt was hiked up halfway over his back, revealing what looked like a tattoo. I lifted a shirt, half expecting to see Demetri's embellished name and froze. Non-name, not even a tattoo. Just seven words written in black sharpie. Give Daddy a little more credit, honey.

You're going to notice a woman in your home. You must have ignore her. It was December of 1999 when she infested our quiet, Midwestern home. My father called for me from downstairs. I assumed it was time for dinner. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs and at his hand up an effort to keep me from coming down. The moment I saw the panic in his eyes, I knew something was wrong. I want you to listen to me very carefully, he said. My heart started to race as he continued. It's very important that you keep your eyes on me. You're going to notice someone else in our home, but you must ignore her as much as possible. I almost started laughing, my 12-year-old mind trying to comprehend what he was getting at, assuming this was some sort of

out-of-character joke. Before I could respond, he continued. She's going to whisper things, follow you, and whatever else she can to get your attention. It's going to be very difficult, son, but you must never interact with her. I promise she will leave, but only if you pretend she isn't there and try not to think about her. Promise me. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, but I was too frightened and confused. I managed to spit out. Okay, Dad.

All right, come downstairs. It's time for dinner. Hurry. I've made her stronger just by telling you, but I had to. I can't afford you looking at her by mistake. Trust me. Now stay focused, he barked. I did as I was told and slowly crept down the stairs, keeping my eyes glued to my father's

as he backpedaled into the kitchen. I felt the temperature dropped significantly as I reached the first floor. I smelled a familiar, sickening, and sour scent in the air. It reminded me of the time I raccoon died in our wall and stunk up the house for a whole week. My father and I sat down on the table at the same time. My sister was across from me. Her head hung in her eyes stared at the empty porcelain plate in front of her. My mother pulled a casserole out of the oven.

Her eyes were swollen and tear-stained. I kept my focus on my family, but out of the corner of my eye I could see a blurry mess of dark, matted hair and sickly gray skin. There was no energy in the kitchen, drained of all the warmth and laughter that usually accompanied our meals. My sister grabbed my knee under the table and whispered, Can you see her too? I nodded. Quiet, my father hissed.

The woman walked forward with wet, cracking footsteps. The smell was nauseating. She crept towards the table, stopping directly behind my table. sister only a few inches away and rested a decrepit hand on her shoulder. She winced in fear and stared at me. I immediately put my head down. My mother served our dinner, doing her best to pretend as if everything was okay. I could see my father clutching my sister's hand underneath the glass table in attempt to keep her from completely losing it. My sister spent the entire dinner with a skeletal hand on her shoulder. Nearly inaudible whispers spewed from the woman's mouth and filled the room like

white noise. And that's how we live for months, doing our best to live in normal life despite the ever-present, unwanted guest. Even if we left the house, she would somehow able to follow us all. Whenever the four of us were in the car, she could be seen in the rearview mirror, standing on the side of the road. My parents didn't let anyone visit, and never let us stay at friends' homes during the months of hell. We were able to whisper to one another when it was absolutely necessary to discuss her presence if she wasn't too close. My father made us promise to never leave. tell anyone. That was the only way to quarantine her, the parasite of attention. We concluded that she infected a single household at a time, unable to be seen by anyone outside the home unless their mind

had been tainted with the knowledge of her existence. I learned a few years later that my father was the reason for her rival. His sister, back in the 70s, had been infected from another and it followed my aunt into their home. In 1999, for whatever reason, my father struggled to keep the thought of her at bay. In turn, he brought her back into his life and ours. We got the promise of keeping her a secret from others, and it was the hardest thing we've ever done. All of us tried leaving the house as a group, and she followed. We couldn't bring herself to break our family apart. It was hardest for my mother, who was stuck alone with her while we're at school, my father was at work. Everything changed the day my mother broke. It was a snowy February night. We had finished dinner,

and my mother decided to go to bed early. She was sitting on their bed, making herself almost impossible to ignore. My mother couldn't take it. I heard her screaming from the bedroom, demanding that she leave us alone. My father sprinted it upstairs to try and stop her. That was the last I ever saw of my mother. A pool of blood on the white carpet was all that remained. The woman was still there, but my mother was gone. In the following week, she whispered to me. She told me, I could see her. I could see her see my mother again. All I had to do was look and ask how. I never did. The reason I am telling you is because I want you to think about her. I saw her again this morning for the first time in 18 years. I cannot afford to lose my wife or children to the parasite. I need you to think about her dark hair

and gray skin. Think about her in your home so that she may leave mine. You're already infected. and eventually you're going to notice a woman in your home. You must ignore her. It's for your own good. I'm so sorry. My mom left me a set of tapes to watch after she died. My mom was the sort of person to look like a wallflower until you got close and then spout out facts about her favorite animal.

It was an emperor penguin. She said their journey for love and parenthood was the hardest and most connecting with her. I'm told all the usual things about her. She had a smile that could light up a room, her laugh cut through the molasses of an awkward party, her stride was confident and her form was elegant. From the day I could understand what it was to be remembered, she was painted to me as a true goddess. After all, aren't all moms supposed to be that to their children growing up? Mom died when I was four.

Aggressive cancer riddled her body with tumors, stole her stride, her smile, her laugh, everything in just 18 short months. I didn't see her for much of it, but if I did, I obviously didn't remember. I heard somewhere we don't start forming memories until we're about two years old and implicit memories. Those unconscious memories that stick with us automatically aren't even until we're seven. So essentially, my mother was already dead for three years. Before, I could even unconsciously think of the word mom and go to her face. A face I was stolen from me.

A face that I'll never see. I'm giving you this background information now because it's vital that you understand my mom before we get into the thick of it. I can't sit here and tell you I love my mom unconditionally. I didn't know her. Dad was never in the picture, so grandparents were where I was shipped off to. Good people. Kind people. They raised me on stories of my mom and made sure to do the one thing she'd requested when her sickness finally got her.

Show Nick the milestone tapes. For those unaware, a milestone tape is something where a loved one, usually a parent, records a loving video to congratulate their kin on a moment they're missing out on. First day of school, marriage, you get the picture. I remember being five years old. I not long tripped on the stairs after miscalculating my steps and smashed my front tooth on the top step, sending my first baby tooth flying. Thankfully, the pain was short-lived in my mind. I was mere days from my birthday, and a surprise trip to Disneyland was coming up. In the middle of packing, I was sat down in front of the TV with my grandpa, Malai,

and him putting in the pristine discs. It got a logo flashing up on the screen still burned into my retinas to this day. Gone, but not deleted. A video message from Lenora Standowski. The image would flicker for just a moment. Always just a moment each time. Then she'd appear. A young woman sat in a piece.

black leather armchair with a small table to her side and patterned wallpaper behind her. She was in her late 20s with raven black hair tied in a messy bun. Strands curled and dangling down her porcelain face, a beauty mark sitting just beneath the right eye. The pair of them shining like emeralds that caught the first ray of sunshine. Black lipstick gave way to shimmering teeth and a smile that made even an oblivious little me feel lost. Hi, Pumpkin. It's Mommy.

I hope my little prince is watching the throne while I'm away. How can you be nearly six years old and already losing your baby teeth? You're growing up too fast, little man. She puffed out her cheeks and she feigned a frown before giggling. My heart sank in my chest. I knew something wasn't right, even then. Her tone was playful, buoyant, and full of joy, like she'd never missed a moment of my life.

Make sure you put your tooth under your pillow tonight. Dad and Molly will make sure the tooth fairy comes and nothing else. She raised a single finger with a wink, posing for a moment before her face fell. Her posture sank, and she fell back into the armchair tad, growing smaller as she coughed. After a moment, she cleared her throat with a quiet dignity and made sure the hand she coughed into went out as a shot as she fixated on the camera with a weak smile. Mommy loves you, my little crown prince, close your eyes and breathe with me. I looked at my grandfather and with tears streaming down his face and a bite on his lip,

he put a hand on my shoulder and nodded. I did as I was told and took a long breath in, the air cold and filling my lungs, intoxicating me as I heard her words. The same words I'd come to hear at the end of every video she recorded. I'll always be with you. And so it went. For every milestone I undertook, there was an accompanying video. When I graduated middle school, when I rode my first bike,

Even when I broke my first bone, she had a video ready. I was around 11. When biking home from school, I collided with a speeding driver. The bastard didn't even stop as my small body careened over his windscreen, rolled over the hood and smashed into the concrete, tearing my right arm to pieces. Passer buyers said it was a freak accident, that the car just appeared out of nowhere and then vanished. But hell, what do hidden drivers do? Speed, speed, speed. medicated up to my eyes and sitting up in the hospital, Grandpa handed me a mini-d-d-player and the familiar face shot up.

I can never tell you in these earlier videos if those were done back-to-back or months apart, but Mom still looked radiant, I'll bleed with more coughing in each iteration. Hi, Pumpkin, it's Mommy. Though I'm sure by now you're probably cringing at the mere mention of me referring to myself that way. Oh God, do people still say cringe?

It's hard to know when the world you're in is like anymore, but moms are never supposed to be cool, are they? She chuckled, a fairway look in her eyes the pit of my stomach expanded. No, I thought, tears in my eyes, gripping the sheets with my good hand. I want you to say those things. I want you to embarrass me. Well, if you're watching this, then you've broken your first bone. I hope it's a bit later in life and not when you're so upset you can't even hear me, but sweetie, this is an important life lesson that I want.

wanted to be there for. Pain happens. It's a part of our world and everyone in it must experience it. Sometimes it's physical, like now when your body hurts so much that you want to yell and cry out. Sometimes it's emotional, which you get when someone upsets you, hurts your feelings, something you might also feel from seeing my face right now, which I'm sorry for. She trailed off, that weak smile plastered across her face like the greatest lie ever told. She took a breath and I heard the quivers in her voice, both from sadness and from sickness. But you're my little crown prince, and while you're watching the throne, I know you'll do great things and overcome anything that stands in your way. You know why? Why, I breathed, my body radiating with hot pain, but my heart

aching. I leaned in, as she leaned in, like sharing a secret only we would ever know. Because you're my son, and my love for you will push you to do anything. She's a little. She's She whispered, my face involuntarily growing into a smile without even realizing, just don't look at the wall behind me. My eyes were fixed on hers, a small sliver of the background visible behind her ear. As my eyes slowly broke from her gaze and traveled over, she spoke again. Don't. A frantic whisper escaped her lips.

My eyes snapped back as a pale shade shifted out of my sight, blinking once I saw she was sitting back in the chair, talking as if nothing had happened. Had I dosed off, I was on high pain medication. It wasn't impossible. I'm running out of time. They're only supposed to be short, so I'll finish up here. Mommy loves you. My little crown prince.

Close your eyes and breathe with me. Again, I did as instructed and heard a distinct creaking sound from the speakers. Undoubtedly, her sitting into her chair. I'll always be with you. So the years went, fewer milestone videos popped up. Some of them were simply mundane or not that noteworthy. not why we're here, but the usual events. First day as a freshman, last day as a senior, prom night, and even an embarrassing one, wherein a 17-year-old me had the most uncomfortable 15 minutes of being

explained dating etiquette and safe sex by my long-gone mother. By the time I'd reach 21, only four tapes remained. Grandpa Mahali had passed and Grandma Suza was getting on, so they were given to me with the obvious instruction to not watch them until the time was right. And this is the part where things take a turn. A bad breakup, bad life choices, even worse friendship choices with substances readily available, a lifetime of insecurities stemming form, and no parental figures, all the love in the world to my grandparents, but it's not the same. And a series of videos from your long, dead mom are enough to fuck anybody up. So I grabbed a bottle, some pills and put on the next video, planning to binge them before I took my leave. I mean, fuck it. What's the harm if I'm ending it all,

The video flickered and cast a long shadow across my dismal apartment before the visage of my mom came into focus. It's been a couple of years since the last video and in my emotionally unstable, drunken state, I was not prepared for what I saw. Emaciated, sunken eyes and a slack jaw, her tongue hanging out and dropping to the bottom of her chin. Thick, pungent saliva, with her concave chest heaving under the weight of the oxygen machine wrapped around her face, A looming shadow with two bright blue orbs for eyes and jagged pillars for teeth, wrapping its arms around her. It locked eyes with me and cocked its head to the side.

New, it croaked. My skin bubbling with fear and chilling my blood. I'd never felt a horror like it. It felt like it knew me and saw into me. I recoiled and in my cocktail of fear and horror, wretched up everything I'd downed not ten minutes earlier, A torrid mixture of bile, acid, pills and booze spread over my carpet as tears ran down my face. My stomach ached and every cell in my body screamed at me in protest.

The thoughts swirling in my thick skull were that of disappointment, disgust, and repulsiveness. I felt weak, alone and broken as I collapsed onto the floor in the fetal position sobbing, sweetie, its mom. Through blurred eyes and a haze of pain, I looked at the TV, half expecting some emaciated creature to learn. lurched through, but there was my mom. She looked tired, her hair now matted to her head and exhaustion racking her bones, but beauty radiating through her as she held her hands in her lap and leaned forward, smiling. If you're watching this, then things are bad. I don't know how bad, but I can guess. Grandpa wouldn't have let you watch this if you'd gotten your heartbroken, or at that age where emotions are as high as a kite and just as volatile, so I can assume that, much like

me, you're in a bad place. She coughed, and I felt the need to sit up and gave her my full attention. This woman, no more than six years my senior frozen in time, still finding ways to command my attention with her every word. It was like I was five again. Sweetie, I know I can't talk to you like a child anymore, so I won't. Honestly, I'd been so excited to see you grow up. Go through that phase where we bicker and argue over small things before finally setting in the longest and most beautiful phase of her family dynamic. I watched her lips quiver and eyes glaze over, my own mirroring as she shakily concluded, the one where we're best friends who always look out for each other. That broke me. Every emotion I'd trained myself to hide away when kids started asking questions I

couldn't answer, situations I'd wanted my mom in, moments I felt alone. I let it out in one volatile evening of self-healing. The words on that tape echoing in my head long after it stopped playing. The road ahead will be tough without me. It was always going to be. But you're the crown prince and you'll eventually have that throne. Survey your kingdom and know you can do anything and conquer anything. It's getting closer now, but we still have some time left. So don't let whatever is going on beat you, nor the thing after that.

The penguins didn't they? Did they? I'm sure Grandpa told you, but they're my favorite. Those little bird share the burden of peasant. Hernhood. Walk over a hundred miles and nearly starve to cultivate new life. I'd do it all of that and more for you, honey, because she closed her eye, and I did too. Without prompting, we set it together. I'll always be with you. It took time to get better. All things do. I would spend so many nights in withdrawal with my shakes, vomit, and staring up at a horrific beast looming over my head,

like the thing on the TV but fogier. I'd imitate my movements and try to get close. I'd imitate my movements and try to get closer. With every step, its eyes would glow just a bit brighter. Everything else remaining shrouded in the darkness, even if light passed through my curtains. I don't know how I made it through that time of my life. One night, as it made its way to the foot of my bed, I closed my eyes and breathed on instinct, recited my mother's mantra. I suppose in moments of crisis, we turned to our most personal coping mechanisms, and I wasn't about to go back to the bottle. When I finished, it was gone. Over the years, I completed my program, got clean, and went through therapy to cope with grief. When I hit 26, I met the second most important woman in my life, Natalie. She knew what it was like to go through pain,

to go through suffering alone, to play with the wrong demons. We fell in love, we got engaged and eventually married. As she had been countless times before, Mom was there to congratulate us. Natalie had seen some tapes, but this was her first one that, in its own way, was directed to her. Mom was nearing the end by this point. Her thin frame barely clinging to her always beautiful dresses, and her skin beginning to stretch like paper. She took great gulps of air from the oxygen tank before talking, but somehow retained that exuberance she'd always had. I knew you'd find someone wonderful eventually, Nick. Penguins always find their mate for life, and you'd be no exception. She giggled through strained coughs, turning her head slightly, as if she could see Natalie.

I don't know you, but I bet you're the most beautiful woman in the world if my crown prince chose you. Well, after me, of course. Another laugh, this time accompanied by tears from the two of us. There's just one more to go. So look after each other. Love well and experience everything you can. And don't forget, Natalie gripped my hand with her left, a hand on her bump with the right as we close her eyes. I could hear the scratching sound more prominently now, but I kept my eyes shut, not wanting to ruin the moment. I'll always be with you. We are so excited to have a baby. Natalie had come from a big family and was eager to start expanding her own. Even though I was reluctant, I couldn't help but share in her enthusiasm

when so many late nights were spent fawning over baby names, cute outfits, and lofty plans for the future on how our kid would even behave around us, determined to be cool parents. But in between all of that, my mind would cast back to those tapes of my mom, the only parent I really knew. I wanted to use them as a guidebook for my own steps. She'd been such an integral part of life. It seemed odd to not have her in it now.

Keeping the last tape separate, I rewatched the entire set one by one, reliving those moments I couldn't truly appreciate until my own burgeoning journey into parenthood. But when I got to the broken bone tape, I froze. Once again, she leaned into the camera and whispered, eyes full of fright and panic. Don't look. I pushed pause in the video and took a moment.

surely I was just highly medicated at the time. There couldn't really be anything there, right? So why was I so reluctant to move my eyes to write it to find out? Taking a breath, I moved the video frame by frame and watched the corner where her face didn't cover. That shadow. That same fucking shadow looming in the background, eyes burning red with fury. Don't look. Don't look.

Don't look. Don't look. I jumped. The video was skipping. Stuck on the sounds of my mind. mother's panic-stricken voice, begging me not to stare, but I couldn't help it. I stared and watched this creature take confident, unnatural and twitchy strides from the background, getting ever closer to the camera. I saw the muscles on its face twist and eutolate as it pressed its cheeks

up into a twisted grin. The sight of rotten earth and unspeakable things at its mouth all displaying themselves in full glory as it intended one word that sent screams through my home before shunoff. soon. Natalie was eight months gone, petite in a history of prior drug abuse. They said her heart just couldn't take it. Her body gave out, and that it was a miracle our daughter survived.

I took it all in, and yet none of it as I cradled my entire universe in my arms. The second, greatest woman, had ever known now taken from me too. Phoebe, I breathed, unable to take my eyes off her perfect little face as she slept soundly, just 12 feet from her dead mother.

Her name is Phoebe, and she is the crown princess. Somewhere in the corner of my eye, a shadow cast itself over Natalie's bed, right as they put the sheep's over her. From that night on, there was always be noises outside our home, always faint howling, always a solitary spot in the front of the property where no light could touch it. For a while, forgot about the videos, forgot about everything that wasn't Phoebe. Raising her became priority number one, and I would work any extra hours I needed to.

Give up any friendship I had to, in spite myself in whatever way it was necessary, to ensure that my perfect girl slept soundly at night. It wasn't until Phoebe's second birthday last week that I finally got the courage to dig out the videos and watched the last one. How many times that I sat in home, emotionally destroyed, and had at a crossroads in my life, waiting to see this woman's face and hope she'd somewhat have the magic words to guide me. As the picture flicked her on, the logo shining up on screen, I cast my head. head back with a mixture of surprise and sadness as I realized the significance of the year.

I was older than her now. Hi, sweetie. I guess we finally reached then, huh? Her voice sounded younger. I looked down and saw her standing up. No chair or wallpaper in sight. It looked like she was recording this in her bedroom, a picture of health, all things considered. Her eyes read from crying, but her voice unwavering, like she prepared these words carefully.

This is technically the final video for you, but the first for me. Weird how this all works, but this is how it needs to happen. If you're watching this, you've got your own little princess to protect. The crown prince has now become the king, and I couldn't be prouder. She beamed, but my stomach tightened at those words, your own little princess. I breathed my chest tightening. How did you know? I imagine you're now wondering how I know. Well, that's not the important part. What's important

is if you saw what you think you saw within the videos, between the frames, there's something lurking here, Nick, something ancient. I felt the house shudder, settling into place, no doubt, but I couldn't separate myself from the fear running through my body. It feeds on misfortune. It watches from the shadows and waits for small, tiny windows to make itself known. I don't know where it came from or what it is, but I don't know where it came from or what it is, but I I know what it wants. A rumbling behind me, the sound of wood splintering and creaking, the unmistakable sound of taping that had heard every time we did the mantra at the end of the video.

I was shaking, but I didn't want to stop watching. It wants us, Nick. We seem to be a source for it. When it finishes using us, it moves on. A long time ago, I was told that if I captured it in film, solidified it in these repeatable tapes, it would slow it down, maybe even stop it. I have no idea if it'll work, but you deserve to know now that you can almost certainly see it too,

because if it doesn't stop here, if you start to see it, start to experience misfortune. My heart skipped, tripping over the stairs and narrowly missing, cracking my skull as a child, losing my first tooth, the hit and run that shattered my arm, my first broken bone, marrying and losing Natalie, my first love. Oh no. Oh, God, no. I willed my body to move, to leap out of the seat and rush to Phoebe's room, but I had to hear the rest through, screaming at my mom to tell me the solution. When you're dead of Mali told me about our curse, how he took me in after my father died, about how it passes from father to daughter, mother to son, and so forth, you can try to avoid

it, but it always finds a way. You look down in shame, clutching at our sleeves. Truth be told, I didn't want to get pregnant, but things have a way of happening and I knew I couldn't give you up. She glanced behind her, something off-camera scaring her into grabbing at her arms and rubbing them. Shame and fear on her face. I'm so sorry, baby, but I want you to know that there is a power in these words, in these videos. I will do everything I can to protect you, just like I know you'll protect your child, no matter who it hurts in the process, because one last time, I just had to close my eyes one last time and it would all be over. I did it on instinct. It didn't matter that there were a slew of sounds alerting me to an invading presence in my home,

and it was rapidly approaching me. All that mattered was the mantra. I'll be here for you always. But what I heard parroting me back was not my mother. A guttural, inhuman voice barked back the phrase, and I swear I felt its breath inches from my face. I felt eyes unrestricted by pupils or sockets spin around focusing on my weakest point, but I didn't waver. After a few agonizing moments, it darted away and out of view, leaving only the static of the TV to keep me aware that I wasn't in fact dreaming. As soon as I knew it was safe, I ran to Phoebe's

room and checked on her, convinced that she was next in a long line of losses, convinced that some otherworldly specter had taken her from me, convinced I'd be alone again. You can imagine my relief when I opened the door to find her softly sleeping, clutching her tidy bear with her own attached Blanky, the same toy my mom had given me. I looked at her with the enormity of the situation overshadowed in me. The realization she was the same age I was when my mom got diagnosed, the realization that soon, I'd be the one making a slew of videos from milestones I'd never could to see her inherit. My crown princess is kingdom of nightmares. I don't know if this is what my mother intended, but I took those words at the end to heart. Protect your child, no matter who

it hurts in the process. I'm sorry. Everyone. I don't know how this translates across mediums, but there's a power in describing an old and malevolent force. Just like there is seen in the corner of your eye or when you experience a lucky break from death, a misstep here and a wrong turn there.

You'll always see it. My mother gave up everything to buy time. Give me the chance to write the wrongs and find a better way, a way that involves my daughter growing up with her father in her life. without the plague of whatever this is hanging over either of us. Maybe you won't be the one. Maybe you'll simply look at you and find you, not to its liking, as it did to me, that faithful night, inches away from my flesh and determining that I was simply, wasn't ripe enough yet.

But someone will come across this, and it will bite, it will bite and never let go. Be it nightmares, sleep paralysis, a slew of unfortunate mishaps, or something flitting in the corner of your eye, it'll be there. Whatever it is, waiting. I wish you well, and I hope you don't judge me too harshly. But to me and to Phoebe, family is everything. So close your eyes and take a deep breath. If you use sleep sounds at night, stop.

I was diagnosed with insomnia several years ago. I'd lie down in bed and my heart would race. My imagination would run wild, causing me to that. think of every terrible scenario that could happen and I would sweat so much that sometimes I would have to take a shower in the middle of the night. My doctor explained it to me in a way that compared it to someone with arachnophobia, a fear of spiders. The same way they see a spider and panic uncontrollably was the same thing that happened to me when I would try and go to sleep. I tried everything from nighttime yoga, deep breathing exercises, a new bed, medication, and even started to get a little

dependent on narcotics, I used anything at my disposal to counter my rational fear of going to sleep. Now, let me be clear. I was never a drug user. Never smoked or drank or popped pills to get high. When I started using drugs to help me sleep, I knew that something serious needed to be done before it spiraled into something worse. I talked to a lot of online forums where people like me could connect and try to see that we are not alone. It helps. Having people, having people, People to talk to who understand that insomnia isn't watching TV at night instead of sleeping. It's not staying up late on your phone and being restless. Insomnia is a condition.

As I scanned the sleepless forum, looking for some internet friends I had made, I stumbled across a post with an interesting title. It read, I found the cure for insomnia. And usually when I saw something like this, it was some sort of sponsored ad. generally some bot trying to sell us pills or something. But seen as though the alternative was to get into bed and have a panic attack, I clicked on the thread and began to read. The original poster, or O.P, had this to say. I found the cure for insomnia. I've slept perfectly every night since I downloaded the app. It's called Sounds Like Sleep, created by a company called Dream Systems.

The O.P. went on to describe their experience with the app and how quickly it worked. I scanned I went down to see several regulars commenting and saying they downloaded the app and couldn't wait to try it. Others only had positive things to say about using the app already. So I downloaded the app as well. I keep a Bluetooth speaker in my bedroom, usually just to play some soft music while I cleaned or as a distraction from the insomnia. I made sure not to check the clock as I found out early on that, doing so would make me panic more about how badly I needed to fall asleep, which would only keep me awake longer. Insomnia is a quick cruel condition. I opened the app which greeted me with a soft animation of a cartoony robot getting

it into bed. The app had several options. Rainy nights, the beach of dreams, white noise, and soothing sounds. I had always had a fondness for storms, so I tried rainy nights. The volume was perfect, not too loud to draw my attention, but just loud enough to block out any other sounds. I sat on the edge of my bed and reached for my nightly anti-anxiety medication. The sounds of the wind and rain washed over me, and surprisingly, I was already feeling tired. Without taking the medication, I laid back and rest my head on the pillow. As always, my heartbeat picked up. I felt my face get hot and I braced myself for the coming dread. I took a deep breath, held it in for a count of five, then exhaled. A low thunder crawled across the room for my speaker, leaves rustle, and the

rain picked up just slightly. I felt my heart returned to normal and my face no longer felt hot. Not daring to disturb the effects I closed my eyes without even getting under my blankets and fell instantly asleep. I woke up more fresh than I had felt in years. I nearly sprang out of bed. I grabbed my phone and checked the time. It was seven on the dot. I had no idea when I had finally gone to sleep, but it was late and yet I felt amazing. I went on about my day like it was any other. Only I was happy. I was energized, and to my surprise, the general anxiety that would often plague me didn't show its ugly face even once. Truthfully, I was looking forward to bedtime, just to try the app again. That night I took the time to get under the covers. I set the app,

and this time chose the beach of dreams. As the waves began to crash gently, I closed my eyes, still expecting the wave of panic to begin. When it didn't, I sighed relief and almost felt tears begin to form. I've been a slave to insomnia for years, and now with just the sleep sounds from this app, I truly felt cured. Before I knew it, I was asleep. The next morning, I woke up even more refreshed. I checked my phone. It was again seven on the dot. I went through my daily routine with such a pep in my step that people even comped on how happy I was. When it was time for bed, I again set the app, this time to white noise, and got into bed fiercely. I was asleep in seconds. When I woke this time, I felt exhausted. Like I had run a marathon all night. I

grogly sat up without looking. I knew it was seven in the morning. I went about my day not quite as peppy as I had the previous days, but it was still better than before when I couldn't sleep at all. I felt odd all day. I knew I had slept, but I felt like I had dreamed I was awake or something. When I got into bed that night, I selected soothing sounds from the app and closed my eyes. Again, I fell asleep in no time. I awoke in such a panic that I thought I was having a midnight panic attack, something that was common for people with anxiety and insomnia. My eyes searched the room.

I don't know how, but I felt like something was in the room with me. Left to right, I looked. The room was empty. I looked again. There it was, crouched at the foot of my bed, with both hands on the blankets, as if it had just climbed out from underneath my bed. I saw it. Its hair is hung over its face, but when it saw me, looking at it, it froze.

We were both frozen. I wanted to jump up. I wanted to kick and scream I tried to, but my body was locked. Stiff as a board I could not even begin to close my hand into a fist. I screamed internally at this thing at the foot of my bed. The only thing in my entire body that could move were my eyes. The thing cocked its head to the side. It didn't make it sound, but I knew that somehow it realized it couldn't move.

I couldn't fight it. I had heard of sleep paralysis before. It's a state where your body is still asleep even after you wake up. It usually lasts only a moment or two before your brain tries to comprehend that you were a bold asleep and awake. I remembered reading that victims would sometimes hallucinate that evil things were in their rooms because when we're paralyzed like this, we begin to panic and manifest images of evil things that wanted to hurt us. This was a hallucination. My heart was thundering in my chest. I focused all of my energy into just moving a finger. I thought that if I could move one finger, then the rest of my body

would follow. It was no use. I was trapped in my bed. The thing knew this. It pressed down on the bed with both hands and dragged its body higher up the bed, its long hair still covering its face. I felt the pressure on the bed as it pushed down with both hands. It was almost over me now. I screamed and I screamed and not a sound escaped my closed mouth. I could feel its hair on my face. I slammed my eyes closed and the sounds of the app filled my ears. I fell asleep instantly. When I woke up, it was with a gasp. I shot upright in my bed and looked around the room. Nothing. Empty. Just the light from the sun pouring in through the window. I exhaled a deep sigh of relief and went about my day. That night, I turned the app on. I chose soothing to things again, no particular reason. I turned it on and got

into bed. Like each night before, I was asleep in a matter of seconds, but my sleep didn't last long. Again, I woke up in a panic. My eye shot open and I searched the room once more. Again, I felt my body locked to the bed. Sleep paralysis had me again. If I could, I'm sure my lip would have trembled in fear, as I slowly looked down to the foot of my bed. It wasn't there. The long-haired thing that had crawled out from my bed last night wasn't there. I exhaled through my nose and looked up at the ceiling. It was above me, holding onto the ceiling like a lizard. Its long hair was hanging inches above my face. I felt the muscles in my body tighten. I never wanted to scream more than I did that night. With this thing over me, I could only inhale and exhale, unable to lift

even a finger. I forced myself to breathe slower. I didn't want to alert that I was awake. The sounds of my breathing slowed, and I heard it. Not from the creature clinging to the ceiling, but from the Bluetooth speaker that projected the soothing sounds of the app. Come out, a voice whispered through the speaker. Come out, sweet mother, and feast while it slumbers. The voice was so faint, I had to be imagined as well. Come out and feed. As if the creature had waited for this command, it began to move. Not its body, no, but I could see the hair moving. It had first faced the ceiling, but now above me,

I watched as it was tilting his head back to look down at me. It kept tilting extending further than humanly possible. The hair swayed as this thing whose body clung to the ceiling and back was to me. It now faced me. White eyes and razor-sharp teeth. It had tilted so far back that it was looking directly at me. If I could have, I'd have screamed until my lungs gave out. But I couldn't.

My eyes rolled back and I did the only thing I could do. I fell back asleep, lulled there by the soothing sounds. I woke up at 7 this morning. I again felt weak like I had worked out for the entirety of the night. Every one of my muscles were sore. I slowly got out of bed and went about my day. My day was uneventful. I felt tired for most of it.

I didn't turn the app on when I got to bed. I was hesitant, but I had to know. I stepped out of bed about 30 minutes ago and turned the app on. I listened for a while. I had started to feel sleepy, but since I was standing up and out of bed, I was able to fight to sleep. 20 minutes in, I heard a voice, faintly over the sounds of the rainstorm. Come out, come out. Oh, sweet mother and feast while it slumbers.

And all right, guys, that wraps up spooky stories from Reddit. I really hope you enjoyed this video. I enjoyed all of these stories a lot. They're definitely spooky. You know, I mean, that's the title, but they were scary, and I hope you thought they were scary too, and interesting and all that jazz. And just thank you so much for watching to the end. It means the world. And please like the video and subscribe to the channel. If you haven't already, it helps out the channel a ton, and I'd love for you to join the community, so please subscribe. And all right, thank you for watching to the end. If you want to watch another one of my videos. They're all kind of like this. They're all fun and great to listen to. So thank you for

watching. And yeah, until next time, see ya.