Snook - Terrifying Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: June 26, 2026

These were some Terrifying Stories From Reddit! These stories were so horrifying! What was your favorite story? And would you like to see me make similar videos in the future? Leave your thoughts down below in the comment section, and make sure to like and subscribe! Credits! Go give some support to these talented authors! Elddon - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1q4vd5j/im_staying_in_a_town_where_everyone_seems/ heyarmageddon -https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1swp97m/i_have_been_stalking_my_exgirlfriend_i_have_a/ TwistedUrbanTales - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ry39d5/theres_something_very_wrong_about_the_woman_under/ Saturday - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1soglb6/you_know_how_to_spot_a_kinda_thing/ I was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors. Make sure to subscribe to the Patreon for early access videos and many more perks! https://www.patreon.com/SnookYT⁠ Also! Go follow me on Spotify and Instagram! Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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and today we're getting into some terrifying stories from Reddit and oh boy these are some of the scariest creepiest and just downright most terrifying stories i have ever read they had me on the edge of my seat the entire time so you're going to want to make sure to stick around and i appreciate stomp by means the world and make sure you like the video and subscribe to the channel the channel subscriber goals one million subscribers before the end of the year so please subscribe and also please consider following my Instagram and following the show on Spotify. It really does mean the world. And yeah, this video will be long enough already. So sit back, relax, grab a drink or grab a snack. And without further ado, let's get into some terrifying stories from Reddit. I'm staying in a town where everyone seems obsessed

with someone called Mr. Jangles. Written by Eldon. People say small towns hold onto their stories longer than they should. If that's true, then I'm sure Maywood Mills has white-knuckled its grip on theirs. You probably haven't heard of this place. I don't blame you. I hadn't either. Not until a couple of weeks back. And now that I'm here, I understand why.

It's as if the rest of the world quietly agreed to forget Maywood Mills ever existed. And my gut says the town prefers it that. way. As I write this, I've locked myself in a rented room above a bar. It reeks of dried liquor and bleaching here. I'm trying my best not to think about the people who stayed here before me or what they did between these walls. If that wasn't enough, the neon sign outside my window keeps sputtering in and out, painting the room sickly green. It's going to give me an epileptic seizure any minute now. I also jammed a chair under the door knob, as I was instructed, just to be sure. Before I go to bed, I'm going to try to lay out everything that's happened in the last 24 hours.

I apologize if I sound dramatic. I've covered some dark stuff in my life. Met a lot of broken people, but honestly, I'm lost. I've never seen anything like this. I can usually tell if there's a rational spine running through a story within the first hour of digging into it, but here, I can't find it. There's a legend buried in this town, a story that's been told so many times it seems to have hardened into truth. Yeah, the story doesn't just seem to live here. It seems to fester. It's easier if I start from the beginning. It was Carla who found the town first, my colleague.

She drove in yesterday, texting me the route and said she'd find a place to stay. We were supposed to drive up together, but life happened, I guess. I screwed things up. That's the short version. I ended up spending the nights in the hospital. Broken arm. Three places. Don't ask.

Anyway, I said I'd meet here in the morning instead. our plan was simple. Find Maywood Mills, dig into the string of disappearances that had plagued the area for nearly two decades and, more than anything, reopened the case that once had a town in the papers. Nadine Wiles, 13 years old, 1998, poor girl had been stabbed many times, more times than anyone who worked the original case ever felt comfortable saying out loud. The photos speak for themselves. They found her laid out on a flat rock deep in the woods. Whoever did it didn't even try to hide their work.

There were no leads. Cops couldn't find any suspects which left the community without any answers. Rumors took over. That buzzing hearsay that creeps in when humans realize they don't know what's lurking in the dark. Eventually, the case went cold. officially forgotten. We came here to open it back up. Or at least, that's what I told them.

Maywood Mills isn't on most maps. You take the ferry out of Seattle, drive west past Port Angeles, and somewhere along the Olympic foothills, the road ends. After that, it's old logging routes that snake through fog-choked forest, narrow lanes, cracked asphalt, and treacherous curves. I never thought praying for guardrails would be on my bingo card, but there I was wishing for them. Blink and you'll miss the turnoff.

Keep driving and you'll dead end at some old dam. That's what Carla texted me. So obviously, my GPS gave up halfway, and she wasn't answering her phone. So I had to navigate the foothills by myself. One hand on the wheel. The other in a cast. Playing chicken with blind corners. I'd like to see Schumacher try.

Somewhere outside the town limits, I nearly wrecked my Porsche. The pavement was slick from yesterday's torrential rain. A turn came up fast. I got distracted by a message on the phone. Some legal bullshit that's been chewing on my ankles for weeks. I got angry. Lost focus. Swer.

came a few feet shy of turning myself into tree decor. That's when I got my first real sense of the place. I hadn't even reached the town yet, but something already felt off. I staggered out of the car and threw up on the shoulder. Then everything went quiet. Not peaceful quiet. More like an eerie silence. The kind of silence I imagine falls in a jungle when

a predator stalks its prey. The trees, insects, birds, even the nearby river. It was like the entire forest held its breath. Then, somewhere in the distance, the dam released a sheet of water with a treacherous war. I nearly leaped out of my skin. That's when I saw it. A moss-covered sign slumping in the brush. Welcome to Maywood Mills. I looked through the case files scattered across the passenger seat. I had an old photograph of the same sign from 30 years ago. Back then, the paint was fresh. The letter straight. Someone cared back then, but I guess they had every right to stop. I've always had a strange pull towards town like this. I couldn't tell you exactly why. Maybe it's because I grew up in the noise, traffic, sirens, shrieking subway breaks.

I'm a city rat by design, but places like this, they hum with a certain promise. You could disappear here. You could be a nobody. No headlines. No pressure. No past dog in your heels. There was peace to be found. However, the charm wears thin the longer you look.

because underneath the quiet, there's this weight, like the atmosphere itself wants you to shrink, to stay small, to forget there's a world beyond the woods. Nobody says it out loud, but you can feel the rules immediately. Dreaming is illegal here. Curiosity is an offense.

They don't like people leaving, and they like people arriving. even less. That's what kills the dream for me. Not the isolation. Not the decay. The people. As I drove in,

nobody waved. Nobody smiled. They just watched me roll past, faces blank, and weathered, carved like worn gravestones. The only thing alive was their eyes, full of resentment and something else.

Something heavy, I couldn't place at first. Suspicion, grief, maybe fear. Or maybe it was just the big yellow letters FBI on my jacket that spooked them. Maywood Mills itself didn't offer much to look at. A couple dozen houses. Most of them sagging or boarded up. A handful of stubborn businesses clinging to life.

There was a school and a church that had seen better days and of course, a bar. As if the depressing atmosphere wasn't poisonous enough. However, there was one thing that really caught my attention, the graffiti. Spray painted across abandoned storefronts,

rusting garage doors, and brick walls was the same image over and over. A face, a crude drawing of a tall skeletal figure in a long coat and top hat. His eyes were broken,

black, empty hollows. On some of the portraits, he was almost a skull. Then he had this wide, childish grin that stretched ear to ear. It really got under my skin for some reason. Most of the time, he was drawn holding a ring of keys. Not a few keys like the ones you and I own. No, it was a massive, jangling hoop of them. If you remember the keymaker from the Matrix, You'll know exactly what I mean. I parked outside the bar. The whole building looked like it was one good gust away from collapsing. I doubted they'd clean the taps since the Reagan administration, but hey, beer is beer.

And I'm not picky. Plus, I noticed they rented out rooms upstairs. If Carla was anywhere in this town, odds were, she'd be here. The very moment I stepped inside, the ongoing, conversations died mid-sentence. It looked exactly the way I imagined it. Wood-paneled walls, floor boards that stuck to your shoes, a few regulars slumped around the edges, and a jukebox that clearly lost the will to live. The floor creaked as I approached the bar. I flashed my badge, ordered a beer, and slid a photo across the counter. Carla's face stared up between the

bartender and me. She came in yesterday, I said. Have you seen her? The bartender. Her name was Lucy. Took her time with the photo. Meanwhile, I studied her. She was way too pretty to be marooned in a town like this.

Finally, she shook her head. Can't say I have. Then, after a beat, sorry, but no outsiders have come through here in weeks. weeks, maybe months. Her eyes came up to meet mine. What brings the FBI to Maywood Mills? We're reopening an old case, I told her. Nadine Wiles. That name hit the room like a bell tone. Conversations that I just started picking up fell silent again. I could hear the drunks in the corner shift in their seats. Glasses paused halfway to meet their mouths. I felt their eyes

in the back of my neck. One of them even stood up like he meant to leave. Then thought better of it. Lucy didn't react much, but something shifted behind her eyes. Sadness, I think. She was hard to read. Then she nodded slowly. Like she'd been waiting for this to happen.

Figured someone would come back around eventually, she said. Why didn't you or your partner coming together? I glanced down at the cast around my arm and tapped it lightly. Got delayed. Long story. She glanced down at it, said nothing.

It almost made me uncomfortable, so I steered us back to the subject. So, Nadine Wiles, you knew her? Sure. Everyone did, she said.

We went to the same school, or, I mean, all of us did. She gestured to the drunks in the corner who were still staring at me. Listen. you're not exactly digging through pleasant memories

countless investigators I've been here over the years cops journalists or crime junkies and none of them got anywhere I asked we already know who did it she said who she nodded past my shoulder he's right behind you I turned out the window

across the cracked parking lot sprayed across the brick wall that painted face stared right back at me. That? I said. Try not to sound amused. You're saying that thing killed Nadine? She nodded. One of the drunks, a handyman, barked a laugh and swiveled on his stool.

Hell, he's behind all the weird shit that happens around here. Half this town swears they've seen him, especially after a few drinks. He laughed. So did his friends. Lucy leaned a little closer, voiced low enough to cut under the noise. Ignore them. They've been here since breakfast,

but unfortunately, they're not wrong. She held my gaze. I'm sorry, agent, but you're chasing a ghost. I didn't know what to say. Lucy pointed toward a map taped beside the register and showed me the quickest route to the nearest motel, said Carla might have checked in there. It felt like a nice and subtle way of saying, leave.

So I didn't. There were vacant rooms upstairs. Nothing close to five stars, but if Carla had checked into some motel miles away for a bit of luxury, she had another thing coming. This town is where the conversations were. This was where work was. So instead of heading for the door, I ordered steak and eggs and a room for the night. While Lucy disappeared into the kitchen, the handyman peeled himself off his stool and shuffled over.

He was in his mid-forties, with a bloated red face, breath sour with Miller Light. He sat down beside me without asking. His name's Mr. Jangles, he said, jerking his chin toward the fogged window. Nadine Wiles was his first back in 98. and all the kids said it was him lives out in the woods past the dam nobody ventures out there alone anymore Mr. Jangles, I repeated

try not to let these skepticism show too much that's right that's what they called him they say he has keys to every house in Maywood that's how you know he's close you hear him he mimed the sound

shaking his wrist a little to ching to ching to ching chiching, more barking from his friends. I looked back through the window at that damned face, the top hat, the smile, the black empty sockets. I have to admit, they creep me out a little. So, the bureau's chasing campfire stories now?

He asked, squinting. I let the question hang. Urban legends don't bother me. Lies do, I said eventually. We're here for the truth. He let out a dry smoker's chuckle and tapped the bar with his dirty fingers right on the badge I'd left resting beside my glass. Might want to get that fixed, he said. It's chipped.

I glanced down. He wasn't wrong. The edge was scuffed. The cheap laminate curling just a little. I palmed it without saying anything. Lucy came back and set the plate down in front of me. If you're serious about digging into this, she said, talk to Mrs. Wiles.

She's still out on the edge of the town, Pinkhouse. She can't miss it. She keeps to herself. She hesitated, then added, and do me all a favor. Don't tell her I sent you. I finished my food and headed back out. The sky looked bruised,

like the rain was thinking about. coming back. I followed Lucy's directions along a cracked road, snapping a few photos of Mr. Jangles on the way. I couldn't wait to hear what Carla would make of all this. Lucy was right. The house was impossible to miss. Fated pink siding, shutters hanging crooked, even in the middle of the afternoon, the curtains were drawn. The yard was crowded with the remains of a life that used to be loving and busy. material for an abandoned tree house, rusted tools, a collapsing stroller, a weather-beaten swing set. It broke my heart a little. I'll fast forward through most of it. You've seen the scene before.

A grieving mother loses her child, blames the world, and shuts the door on it. Nothing new there. But I walked away with two things, or three, if I'm being honest. First, she gave me a U.S. Be Drive, said it contained everything they managed to pull from Nadine's old computer. According to her, Nadine recorded a message that day before she died. Second, Mrs. Wiles didn't talk about Mr. Jangles the way the guys at the bar did. No jokes. No eye-rolling. No. She spoke of him like any other suspect I've come across. And then there was the last thing. While she went to her bedroom to look for the USB, my eyes wandered around Nadine's room.

I found her old diary from the summer she died tucked in the back of a shelf. I shouldn't have taken it, but I did. Mrs. Wiles came back a minute later and pressed the USB into my good hand. You should barricade your door tonight, agent, she said. Shut your blinds. If someone knocks, don't answer. Stay steel. Don't look out if you hear anything. So, that was my day. By the time I headed back, the sun was dying behind the tree line. I called Carla again. She didn't answer. What the hell

is she up to? I'll drive out to that motel tomorrow if I have to. I'm going to need her on this. She's the charming one. The one people usually open up to. I'm better at the technical stuff. and pushing people over the edge. Oh, and one last thing. I checked the USB. I've only ever seen photos of Nadine with 19 stab wounds in her body, so it was strange,

wrong almost to see her alive. I felt like I was watching a ghost, but there she was on my screen, sitting cross-legged on her bed like any other kid after school. She looked straight into the, camera. He came back today, she said. During break, he wanted me to introduce him to the other kids. She smiled. I wrote a poem, she said, for him. She began to read. As I was walking through the park,

I saw a figure in the dark. His mask was white, his eyes like coal. A chilling sight that froze my soul. He wore a hat upon his head, and from his mouth no words were said. He danced for me with jangling keys, and whispered secrets in the breeze. Mr. Jangles, tall and grim, would find the children calling him. He'd come for those who dared to stray, to never see the light of day. I think someone just tried the handle on my door. I couldn't hear any footsteps in the hall, but the door definitely rattled. Someone tried to get in.

A moment later, I heard a set of keys jingle downstairs. Maybe Lucy's locking up the bar and wanted to check on me. I mean, what else could it be? That's the story I'm choosing. Anyway, I need to fix the badge before I go to sleep. They say small towns hold on to their stories longer than the story. they should. Out here, I'm starting to think that the story holds onto the town. Tomorrow, I'm going to find Carla. I'll probably swing by the school too. The teachers must know something.

I need to gather as much material as I can before someone figures out who I am, before someone catches me in the lie. Carla wasn't at the motel. I didn't drive out to check. I called. Spoke to the front desk. They said she never checked in. Never even passed through. And of course, now I know why.

I woke up later than I meant to. Not sure if it was exhaustion or the stillness of this place. Or maybe just the fact that my body's finally catching up to the pain. Just before I went to bed, my arm throbbed like hell. I left the painkillers in the car and stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, debating whether it was worth it. Then I heard her voice in my head, Mrs. Wiles. Barricade your door.

Don't look out. Don't answer if someone knocks. And after what happened just 30 minutes earlier, after someone actually tried to enter my room, well, I bit down and rode out the pain. Lucy was already behind the bar when I came down, setting up for the day. She had a plate waiting for me. Scramble eggs, bacon, toast, black coffee, said she figured I'd need it. I didn't argue. As I sat down, I asked her when she locked up the bar last night. She said just after midnight. It checked down. She smirked as she set an expired catch a bottle on the counter.

What? She asked. Did you hear something, agent? I lifted my coffee. Held it there for a second. I believe you already answered that question, I said. I heard you locking up.

That's all. She raised an eyebrow, leaned on the bar. He checks in from time to time, you know. New faces tend to wake him from his sleep. That's so. What usually draws

him out. Mischief? Parking violations? Lying, she said. Smile fading. He doesn't like lies. I froze. The fork with egg and bacon halfway to my lips. She looked at me for a second too long, like she was trying to see something beneath my skin. You're actually serious about him? I countered and bit down. Of course, she said. I've met him. She told me it was Nadine who introduced them to each other. Just a few months before Nadine was murdered. Nadine had been drawing pictures of him in class.

Lucy got curious. So Nadine asked her to come home with her after school. Lucy hadn't believed her at first, thought it was just another stupid prank kids play when they're bored and want to scare each other. But Nadine insisted. So she led Lucy down to the creek and there he was. Mr.

Jangles. She said he was crouched at the edge of the water, rising grime from his hat. He was dressed exactly like in the drawings. His long coat trailed into the shallows, soaking at the edges. But he didn't seem to mind. When he saw them, he straightened.

She told me she'd never seen anything like it. He just kept rising, unfolding. until he must have been eight feet tall. He stared at Lucy. He didn't speak. Neither did the forest. She said everything went quiet all at once. Then he bowed and began to dance.

A slow, delicate movement. Not joyful. Not menacing. It was somber. Like a ballet dancer performing at a funeral. See, Nadine had whispered to her, and when the dance was over, he bent down, picked a single flower growing by the stream, and offered it to Lucy. I didn't press her for more. There was nothing to gain.

I just felt sorry for her. They were clearly busting my balls or just being completely delusional. That's the thing about local legends. They start as fiction. Patches people stitch together when reality doesn't make sense, but tell a story long enough and it stops feeling like one. Eventually, it becomes the only explanation that fits. Was I starting to believe in him?

No, but I was looking for patches to stitch. And right now, Mr. Jangles was the only lead I had. So, at least he's earned a place in my head. I thanked her for the food and stepped outside. That's when I saw my car. It sagged to one side. The bumpers practically kissing the pavement. The whole thing looked crooked.

It took me a few seconds to realize. The front tires had been slashed. Yeah. I know a knife puncture when I see one. And I sure is hell didn't hit a nail on the hot way in. No, these were clean, deliberate cuts. Deep gouges, a precise kind of vandalism. Rage came up fast and stupid, same as two days ago.

For a moment, I forgot how I ended up in the hospital. I was on a collision course to repeat my mistake. I stormed back into the bar. I could take the side eyes, the muttering, and all the other small-town bullshit, but someone messing with my Porsche, that crossed a line. My arm might be out of commission, but the other one still works just for. fine. Lucy calm me down, but she wasn't surprised. Probably the local skater kids, she said. They don't see cars like that around here. Then, without missing a beat, people don't like

strangers who make noise in Maywood. If you're going to stick around, I suggest you do a better job of blending in. She had a point. Since I was unable to drive, she lent me a phone. And that's when I called the motel. With no luck tracking down Carla, Lucy helped me get the car towed to the only mechanic in town. Dale Thompson. 50s. Oil-stained coveralls. Grip like a wrench wrapped in sandpaper.

I remembered him from the bar yesterday. He's the one who stood up when I mentioned Nadine, but then decided to stay. He gave the tires a quick glance and scratched his head. Two days, he said. We're slammed. I looked around the shirt. It was empty.

I can see that, I muttered. He held my stare a moment too long, like he was waiting to see if I had something more clever to say. I folded. Whatever game they were playing, I wasn't going to win it by pissing off the only guy who could get me back on the road. With no car and still no sign of Carla,

I had no other choice but to start on my own. Rain was a few hours out, so I hiked into the woods toward the spot where Nadine Wilde's body was found. The distance wasn't far, but the walk dragged. Maybe I'd just been out of nature too long, but fordts like these have a way of stretching space. Every turn looks the same, every tree, every rock, and of course, everything was wet. That deep bone-soaking damp that seeps into your shoes and socks and stays there. The ground was soft and water-longed. Every step sinking just enough to remind me that comfort was far behind me. Did I have anything positive to say? I guess the forest was beautiful. There's something about the way trees and animals come alive after rain.

But they knew how little dry time they had left, and so did I. I stopped by a shallow creek and held the crime scene photo up to a moss-covered rock. It was the same one. Sunking into the earth like an altar. As I mentioned before, Nadine was laid out on it. 19 stab wounds, arms, legs, torso, throat, head. Whoever did it wasn't in a rush.

Didn't panic. Didn't try to hide what was done. done. They stood here, and they took their time. Sure picked a beautiful place for it. I'll tell you this. If Mr. Jangles really exists, if he actually did this, then he's not a ghost story. He's a sadist. I took notes as I moved through the clearing, retracing the scene, tried to picture how it happened. The original cops never agreed on the basics. Where she was killed, where she bled out,

whether this rock was the murder site or just the stage. Sloppy work, if you ask me. Or maybe just fear disguised as incompetence. Then I noticed something in the mud. A few shoe prints. Women's size 10. Carla wears a 10. I knew that because she once borrowed a pair of my joggers and joked they fit her better than they did me.

I crouched down to take a closer look, and that's when I realized it had gone quiet again. No wind, no birds, no sound at all. Then I heard it. Keys, dozens of them, clinking, shifting, moving between the the trees. I spun around, looked everywhere, but there was nothing, just me, the creek, in the rock. Then, all at once, the forest exhaled. The sounds came rushing back, along with something else, something I hadn't heard before. Children's laughter. I followed an old game trail through the trees and realized I was closer to the school that I thought.

Maywood Mills Elementary, tucked just behind the tree line. I approached the chain link fence. Kids ran across the cracked blacktop in chaotic zigzags, lost in their own fantasy. That's when I saw it. Chalk. Drawn into the hopscotch squares, his face, his godforsaken face. The kids were hopping back and forth on it, chanting Nadine's rhyme. Staring at kids like that might get you in trouble.

The voice came from behind me. A woman. Early 30s. Warm eyes, cardigan over a frayed dress. Holly Rogan, she said. I'm the teacher here. I introduced myself, flashed the badge. She didn't bother to look at it.

Of course, she knew who I was. The whole town. probably did by now. I gestured to the hopscotch. I don't remember me and my friends growing up playing tag around a chalk drawing of Wayne Williams. She looked at the kids, smiling. Would you rather they sit at home? Scared, she said?

They're kids. Didn't she play Bloody Mary as a kid? I don't remember Bloody Mary being based on someone who actually murdered people. She didn't respond right away. The kids kept playing. I used to think it was just their own little quirky folklore, she said quietly. A story adults passed down to keep the kids out of the woods, but I've been here five years now, and I've seen enough to know.

She trailed off. Wait, you chose to move here? Why, I asked. She met my eyes. We all have our reasons to disappear, Agent. Then she led me inside and called the kids back to class. I hung back a moment and stared at the hopscotch. As the kids filed past me, one girl stopped.

I've seen them, the girl said. I crouched down. You have? She nodded slowly. Here, just a few weeks ago. She pointed to the fence by the woods. Did he say anything to you? I asked her.

She looked around. Holly was just up ahead, corraling the other kids back into the building. He asked me to keep a secret, she whispered. What kind of secret? But before she could answer, Holly called her name, and she ran. Disappeared into the school. Holly came jogging back.

Did Cherry tell you any of her stories, she said, half-laughing? She just wanted to see my badge. I lied. Holly nodded, then handed me a scrap of paper. Her number. If you find anything, anything at all. Please, don't hesitate to call. It'd be nice to know we're not all insane.

Her fingers lingered against mine as she passed the note. Just long enough for me to know it wasn't accidental. Later, I visited. the town's police station. It was like stepping into a time capsule, peeling paint, phones with cords, a stack of unpaid parking tickets from the 90s.

The desk sergeant snored himself awake as I walked in. Deputy Horace Green blinked at me like I was his first client in years. I'm looking into the missing persons cases, I said. Which one? he asked. How far back do your records go? Horace leaned back. Scratched his patchy red beard.

Not far. Fire took most of it a couple of years ago. Of course they did. Mind if I take a look at what you have? He paused. Let me see your badge again. I swallowed hard. Pulled it out.

Held it steady. Horace studied it. A little longer than a little longer. I liked, but then he shrugged and stood up. I'll check the back. As he disappeared behind the door, I took out my phone. One more try. I dialed Carla. The line rang, and then I heard it. The ringtone. Faint. Echoing from somewhere behind the station. My stomach dropped, but then Horace's voice rang out from the back. Yeah.

Honey, I've told you not to call me at work. Yeah, I got a guest. Okay, bye. I exhaled. False alarm. He returned a minute later with a dusty old box. This is what we got. I made my way back to the motel with the files.

Out past the tree line, I could see the rain coming. Thick, dark sheets crawling across. the treetops. A couple miles off, maybe less. I started romanticizing this evening, thought about buying a bottle of scotch from Lucy and holding up in my room with the storm. Just me, the flies, and a drink strong enough to give me a good night's rest. Maybe I'd call Holly. I wasn't going to spend the evening with those drunks in the corner booth. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if they were the ones who slashed my car.

The thought made my blood boil over again. No. I thought it was best if I stayed inside tonight. Alone. However, when I got back to my room, I stopped cold. There was a note taped to the door. Just two words. The damn.

I stood there for a long time, listening to my own breath. the muffled clink of glassware downstairs, the raspy cough from the jukebox, somewhere far off, thunder rolled. Then I did it. I went out. I shouldn't have. I knew that even as I peeled the note off the door

and folded it into my pocket, I should have listened to my gut and waited for daylight to make things feel less intentional. But curiosity has always been my worst habit. The rain hit hard. It came down like a hammer, cold and relentless. Within minutes I was soaked through. My cheap jacket did it's best to keep me warm. The roar of water hitting the canopy got louder with every step, a constant swallowing sound that made it hard to concentrate, like the forest itself was trying to hide whatever was waiting there to attack me in the dark.

When I finally reached the dam, my instinct told me to stay back. So I ducked into the brush. The dam looked old, very old. The structure slumped against the earth. Rust bloomed against the iron gates and half-collapsed steel beams jutted out at odd angles. Moss and rock clung to everything. A monument to erosion. Held together by sheer stubbornness.

A thin sheet of black water had pooled beneath the structure. That's when I caught the flash of light. I ducked down and squinted through the wet leaves. Two men were waiting deep in the shallows. Flashlight sweeping across the water. As my eyes adjusted, I recognized them. It was Horace and the handyman from the bar. They were calm, focused, talking love.

Their lights stayed across the damn surface like they were searching for something just beneath it. Fortunately, they hadn't seen me. I stayed hidden, snapped a couple of photos with my phone, my hand shaking more from adrenaline than the cold. Whatever they were doing, one thing was clear. It wasn't meant to be seen. I didn't wait around to find out more. I turned back and left while I still could. On the way back, I climbed a steep, muddy incline.

The rain had carved thin waterfalls through the dirt, washing away leaves and debris, exposing roots and stones that hadn't seen daylight in years. I was one, diphylosaurus, away from being Dennis Neddry in Jurassic Park. That's when something caught my eye. A glint of leather. lodged in the tangled roots of a bush, half buried, caked in mud. I knelt down and brushed away the soil, and a cold weight sank into my gut like wet cement. It was Carla's badge, damaged, peeling, but her photo was still there.

Her face staring up at me through the fogged plastic. She'd been here. That's when the world went quiet again. Not the water. I could still hear that. Pounding and endless. But everything else vanished. Then I felt it.

Eyes. So I turned. And there he was. A good distance away. Standing just inside the tree line. Mr. Jangles. The rain streamed down the tall house. on his head and ran in dark lines along his coat, dripping from the hem like he was melting

into the ground. His smile was wide, packed with what looked like hundreds of small, uneven teeth, but worst of all were his eyes. Hullo's black as coal, devoid of life, empty pits that seemed to swallow all light around them. He didn't move. He just watched me. Then he began to move. Not a lunge, not a step. No. He danced for me. Slow, controlled, graceful, almost reverent.

His arms swept through the air. His feet gliding soundlessly across the soaked forest floor. It was a performance for an audience. of one. I couldn't look away. Each movement brought him closer. Not by much. Not enough to notice at first, but closer all the same.

Then he vanished behind a tree. That's when the cold hit me. The rain. My boots. The ache in my arm. The weight of my body. The world came crashing back all at once. I gasped, stumbled back, and ran.

I didn't stop to look over my shoulder. I didn't stop to think. I don't know what took over me, but I ran like my life depended on it. Because whatever that thing was, whatever game he was playing, my gut was certain he wasn't going to bring me flowers. Here I am. Happy to report that. I'm back in the relative safety of my little. rented room. The door is locked. This time, I've wedged a bureau against it. And I'm alive,

freezing, but alive. I spent the last hour going through the files I've got from Horace, and something doesn't add up. The missing people over the years, they weren't just kids. They are teenagers, a woman in her 30s, a couple of elderly. men and women. And that's what bothers me. Most serial offenders, killers, killers, kidnappers,

they have a type. A demographic they fixate on. Age, gender, color. There's usually always a pattern. Something that ties the victims together. Even if it's not obvious at first, but here,

There's no consistency. No common threat I can see. Then again, I guess those are human patterns, and I don't think he's human. Am I starting to believe in him? Am I starting to believe in Mr. Jangles? I saw him in the woods. That's for sure. I won't pretend otherwise.

And maybe that's why I'm going to tell you truth. truth. The full truth. You're probably wondering why an FBI agent is panicking in a barricaded motel room instead of calling for backup. Why I haven't brought in more resources. Why I'm not already on the plane with Quantico. Well, I'm not an FBI agent. I'm not a cop. Not even close. and neither is was Carla we host a true crime podcast together

the dark report maybe you've heard of it if you have it was probably for the wrong reasons one of our episodes went viral last year the wrong kind of viral it didn't just stir up controversy it ruined someone's life or took it

I guess and the fallout has been eating me alive ever since. My inbox is a graveyard of lawsuits. My name is dirt. My reputation, dust. Everyone that I've ever worked with has turned their backs. Hell, I turned my back. I traded my morality for clicks. So yeah, I came here to resurrect my career. The story of Maywood Mills is a story no one has covered before. At least, as far as we could tell. I saw this as my one last shot.

A chance to prove I'm more than the asshole got someone killed. And now I'm terrified. My instincts may have cost me the only person who ever stood by my side. I don't feel safe anymore. And I don't know what to do. I'm stranded in Maywood Mills. He comes for those who dare to stray to never see the light a day.

Mr. Jangles. They blame him for everything. The disappearances, Nadine, the town's rot. They say he doesn't like lies. Well, I think they're all lying.

Carla is gone and soon. So am I. They were right. It was Mr. Jangles. Just three days ago, he was nothing but a story for me. A myth people told each other when the lights went out, or like I said, a lie. The next day he became real, and now he's going to be the thing that kills me. I don't know how much time I have left. If this message cuts off, if it just ends, then assume the worst. Assume I didn't make it. I'm not writing this from the safety of my rented room anymore. I'm somewhere else now.

I think I know where. I can tell it by the smell. You could practically taste the wet soil, and I can feel the dirty water drip on my leg. There's no reception here at the moment, none at all. So I don't even know if this update will ever reach you, but if it does, never come to Maywood Mills. Not out of curiosity, not out of pity, not because you think you're any smarter than me. Stay the hell away. I'm going to type this out as fast as I can.

I'm cold and running out of oxygen. My hands won't stop shaking. This will be my final update, and I'll tell you everything I can. Everything I've figured out while I still can. That night, I stormed back to the bar. The regulars were exactly where I'd left them, hunched over their drinks like barnacles clinging to a shipwreck.

The jukebox wheezed out the same tired country song, Same dull eyes were staring into half-empty glasses. Nothing had changed for them. But everything had changed for me. The handyman, who had to find out was called Mickey, and Horace were at their usual table, still soaked from the rain. Mud caked their boots, and their coats dripped onto the floor like the storm had followed them inside. They hadn't been back long.

I didn't waste time. I slammed Carla's badge down on the table. Hard enough to make the glasses jump. Where is she? I know what she's been here. Mickey didn't look up. He just stirred his whiskey like he hoped to find another one of his dirty lies swirling at the bottom. Speak, God damn it, I yelled.

He just downed his drink. I opened my mouth to press him further. Then I heard it. Chairs creaking. boots shifting on that god-awful sticky wood. The bar had gone quiet. Everyone was watching me. Mickey finally spoke.

Slow and gravely. Like I was interrupting something important. Yeah, he said. She came through. Dale saw her. She said her phone was dead. Needed a charger. There are no phones here,

so we told her what we tell everyone. The next town's a few miles south. She drove off. That's it. That's not it. I heard your friend here speaking to his wife the other day. Landline. Horace muttered with a cheeky grin.

You're withholding information from a federal officer. I snapped. Now he looked up at me and smiled. And what are you going to do about it? He said. called back up. I froze. I didn't know what to say.

I guess authority only works when someone believes in it. The room seemed to lean in. I want to talk to Dale, I finally said. Where is he? Behind me, Lucy's voice cut in, cold and flat. Dale's dead. I turned. Lucy was standing in the doorway.

Arms crossed, eyes grave. Mickey and Horace just found him down by the dam. A western rattlesnake got to him, we think. He fell in and drowned. What? My voice cracked. A rattlesnake? She didn't answer.

She didn't have to. I could feel it now. That heaviness in the room, the thing I'd mistaken for hostility, it was grief. Every eye was on me now, the stranger, the outsider. A low-life trucker in the corner eyed the mud on my boots. No, I'm not joking, Lucy said, sharper now. Come on. She let me down the back hallway. Past stacked chairs and crates of liquor.

Even here, the smell of bleach stung my nostrils. She opened the cold room door. and there he was. Dale. Pale, bloated, draped across a table like a shot deer. Dirty water slid from his fingertips, dripping onto the tile below.

I just stood there, listening to the drops. I couldn't move. My breath got stuck somewhere high in my chest. The air felt thinner, like the room was closing in on me. You've never seen a dead body before, agent? Lucy asked.

Of course I have, I said. It was a lie. I'd seen bodies and photographs and reports and situations where you could look away. This was different. It made me sick. You're soaked, Lucy said. Gently now, you're going to get sick. She put a hand on my back.

Let's get you to bed. She added, I'll bring you some tea. There was only a few hours left until morning. I didn't sleep through a single one of them. I lay there staring at the door, waiting for it to open, waiting for him to come for me, just like he must have come for Carla and Dale. That was another thing that I couldn't shake. The note on my door.

Did Dale write it? Did he want me to meet him there? Or was it Mickey? Horace. Was the note meant as bait? A colder thought crept in. What if they'd mistaken Dale for me in the dark? What if that's the reason he was dead?

The idea settled in my gut and refused to leave. Another death I could trace back to myself. I was up to three now. My mistakes were starting to stack up. I was practically a serial killer. Yeah. Try sleeping with that on your conscience. The next morning, I was invited to a

town meeting. Dales' death had rattled everyone. The room buzzed with anger, whispers, accusations, fingers pointing at me, eyes scanning me up and down, more than a few people asked if Mr. Jangles had something to do with it. Apparently, he hadn't taken anyone in a while. Except Carla, I thought. I didn't say it out loud. I was afraid of what would happen if I did. I knew I wasn't welcome anymore. I could feel it in the air. I was the outsider who'd brought trouble with him. That stirred their effed-up idea of peace.

Heads turned toward me. Angry eyes glared at me. Voices sharpened. If Holly hadn't stepped in, put herself between me and the crowd. I think they would have run me out of town right there. The strangest part was how rehearsed it all felt. the outrage, the blame, the fear.

It was like they were all reading from the same script. Like the meeting wasn't about Dale at all, but about turning me into the problem, about making sure I packed my bags and left. And if it wasn't, if it was all genuine, would people act this way toward an FBI agent? Or had they all decided that I wasn't? one. Either way,

one thing was clear. The clock wasn't ticking from anymore. It was counting me out. I had to act fast. Outside, I ran into Cherry. The girl from the school. I asked her how she was doing.

She shook her head and took a step back. I'm not allowed to talk to you anymore, she said. Did your mother teach you not to talk to strangers? She taught me not to talk to you. She giggled. She glanced around, then whispered,

I have to keep Mr. Jangle's secret. If I don't, you'll vanish too. Then she ran away. All vanished too. The word stuck with me. Was my gut right? Had I finally brushed up against some kind of truth? The story.

The god awful lie everyone here agreed to live inside. But if that was the goutful lie, case, the work felt impossible. I mean, how can you sniff out the truth in a place built on lies? I came here to find justice for Nadine. But can justice even exist in a place where lies have become the law? Where pretending not to see is the price of survival? Does the truth just rot quietly, patiently? The same way Nadine did? In the same way all those people vanished, out in the open, while everyone else looked straight past it. For the first time, I didn't know what to do.

With my car still out of commission, Lucy offered to drive me to the nearest train station, said they'd have someone else finish their repairs and towed the car to me once it was done. All she needed was my dress. Let me tell you, something about giving it to her didn't feel right. At the time,

I told myself it was just paranoia, another symptom of too little sleep and too many unknowns. But then something else awakened in me. Something I said last night in the bar. Tangled up with an unhealthy dose of stubbornness. A need to make things right. Now, laying here in the dark, I realized I should have taken her up on the offer, but I didn't. I was too close. Close enough to feel the truth breathing down my neck.

So I decided to stay. That decision came from a hunch. Something I couldn't shake. The phone call I'd made back at the police station. The one I'd almost written off as nothing. A landline? Come on. Really?

I just needed to make sure. So I broke in. As the evening fell over Maywood Mills, I waited until Horace left. Then I said, fuck it, and put my elbow through the back window of the police station. The glass gave way with an ugly crack. I climbed inside and peeked back out onto the street. The coast was clear. No shouts.

No lights came on. I turned my attention to the station. And there it was. line by charger next to a humming fan Carla's phone The screen lit up when I touched it Her lock screen stared back at me Carla and her daughter

Cheek to cheek at the Grand Canyon My throat tightened I felt nauseous swallowed it down Every message I'd sent her was there Every missed call dozens more from her fiancée I checked her notes.

I wasn't sure how long she'd been here before Mr. Jangles took her. But maybe she'd been here long enough to see something I hadn't. She was better at this than me. Always had been. She'd made a note four days ago. The day before I arrived. Havers. 1998.

But before I could make sense of it, I heard something outside. Keys. I froze. and slowly turned towards the door. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of metal sliding into metal. His keys entered the lock. I didn't think, didn't hesitate. I shoved the phone into my pocket and bolted for the broken window.

Glass bit into my palms as I hauled myself back out. The last thing I heard was the door creaking open behind me. I didn't look back. I ran as fast as I could to the element. elementary school, and with a little courage left in the tank, I busted my second window of the night. Lucia told me most of the locals still clinging to Maywood Mills had gone to school with Nadine, that they'd all been in the same class.

But I'd never heard of this boy, Lyle, not once. The school itself was unsettling, not because it was falling apart. art, though it was, but because of what filled it. Crayon drawings of Mr. Jangles lined the halls, taped to the walls, hanging on classroom doors, kids holding his hand, him dancing in the woods, him picking flowers by the creek. It almost felt like curriculum. Suddenly, the idea of a cult didn't seem far-fetched. It felt practical, organized, something taught young enough that no one thought to question it.

Maybe this was it. I made my way to the teacher's lounge, though calling it a lounge was generous. It looked more like a college dorm that had been abandoned mid-semester. Burnt coffee hung in the air, unwashed dishes in the sink, one sad, stained microwave in the corner. In the back, I found a tall metal filing cabinet. And there they were. Thick dust-covered yearbooks.

The kind schools used before everything became digital. Nadine's murder happened late summer, which meant she'd still be listed in the 1998 edition. However, it wasn't there. It was gone. The closest book I could find was from 2000. I flipped through page after page. The photos were sun faded and grainy,

and most of the kids looked like they were terrified. Still, a pattern started to form. Lucy, Mickey, Horace, they were all there. All old classmates to Nadine, but Dale, he wasn't listed anywhere. Instead, there was a boy who looked just like him. Lyle Havers. The pieces clicked together with a dull sinking weight. Dale was Lyle. But if that was the case, then why change his name? I worked myself backward through the books.

Lyle wasn't in 97 or 96, but Nadine was. That meant he'd moved to town sometime between 98 to 99, probably 98 since Carla had flagged him as a person of interest. Was there a story here? New kid arrives, falls for the girl next door, gets rejected, heartbreaks, skew violent end. Maybe he'd been a suspect back then. I couldn't remember his name from the case files, but given how sloppy they were, that didn't mean much. Still, the question lingered. Why change his name? Because the evidence probably didn't stick.

However, suspicion does. I'd seen it before. Changing your name doesn't erase the past, but it does bury it. Then something else surfaced. A memory from the missing files Horace had given me. One of the elderly couples, they were named the Havers, Ruth and Earl Havers. They vanished in 2003. I snapped a couple of photos of the pages, hands shaking slightly.

Couldn't tell if it was cold or something closer to excessive. excitement. That's when I heard it. A faint clatter of metal echoing down the hallway. I froze. Didn't move, didn't breathe, just listened. How the hell did he know I was here? I slipped out of the lounge, if I remember correctly, the exit was on the other side of the hallway. The one lined with kids' drawings because that's just what I needed. of him. I moved through the corridor as quietly as I could. Then I felt it again. That strange pressure in the air, like the building itself was swallowing sound.

I glanced out of a window. Silent lightning bloomed over the woods. No crack. No wind. I turned back toward the hallway. It almost screamed. Down the far end of the corridor, illuminated only by moonlight, stood a figure, tall, perfectly still, Mr. Jangles.

Lightning flared again, carving his silhouette out of the dark. The top hat, the long coat, the wide, awful smile. With the next thunder boom, he started to dance. It wasn't ballet, like last night. This dance felt wrong. It was offbeat. childish, unpredictable, like someone mocking the very idea of what makes dancing beautiful. But I was spellbound.

My blood turned to ice, every scrap of anxiety I'd ever carried dumped into my veins at once. He was coming closer. I imagined this was what small fish felt like when they finally realized the beautiful light belonged to a mouth full of razor sharp teeth. His long, gaunt hand reached out for me. Lightning cracked outside again. This time I heard it. And the spell broke.

I ran. Full sprint. Blind through the dark. My boots hammered against the old linoleum. Loud as gunshots. I didn't know where I was going. Just away. Anywhere else.

I rounded a corner too fast, slipped, and fell on my broken arm. The snap echoed off the walls. I bit down hard, choking back a scream, fumbled for my painkillers, swallowed more than I should have, dry. When the pain dulled enough for me to function, I forced my eyes open. I saw lockers. Tall metal lockers lined the wall. I didn't think I yanked one open, shoved myself inside, and pulled the door shut.

The metal clicked softly. Then silence fell. All I could hear was my own breathing. Through the narrow slats I watched the hallway. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Then a horrible sound filled the silence. Keys scraping against metal. He was dragging his keys against the lockers.

One by one. I could hear him getting closer. I did my best not to move and held my breath. My sweat ran cold down my spine. My arm ached with pressure. Then he paused. Just a few feet away. Just like that.

No sound. No final scare. And then he was gone. I didn't know what came over me. I should have stayed hidden. slept in there until morning. But how do you explain that to a kid? A grown stranger passed out inside a school locker.

No, I had enough trouble as it is. I ran back out, out of the school, into the night, and I didn't stop until I couldn't see the building anymore. As I was getting close to the bar, I fished Holly's number out of my pocket and called her. As soon as she answered, I blurted out some adrenaline-fueled theory. I can't remember exactly, but

I think I said something about Dale or Lyle having killed Nadine that summer, how the kids must have covered for him, and as they got older, they got rid of anyone who sniffed out the truth, even as parents. Then they all blamed it on Mr. Jengals and created a lie that now everyone has accepted. It didn't really make sense, but I was desperate for answers. This was all I got. But why would the entire community get together to protect one disturbed kid. Wouldn't you just want to get rid of him? I couldn't think about it anymore as a strong smell hit me. Burning Wood.

I looked up and saw thick black smoke curling up into the sky, swallowing the tree tops. The bar was on fire. By the time I got close enough to see through the smoke, it was already too late. Flames licked the walls and gutted the windows to my room. Glass exploded onto the street. The old neon sign took its last breath and flickered to death. I ducked behind a dumpster trying to make sense of what I was seen.

And that's when I saw Lucy, sobbing. On her knees in the gravel, her arms streaked with soot. People from the town had gathered around. They didn't look scared. They looked furious. Their faces twisted with grief and firelight, and they were shouting, shouting my name. They were hunting me. I slowly backed away and ran down the street.

There was only one place left to go, Holly's house. She took me in without a word. I must have looked worse than I felt, soaked to the bone, shaking, half from the cold, half from everything else I'd been through. She handed me a mug of hot coffee and told me. me to sit tight, said she was going to take a quick shower, that I could rest in the basement if I wanted. Lock the door, if it made me feel safer. I nodded. Finally, I had time to think. What was next? Everything I owned was gone in the fire. All files, all my equipment, all my personal

belongings. I was just about to head downstairs when I remembered. I had something. Dean's diary. It was tucked into the inner pocket of my jacket. I pulled it out. It was damp around the edges, but intact. It was all I had left of her. I sat down and flipped through it. The first pages were what you'd expect from a teenage girl. Crushes, classes, doodles, fights with her mom, song lyrics, but then I hit something else. Pages and pages. written between April and August 98. At first it looked like a creative writing

exercise. A story she made up for school. Something about a man in a tall hat who lives in the woods. Mr. Jangles. At first he was harmless. A story Nadine made up for a class exercise.

A monster that only existed on paper. But as the entries went on, her tone changed. She wrote about how the other kids became fascinated with him, obsessed, Lucy especially, and another girl, Anna Havers. Anna Havers. Lyle had a sister? I didn't recognize the name, I couldn't remember her from the school photo. Nadine explained that Lucy and Anna liked the idea of Mr. Jangles. So they started adding details, drawing him, talking about him like he was real.

like they could hear him. Then it stopped being a game. In the middle of summer, Nadine wrote that Lucy and Anna had convinced the others to hold small rituals. Meeting at the creek, praying,

leaving offerings, talking to him at night. Nadine wanted it to stop. She said that she was scared, that she tried to tell the others that Mr. Jangles had left town. But they didn't believe her. and then I found the last entry she ever wrote.

Lucy and Anna asked me to come with them tonight. My mom has told me not to hang out with Anna. She told me she's being homeschooled because she's special. Anna says he wants to see me, that I'm the only one who can do this right, because I know him and because he listens to me. The other children have decided to sneak out tonight too. everyone will be there

they've already decided on the forest the place by the creek I tried to tell them he isn't real that he never was they accused me of lying that I was just scared to admit the truth now they want to see him

he'll only come if I'm there they say it's not dangerous that nothing bad will happen I don't want to go but I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't. If something happens to me, I want it to be known. I never believed in him. They did. Who was Anna Havers? Who came to Maywood Mills later and didn't keep her name? It dawned on me. I didn't want the answer. I tried to push it away, but it was already there. Waiting.

Holly. That was the last clear thought I had before the sharp. heart pain exploded at the back of my head and everything went black. I woke up here. At first I could hear them. Voices somewhere above me muffled, angry, arguing maybe. Then the dirt or not dirt. It must have been mud, thick and wet and heavy. It slid over my casket like wet cement. I screamed, begging for them to stop. and then I heard it. The dam. Cracking like a gunshot in the distance.

And then a sound like the sky tearing open. Rushing water. Flooding everything. Washing over my grave. I can only assume that's what I heard when I arrived three days ago. That they buried Carla. Her body was probably just a few feet away. Dales too.

He left me the note because, he was ready to talk, to confess, ready to tear open the lie that had been holding this town together for decades. They couldn't let that happen. I don't know how deep down I am. I can't move. The walls are tight and pressing in on all sides. My ribs ache every time I try to breathe. Please, don't get any ideas. Don't come look for me. They'll find you. He'll find you I'm writing this on my phone Which they forgot to take from me for some reason

So if they somehow remember I assume they'll come back for it But I'll be long gone by then So if you hear an update from me again Please Know that it won't be for me They say small towns hold on to their stories Longer than they should

And Mr. Jangles his story will be safe with me forever I've been stalking my ex-girlfriend I have a good reason written by Hey Armageddon I want to preface this by stating that I am not a good person

though I try to be I've had a troubling past got mixed in with the wrong internet crowd and a lot of toxic ideologies. I began stalking when I was 16. After my first girlfriend left me for another guy and I, in my pain, found myself reading about similar experiences in forums I shouldn't have been in

and got the idea of getting back at her from said internet spaces. As I grew up, I began agreeing more and more with some ideas about women that made me a pathetic and insecure man. I became severely attached to my partners and I wanted to have total control. Always fearful, they might be cheating on me or doing something else to try and hurt me. It didn't help that I was always rushing into relationships,

always trying to avoid that sense of utter loneliness that came with being single, that came with partners who hurt me, partners I hurt, and some mutually assured destruction. My insecurity and distrust made me a somewhat skillful stalker, and I secretly spied on my partners however I could. I will not share the methods I used here, for that might invite others to try the same thing,

which is not my objective. When I was 24, my stalking and hateful behavior almost got me in jail. I got restraining order, was required to attend anger management classes, and therapy. It was the first time I had to face consequences for my abhorrent actions. And while I'll be the first one to admit that these consequences weren't as severe as some people might want for people like me, they ended up actually helping in setting me straight. My therapist was an older woman, I'll call Miss Price. She helped me a lot in dealing with my issues, all the deep-seated hatred and insecurities I had.

If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be who I am today. Six years later. She learned every bad thing I went through, every horrible thing I did, and showed me kindness and understanding I never thought I deserved. Over time, she became a sort of motherly figure for me. and although at 26, I made so much progress that my visits became more sporadic. I still kept in contact with her via email and social media. Three years ago, I met Emma, a gorgeous girl with a bubbly personality and a heart of gold.

Always wearing muted greens and reds and sweaters and scarfs, silky brown hair reaching down her back and a pair of round glasses that completed that cozy, cozy look that immediately made me feel attracted to her. Feeling like I could do better now that I had overcome a lot of my issues, I struck up a conversation with her. Since our first interaction, I felt static in the air. She was such a fun person to talk to. Everything she said got my immediate interest. Despite my sudden approach, she was nonetheless friendly and, after an impromptu first date, we found ourselves following each other on social media and exchanging phone numbers. The instant attraction was mutual.

That much was clear. We made plans to go out again the very next week. And over time, our dates became more frequent as we became more involved in each other's lives. Emma was a light fantasy writer and had a blog in which she posted short stories on. She was fairly popular and even had a novel in the world. works. When I first got to read her works, I was immediately transported into the worlds she portrayed with pen and paper. Truly, my new friend had cleared talent, and that aspect made me fall for even more. Still, I made sure to take it slow. I wanted the both of us to get to know each other better

before asking her to be my girlfriend. After five months, however, Emma was the one that confessed her love for me. I was so happy to hear that from her, but I knew I couldn't start a relationship with her without telling her about my past. So I did. I told her everything. The things I'd done, the things that were done to me, I tried to be as raw as possible, not to excuse my actions in any way, and to show I was trying to be a better man. And sweet, sweet Emma, decided to get give me a chance. She was truly an angel. And I promised to myself that I'd be the best boyfriend I could for her. Our relationship developed a lot quicker after that. And while I often found myself thinking of checking her phone for anything suspicious, while she left it unattended, or trying to

look through the list of people she followed in her accounts, I always stopped myself before I could act on it. I tried my best to trust her, and I was always honest about having those thoughts with her. Sometimes she'd show me the people she was talking to all on her own, trying to ease my worries when I was struggling the most. Emma cared deeply about me and wanted me to get better. Her openness was so refreshing, and it was something I had never experienced before. Her support meant the most to me, and over time, I found myself able to feel. at ease while being with her. There were still times I felt a worry or a need to do something stalker-ish, but it became

a lot easier to manage, as I had no real reason to doubt Emma in the slightest. In my happiest moments, I considered both Emma and Miss Price to be my saviors. Everything changed about a year and a half into our relationship. Emma was an only child, and still very involved in her. their parents' lives, despite living on our own and being only a year younger than me. I couldn't say the same about me. My parents hated me for becoming such an awful person, and they were unwilling to give me a second chance.

I understood where they were coming from, but that didn't make it hurt any less. It was wintertime, and Emma's parents invited us to a trip in the mountains. By that point, we had been acquaintance for a while, and thanks to their kindness, no day out where Emma got that from. I felt like I had a family again. Tragically, I was unable to go, as my work kept me especially busy on the days leading up to Christmas Day. Sometimes I wish I'd gone. Maybe things would have gone differently then. The day before New Year's Eve, a man called me on the phone, claiming to be a man named Hank, one of Emma's uncles. He said I was listed as Emma's emergency contact and told me the bad news. Emma and her parents had gotten into an accident.

Apparently, a bear managed to get into their cabin and things got ugly. The bear killed both her parents and while Emma herself ended up mostly unharmed, save for a few minor injuries, the experience severely traumatized her. Damn, unfortunate to come across a bear during wintertime. he said solemnly. I couldn't put it any better. In that very same day, I found myself rushing to the hospital Emma was in. The woman that laid on the hospital bed was almost unrecognizable.

She had white bandages wrapped around her left arm and upper thigh, some splotches of dried blood clearly shone in various spots. Truly, the injuries didn't seem that bad, but her expression. It was an expression I had never seen. in her face. Neither anger nor sorrow, rather complete emptiness. A nurse told me that she was still in an emotional shock, and that it might take weeks or even months for her to recover.

As I tried talking to her, she replied to me in a dry, monotone tone. Her eyes looked dead, as if there was nothing left for the woman I loved. Later, I found out she had incurred memory loss. Weeks passed, and I had her move in with me so I could take care of her. It was an uncomfortable time, but I genuinely wanted to take care of her and help her recover. She became clumsy, and she had forgotten even the most basic of things. I had to teach her things like how to eat properly and how to cook. She was relearning many things, including some she taught me herself,

in the past and most of her friends and family were severely worried for her well-being. I sought the aid of specialists in the medical field and was told it was most likely due to high stress or perhaps some head injury we didn't know about. After getting some studies done, we were told they could find no such injury. At least her ability to relearn these skills wasn't impeded in the slightest. And it seemed as if her mind was as sharp. as ever. It was a tough time, and with memory loss, I was also forced to manage her social media and keep note of her passwords while she readjusted. This gave me a lot of unwanted power over

all of her messages and information, but I felt proud for being able to fight those urges with relative ease. Six months later, things came back to a somewhat normal state. Emma learned things quickly and seemed to become more efficient at doing everything than before. That also came with a shift in personality, however. Her bubbly and kind demeanor changed to a more serious and uncaring attitude. It was as if she had become a completely different person, as if my Emma wasn't there anymore. At first, she wouldn't even hug me, and I didn't want to try any kind of intimacy, knowing she didn't remember her feelings for me.

We didn't even sleep together. I just let her sleep in my bed while I slept on the couch. As she began getting better and questioned what our relationship was, I told her that she could decide that once she processed her feelings for me.

As much as it hurt, I didn't want her to feel forced to be with me if she didn't feel love anymore. Soon after, she started demonstrating affection in weird ways. She would bite me, Over time with greater intensity and lick my arms or neck, all the while still unwilling to hug me often or even kiss. After that, I would wake up in the middle of the night and find her standing next to me, staring.

Often I'd shrieking horror at the sudden sight of a dark figure in front of me, but as it became a common occurrence, I got used to it. Every time I asked her what she was doing, she told me she couldn't sleep that night, and that watching me sleep helped her sleep as well. I began growing increasingly worried, but as she had never once hurt me while I slept, I tried to bear with it as best as I could. To make things simple, I had her use one of my emails so she could learn how to use my computer at the start,

since her laptop got destroyed in the attack. After she had readjusted, it became a habit for her to keep using that email while using my PC, even though her phone had her normal email in it. She didn't seem to find any reason to switch emails or even manage multiple accounts anymore. She was comfortable simply using what was on each device by default. A few months ago, while using my computer alone, I decided to check my browser. a history to look for a website I was visiting the day prior and had forgotten the name of. Naturally, these searches there were a mix of mine and hers, so I didn't bat an eye when I saw

random video searches I didn't look for, or the odd site here and there. That was until a specific search caught my eye. Jobs that work with fresh corpses. This was quite off-putting. but I tried to rationalize that maybe she was writing again and needed some inspiration. After all, her memory loss also came with changes to her interests, and while she no longer was into writing, she developed a taste for horror that could be leading into, perhaps, writing stories of a different genre.

The odd search got me curious, and I began to look further down the search history. I could find a lot of true crime, urban legends and close encounters with monsters. I also noticed that every few weeks, she would look for reports on the incident that killed her parents, often looking at the original publications and the few updates made throughout the initial months. Although she didn't seem to remember it,

she appeared to have gained some sort of morbid curiosity for the subject. As I scrolled back closer to Christmas, closer to the time I began teaching her how to use my computer, I found more crude search results, such as human rituals, how to show emotions, how to live with others, common roadkill sites, looked for specifically with the name of our town in the search, and is it socially acceptable to eat another human? I had a deeply unsettling feeling, but I couldn't come to any conclusion yet. From then on, I began observing Emma more closely, and at the same time, she began getting more involved in doing housework.

While she would refuse to cook, she'd always watch me prepare meals for the both of us. On one occasion, I cut my finger while chopping some vegetables, and before I could react, Emma had it in her mouth, sucking the blood out. She said she just wanted to help, but I decided to be more careful after that odd display. When she looked at me, I noticed how her calm demeanor hid something behind it. Something I couldn't understand at that point yet still made me feel uncomfortable. I decided to set up a hidden camera with night vision in my living room, pointed at the couch where I slept. I checked the footage recorded at night on a phone app that came with the camera,

and noticed her nightly visits continued. Now, if not from the start, they were happening every single night. Over time, I installed more hidden cameras around the house over time, making sure they weren't many to reduce the chance of her finding them. After watching the footage, I noticed that she had a habit of always standing in front of the window, peeking through the blinds and looking at me as I drove off. Then she'd walk to my computer or sit down and simply look at videos or read things all day long.

That blank, unchanging expression, she used to have coming back and only leaving once I was back or when she had to leave the house. Originally, she didn't leave the house that much. But as she became more comfortable being alone, she gradually made a habit of getting groceries on her own while I was at work, messaging me to ask if I wanted anything. Knowing what I knew, this started to look suspicious as well. So one day, I decided to follow her to clear my doubts.

That day, I took the day off and lied to her. telling her I was heading to work. The day before, I placed a tracker in her car I bought a few days earlier. In that morning, I sneaked out a change of clothes and a pair of binoculars in my suitcase, then drove my own car to a parking lot near a car rental place to rent one for the day. After that, I switched clothes, checked the tracker on the app, and began following her around. I felt guilty about returning to my old ways and disappointing Miss Price, but I told myself this time wasn't out of jealousy or insecurity.

Rather, it was due to fear for my safety. She did what any normal person would do. Visit the mall and a few smaller stores. The thing that scared me the most was what I found she did after. I followed Emma back home, making sure to keep my distance, and parked the car a few stories. streets away. Far enough to be unnoticed and close enough to use my binoculars. After she parked and carried the groceries inside, I looked at my phone and accessed the

camera's app to look at her in real time. She took everything out of the bags and put everything in its respective place, but left a block of raw meat. I think it was beef. Out on the counter. Next, she got a mop and a bucket, took off all of her clothes, threw them on a nearby couch, grabbed a chunk of meat and began eating it. My jaw hit the bottom of the car as I looked at my now ex-girlfriend eating raw meat with nothing on.

The fresh blood dripping down her mouth and onto her chest and abdomen in a way that reminded me of some sort of satanic ritual or the like. I felt sick to my stomach. Unsure if this was some sort of mental illness or something else. And the somewhat low quality of the chewing noises and her grunts simply added to the bizarre

experience. Then as I recovered from the shock and tried to make sense of what I was seeing and hearing, I recalled her search history and her strange fascination with the attack that killed her parents. I believe in the paranormal, but had never experienced anything my heart. And I was wondering if what attacked Emma and her parents that day wasn't a bear, but something else. If maybe, just maybe. My beloved girlfriend had fallen victim to the monster as well.

And it had come back pretending to be her. Looking back at the video feed, she kept eating the entire chunk of meat, probably about four pounds. though I couldn't really tell from the video alone, until it was completely gone. It was an insane amount of meat that no human should eat in a single day, let alone in a single meal. After that, she mopped down the floor, cleaned herself with a few napkins, brought them to the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet. Lastly, she went to take a shower. All the evidence of her feast gone.

Were it not for me having a recording of it? As far as I could tell, this was the first time she did something like that in the house. No other recordings showed her doing anything like that in the past. That night, I came home still pretending to have worked. Fortunately, she didn't ask about it, and we spent the night peacefully. Just in case I put the phone in my pajama pants, grabbed the kitchen knife and slid it under my pillow before going to bed. I was twisting and turning, unable to sleep in the slightest.

Suddenly, I heard the door of my room open, and I pretended to be asleep as Emma walked towards me and stood right in front of the couch. I half opened my eyes and saw the woman I used to love. Her face perfectly illuminated by moonlight. Mine obscured by PNumbra. From that night, I was unable to understand the look in her eyes. That look that had sent shivers down my spine multiple times, even though I didn't know why.

It was hunger, a ravenous primal hunger. I was her prey. I couldn't move. My breathing started to get heavy, and I had to do my best to keep it under control. I pretended to be asleep while that thing kept looking at. at me. It felt like I was stuck in that uncomfortable space for hours, but whatever the actual time was, she left after a while. When I felt the danger had passed, I was finally able to fall asleep and did so almost immediately. I woke up again with a sudden jolt of pain and found Emma,

or the thing masquerading as her, kneeling down and biting down on my left arm. I tried to tried pulling away, and she bit down a chunk of skin without mercy. What is wrong with you, I asked. The adrenaline quickly rushing through my body as I went on high alert and pushed her away, grabbing the knife with my right hand and pointing it at her while trying to step back. Her words came out so desperate. Her voice almost guttural and uncanny. I'm sorry, it's just your fear.

It makes me eat. even hungrier. I leaped back onto the couch and put my free hand in the backseat to try and flip around. But the weight I put all of the sudden made the couch fall backwards, and I stumbled sideways onto the floor behind, falling on my left side while the knife flew off my hand and landed nearby, in between me in the front door. I looked back and Emma leaping at me like an animal, landing next to my left leg and biting into my calf, even through the thick fabric of the pants I was wearing.

I felt her teeth sinking into my skin like sharp needles, and while trying to kick at her with my other leg in an awkward way, I used my healthy hand to try and reach the knife. Her mouth wouldn't leave my calf, and it wasn't until she managed to rip yet another chunk of my flesh that she finally let me go. A hole in my pants with blood soaking into the fabric was the only indication that it was my only chance to leave. As it was clear, I couldn't fight this thing. I crawled pathetically towards the knife and picked it up, then leaned against the wall next to the front door to unlock it while the creature,

now almost completely feral, struggled trying to split out the cloth stuck in its teeth. The next part was a blur. I recall opening the door and crawling out before closing it behind me. I think the adrenaline coursing to, through my veins was working overtime. Because next thing I knew, I was running out the street in the middle of the night

while the thing chased behind me. I don't know how long that went for, but I'm sure that, had I not closed the door while it was distracted, it would have caught up to me before I was saved. I didn't know how this happened, as I lost consciousness when help arrived. I woke up a few days later,

finding myself with bandages not only on my calf and wrist, but also in my stomach. I was told by one of the doctors that the damage I had incurred required surgery, and that there were two officers waiting for me to wake up to take my statement. I told them what had happened, and fortunately, my phone survived the ordeal with just a few cracks on the screen. I showed them some of what I had gathered, leaving out any of my paranormal theories, and told them, she began acting crazier and crazier since the accident with her parents.

After explaining everything, I found out what happened after I fell unconscious. A truck with some college guys coming back from a party, stumbled across Emma in the middle of the road, digging her teeth into the side of my gut while I was unconscious. They said that the car's headlights startled her, and at the moment they noticed what she was doing, they figured she was some sort of junkie and tried to scare her away. Fortunately, they had weapons on them, so after a few warning shots, the thing scurried away into the nearby woods. The guys called the police and an ambulance for me,

and that's how I ended up in the hospital. That was two months ago. Since then, the government officials came to my home and confiscated my cameras and electronics. I didn't fight them on it. Though I was upset, I wouldn't be allowed to have any video evidence of what had happened. I was told there should be no further issues,

but that I should change the locks and get a weapon, just in case. The story that was given to the press was that Emma had suffered a mental breakdown and attacked me, but ran off before police could get to where the guys found me and had them been found since. Nine people have gone missing in that time span. The first five were homeless, and sadly, that meant the police. didn't put too much effort in the investigation. Two weeks ago, a cargo worker, a nurse, and a teacher went missing as well. This caused a larger stir in the public, and I hoped it was

just a coincidence. But something told me that it might be involved. Yesterday I found that there was a new victim in the news. It was Ms. Price, whom I returned to for therapy after I recovered enough from surgery. Now I find myself alone again. Scared of something that might come and try to finish the job. I wonder if this is a punishment for all the wrongs I did in the past. If I got a taste of a perfect life just to be taken away by a force of nature. Or perhaps something more malevolent. If someone you love gets in a terrible accident where they're the only survivor, and they seem to become a different person after that, be careful. They might not be your loved one anymore. There's something very wrong about the woman under the bridge, written by Twisted Urban Tales.

When I moved to Philly for work, I knew the area wasn't great. Not run down enough to scare me off as a six-foot-two guy who used to work security, but not the kind of place you wander around at night alone either, whoever you were. My walk to work took me under a bridge every morning, and that's where I first saw her. She sat on a flattened piece of cardboard near one of the pillars, head lowered, hood pulled up, a please spare change for food sign, scrawled in pencil, was popped up beside her. At first, I didn't think much of it until I looked again. She had no legs. not covered or hidden, just no legs. There were stumps above where her knees should have been.

I paused and took a closer look. She couldn't have been older than her mid-20s, and that part stuck with me more than anything. Her face was grimy, and she had mangled, unkempt blonde hair. But I could tell. You expect to see older people out there, but not someone who still looked like

they should have been in college. I reached into my wallet and dropped a few bills into the cup beside her. She didn't speak. She just lowered her head slightly. Everyone else walked past. The next time I saw her was the morning after the weekend. In the same spot, sitting in the same position. This time, when I gave her money, she looked up at me.

Her eyes were wide with something that looked like. panicked desperation. I hesitated. You okay, I asked? No response. I assumed she was pleading for more cash, so that's what I gave her. But that wide-eyed look still persisted as I slowly walked away. Later that day, I got off work early and passed her again around midday. And this time she was looking down, as if trying to be invisible. It stuck with me for a while. The next morning, when I stopped again, she did something different. As I handed her money, she slipped something into my hand.

A small folded piece of paper, gray and worn, like it had been through it. I opened it while walking. The writing was in messy pencil scribbles, and it wasn't English. I looked over it curiously and put it in my back pocket, assuming it was a thank you note or something. During my work break, I pulled out the note again and glanced at it curiously, wondering what it said. An idea occurred to me. I downloaded a translation app and took a photo. Then I uploaded it to the app, which detected the language. Russian. A few seconds later, the English translation. translation came back.

Do not give me money. Man is watching from other side. He see where you keep wallet. He wait for you when you alone. He make me do this. I blinked and read it again. A cold chill ran through me. I didn't take that route home.

And when I got back, I called the police. Told them everything. The woman, the note, the warning. The voice on the other end barely reacted, sounding like it was just another Tuesday. Just said that they'd get someone to check it out. Didn't ask for the note or any further details. No follow-up questions. No urgency.

Nothing. I hung up with no real optimism that they'd take any action. Two days later, I went back early in the morning, just to check if anything had changed. The streets were still dark, completely empty at that hour. I had a fake wallet in my back pockets and my pistol just in case, but I wasn't expecting to use it. I arrived hoping to see the area cornered off, at least some sign that the authorities had been there, but there was none at all. And she wasn't there. The spot under the bridge was empty.

The cardboard and the sign were gone. I glanced at my watch and stood there, telling myself it was early. She might not be out yet. But where else would she be? After all, she slept there. I stood there longer than I should have, listening. The water beneath the bridge moved slowly, quietly. Then I heard something.

faint like a voice. I turned my head in its direction, then followed it cautiously down toward the riverbank. As I walked, the ground became uneven, damp. I paused a few more times, listening closely, but I didn't hear the sound again. I almost turned around and left, but then I saw a dark shape out in the distance shift. It didn't look right. I took a few more steps towards it. And that's when I saw what it was.

Someone was in the water. I rushed closer and that's when I saw her. Turning in the current as it washed over her face. I opened my phone torch and pointed it at her. It was the same homeless girl from under the bridge. She was tied up and barely moving. I waited in without thinking. The water soaked through my shoes instantly as I grabbed her and slipped my arm under her shoulder.

I lifted her out of the water. She was slippery and cold. There was blood on her arms and down the front of her shirt. Her eyes flickered open as I pulled her out, dragging her onto the bank. Then her eyes widened and her hand grabbed my shirt, weakly but urgently. I realized she was looking behind me. Then footsteps. I reacted before I could even think.

I didn't even stop to look. I just pulled out my gun, turned and fired. The sound was deafening, cutting through the silence. Something hit the ground in the distance before I fully saw it. My heart racing, I swallowed and approached closer, both hands on the gun. A tall man lay twitching on the damp ground. I pointed my phone torch. at him. He was dressed in black, mask over his face, gun in his hand. If she hadn't warned me,

I would have been dead. As I looked into his eyes, the realization dawned on me. This was him, the one using her, making her sit there, day after day, pulling people in. When she looked at me like that, she hadn't been begging. She'd been trying to warn me. And he must have found out about the note. I felt sick. Rage flooded in so fast it drowned everything else. I aimed at his head and fired. He stopped moving instantly. But I fired again. And again. I lost count. Each shot was louder than the last. Splitting through the size. silence in the dark. I kept firing after it stopped being self-defense.

Consequences be damned. It took me a few seconds to catch my breath after the last shot. Then I rushed back towards the water. By the time I got back to her, she wasn't responsive. I dropped to my knees beside her and lifted her. Hey, stay with me, I said. My voice breaking, you're okay. You'll be okay.

There was no reaction. I pressed my fingers to her neck, feeling for anything. Come on, I muttered under my breath. I pulled out my phone and called an ambulance, trying to keep my voice steady as I explained the situation. Every second felt stretched thin. It's okay, I told her. You're safe now. But I didn't know if she could even hear me.

And as I said it, I could feel a sinking feeling. kneeling in my chest. The paramedics tried. They worked on her right there by the water. As I stood back watching them, but it didn't take long. She was pronounced dead on arrival. I still walk that route sometimes. Not because I have to, but because I can't stop thinking about it.

I feel eyes on me every time I go back to that place under the bridge. Half the time I expect someone to step out of the shadows and come at me. I'm always ready for it now. I walk through it slowly, tense, waiting, listening for the smallest sound, but nothing ever since. People walk through it like nothing ever happened, just like every other part of the city. Most people never even noticed her. But now, some of them notice the same. flowers I left where she used to sit.

You know how to spot a kind of thing? Written by Saturday. A long time ago, someone asked me a strange question. It was my last year of high school. I was drunk out of my mind and crashing at a friend's place. We were coming down from an after party and half of us didn't want to go home. Two guys were sleeping on the floor. one was nodding on and off and a lazy boy in the corner still gripping at 40 i was on the couch with a curly-haired girl talking about nothing you know how to spot a kind of thing what kind of thing no no she said lazily shaking her head not a kind of thing a kind of thing you're not making any sense she poked me in the chest and put her head on my shoulder falling half asleep

as she explained. It's a game. It teaches you to think about stuff. All right. What is it? You sure you want to know? I mean, now I have to. I was barely paying attention.

My hands smelled like cheese snacks and rubber. We've been playing ping pong, and the rackets were kind of cheap. Think of a place you spend a lot of time in. Like, several times a week. but not all the time. Not like your bedroom. I don't spend all my time in my bedroom.

Come on, you got a place in mind? I thought about this alleyway between my family home and my neighbor. It was this fenced off alley. Not big enough to drive a car through. I went there every day on my way to class. I nodded. I got one. Now think of something in that place.

something you know, but don't own, something you've seen, but got no pictures of. Give me a sec. I thought about this one particular thing. It was a little teddy bear keychain that someone had put on one of the fence posts. Nothing big, just a plastic thing with a heart in the middle of the chest and an all-too-neutral teddy-bear smile. Just a fun little quirk on an other. color-wise depressing stretch of concrete. All right, I got a thing.

You know what colors it is? She asked. I had an idea, but I wasn't 100% certain. There was some red in there. I knew that much, a bit of yellow. But I couldn't say exactly what was what. Maybe the nose was black. Kind of, I said.

She looked up at me and poked me in the chest again. That's a kind of thing, she muttered. They're pretty cool. She sat up and stretched a little, kicking over an empty can. The guy with the 40 had fully admitted defeat and curled up into a ball. They exist on the edge of things, she explained. It could be blue. It could be yellow.

It could change into red. There's no way to really know. It only exists in your memory. But it's red. How can you know for sure? Like, for sure, for sure. I can check it. What if it wasn't red yesterday?

Do you know for sure what it was yesterday? I mean, things don't change color. Kind of things do. You're making this sound like a ghost story. Who says it isn't? We got into this weird, wine-fueled philosophy nonsense that led us nowhere and ended up making out on the patio, staying up until dawn.

As the sun rose and a car came to take her away, I decided to drag myself home. As I wandered, I took the route through that alley. And like always, the teddy bear keychain hung on one of the posts. Except the thing wasn't red, or yellow. It was blue. like my mother's novelty sunflowers. There were a couple of red spots along the paws,

but the main thing was all blue. I'd been certain it was supposed to be all red. But maybe I just focused on the details. I picked it up, put in my pocket, and instantly forgot about it. I wouldn't see that keychain for a long time, and I wouldn't think much of it, because I guess that's the nature of kind of things.

I saw that keychain a couple of times over the next few years. When I moved into my college dorm, I had it resting on my windowsill. I think my mom put it there. At some point, I knocked it over and it rolled under a nightstand, where I didn't find it until years later, when I graduated. From there, it ended up in a box of knick-knacks, which ended up on a shelf in my apartment. It wasn't an exciting journey, but it was my journey.

You sort of forget how long things stick around until you're old enough to look back on it. I got my bachelor's degree, my master's degree, and got working on a doctorate. As part of my doctorate, I had to teach a class. My expertise circled around information science with a study. slight leaning towards digital architecture and preservation. But I wanted to give my classes something to make them really stick. That was the first time in years that I thought of kind of things. Problem was, once I went looking for that teddy bear keychain to bring to class, I couldn't find it. When I held my first class, I told them all about the kind of things. I asked my

students to consider what their own kind of things would be. It was all framed in the context of how important it is to preserve factual information in a way that makes it contextually aware. But for all the first-year students, it turned into a thing to share at parties. And the circle of drunk philosophers continued for another generation. It was fun, though. They all had something. A cracked coffee cup.

an old bike wheel banded near the football field, a baseball cap on the top shelf that they couldn't reach. All little things that didn't matter, but were important enough to be made and forgotten about. And now I had a whole class thinking about them. Every class I taught heard that story. I skipped the part where I made out and smelled the Fritos. They didn't need the details.

Not everyone knew my name. but they all remembered me asking that first question on the first day of class. You know how to spot a kind of thing? By the time I turned 27, I finished my doctorate. I had a paid position, but I was looking for something more permanent. You don't go chasing it to Nur right away, but I wanted to do more experimental work, maybe field work even. I had applied for a couple of positions at colleges out of state, not Ivy League, but up there in the charts.

I figured this was as good as a time as any to stretch my wings after spending all of my life in one state and city. One of my proposals got picked up, and my time as a teacher of that one class was swiftly coming to an end. One more semester, and that would be it. It was bittersweet. I'd gotten to know my colleagues pretty well. They were a bunch of fun nerds, having board games, nights in the lounge. They all had this thing where they used cleaned out vodka bottles as water bottles, just so students could take funny pictures and go,

This is my professor, LOL. I was sad to see it come to an end, but it was time to move on to find newer things. New can't always be bad. my colleagues had planned one hell of a going away party. It was the last day at class, a Friday. They were holding a bit of an event for my last class, and all my colleagues were there. Some held speeches, and these students were invited to share some anecdotes as well. There were a lot of nice words, I won't lie, I got a bit teary-eyed. Once things come to an end, everything gets put into the perspective of how much you're going to miss it. Every stupid little detail. As a final hurrah,

they revealed a gift to me, something for me to bring to my next office. I could tell it was a box of some kind, covered in a big white cloth. They pulled it off with a magician's flare. We all applauded. There was a box. That much was ranked. A big one. At first, it looked like a junk, drawer. A rock with googly eyes, an old horseshoe, a tasteless bronze leprechaun, things like that.

But once I saw the text printed on the side, it all made sense. Kind of things. We decided to get them for you, a colleague said, leaning on my arm. We know how much you love

them, so we all went out and got our kind of things. We figured you'd enjoy them. I've never been so proud to get a box of junk. The next few weeks were a blur. Moving trucks, cleaning, leases, putting those plastic buttons on the legs of a new furniture so they don't scrape the floor,

putting it up shelves, straightening photos and paintings, washing the cloth for the kitchen table, making a space into a home, one tacky bachelor item at a time. All the while, I had a box, resting on top of my closet, still proudly labeled kind of things. I got an apartment with three rooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen.

I hadn't planned on living that large, but it was too cheap for me to pass up. I made one room into my bedroom and the other my living room, but I wasn't so sure about the third one. I decided I'd make it into a guest room, somewhere down the line. For now, it was a storage space. Somewhere for me to put boxes of memories that didn't quite matter. Not just the kind of things, but the baseball cards, the participation trophies, and the signed band shirts. It was all in there.

I think most people have a space like that in one way or another. It didn't seem like a big deal at the time. I was settling into a new job with new people in a new town. I was learning what places made the best tofu dishes. There was no time to reminisce. I had to look forward. If you don't, things in the rear view look bigger than they really are. On my first day of class, I brought the box of kind of things.

I barely looked at it. I was too busy trying to keep the notes in my head organized. I couldn't half-assed my first day on the job. I had to make an impression. Not just for my students, but there'd be a couple of new colleagues in the crowd. That's why I brought the box. Crowds love props. I shook hands with those who attended.

Introduced myself and got a moderate crowd of about 40 people for my first day. Not just a class, but a couple of extras. I asked them all to sit up front as I unveiled the box. I had it turned outward towards the students. I barely saw the thing myself. No photos, I emphasized, shushing them with a finger like I was telling a secret. No pictures and no ownership. You can keep them, but they're never really yours.

That got a couple of chuckles. I had a presentation ready and had them name a couple of kinds of things in their own lives as I slowly pivoted into a metaphor related to my field of study. It was pretty clean. I'd use that particular setup a couple of times before. and yet there was something about that one class that didn't sit right with me. I couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't just being nervous about a new job.

It was something about the crowd. Every time I looked back, my eyes got stuck on something, like how you react to sudden movement, but with nothing changing. Something was putting me on edge, and I couldn't point my finger at what. what it was. Coming back home after a long day, I put down my box of kind of things in the hallway and got myself a cold beer. I wasn't going anywhere, and I'd spent all my social energy in one go. There'd been muffins in the lounge, and everyone wanted to talk to me about my various articles,

and of course, the kind of things. Everyone always wants to tell me about their kind of thing. I walked into my budding guest room, with its mint green walls. I put down my beer and tossed the box back up on the closet. As I did, something tumbled out. My teddy bear keychain. It landed on the floor with a little rattle. I stood there for a moment. Dumbfounded.

It couldn't have been in the box. I would have seen it. Or maybe I put it there during the move, and forgot about it. Strange. I hadn't seen it for a long time. I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers. Looking at the colors and shapes,

it wasn't like how I remembered it. It wasn't all blue like I thought it was. It was mostly gray with details of blue and red. The eyes looked like lemons. The heart in the center of its chest was a little smaller than I remembered. I decided to take the box back down to check if there was anything else I'd accidentally put in there that I'd forgotten about. I sat down on the floor, took another sip of beer, and opened the box. For a moment, my mind short-circuited. I had never seen any of those things

before. There was an old-timey alarm clock with a broken spring, what looked like a watermelon paperweight and a handheld dinner bell without the ringer thing in the middle. I hadn't seen any of those items before, and I was more than certain that I'd gone through that box at least once or twice. But then, why couldn't I remember those things and who gave them to me? I sat there, trying to think of the names of the students who'd been there. I remembered them fairly well, but I couldn't point to who gave me what. That and little details

about them had faded. Was it Josh or Joshua? Did one of them have an NHL or NBA cap? I can sort of remember the outline, but not the absolute details. It gave me a moment to pause. I considered that there might be such

as thing as kind of people. Those people you spend a little time with every now and then, but never really get to know. Pervial people pseudo people If that's the case Who's to say I wasn't someone's kind of people I mean

I had to be Right I shook the thought out of my mind Finished my beer and got up off the floor I headed for the door closed my hand around the handle And pulled

Nothing happened Had it always been Opened outward Of course it had It was just a new apartment, and I was getting accustomed to it. And yet, I'm not the one for being paranoid. Through all my years of talking about kind of things, I always considered them a fun thought experiment.

Some talked about them like demons or ghost stories, like they were supposed to bring something horrible. I never saw it like that. They were just this idea to consider about the nature of permanence. they weren't malicious things. And yet, I started to get this uncomfortable sensation in my stomach whenever I passed by my guest room. It wasn't a conscience thought,

but just this sense of unease, like there would be something new for me to misremember if I entered that room with that box and didn't pay attention. I tried to remember exactly what I'd seen in that box and what color they were. But without going in there to check, there was no way to know for sure. That just made it worse. I finally decided that I was just going to indulge my superstition,

just to demystify the whole thing. One weekend I got my phone, a notepad, and decided I was going to write down and photograph everything in that box. After that, I would never have to think about it again. It could even be a fun thing to try against my students. Maybe I could ask them to remember as many things as possible from the box and cross-check it at the end of the semester to see how many points they score. I'd brought a small coffee table and a chair from the kitchen. I pulled the curtains open, letting in some moonlight.

It was late May and nights were going shorter. Perfect for someone who'd run out of steam grading assignments all Friday. I took down the box from the top of the closet and noticed the teddy bear keychain. Nothing strange about it other than it being a box. It must have been in there when I put the box back up. No point in getting antsy at the first item. That again, the eyes looked more mango than lemon. How could I have been so certain about the lemon color?

Maybe the moonlight made it look different. I brought out one item after another, only stopping briefly to think about who gave it to me. I remembered quite a lot of them. I could pretty clearly tell which one of them was from my colleagues and which weren't. A couple of items were probably just random debris that one picked up just to be in on the joke. However, I suspected that quite a few things were probably authentic kindas. I went through the items one by one. taking pictures and writing their features down in a notebook.

It was a strange feeling, sitting alone with so many uncertainties. About three dozen thought experiments, all neatly lined up and cataloged. The final item I wrote down was a little ceramic frog and a tux, smoking a cigar. There were some folks outside making a ruckus, so I got up to close the guest room door. I paused for a moment to consider which way the door went. It opened outward. Sitting back down, I took a closer look at the ceramic frog knick-knack. It wasn't smoking a cigar.

It was more like a cigarette. A long, lean one. It wasn't a big detail, but it was enough to make me doubt myself. What if I had cataloged something else wrong? just a teeny tiny bit wrong. That would put the whole thing into question. I had to be certain. I went back along the line of items, double-checking.

I made a few corrections. The alarm clock was stuck on 130, not 125. The broken spring went around six times with a twirl at the end, not seven times, with a straight end. And finally, I was back to my teddy bear keychain. I wrote down the details as I remembered them. Scratching my head, I got up. I needed a break anyway.

I went back to the guest room door and tugged on the handle. It was supposed to open outward, but it didn't. I pulled it inward instead. That didn't work either. I took a step back, feeling a stone sink into my chest. I could hear my own breathing as the room felt smaller. I put my hand on the handle again and took a deep breath. I'd open this door before.

I knew it would open again. I turned the handle and pushed. It swung outward. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then again, why was I relieved? What was I expecting? There was no world in which that door wouldn't open. So what was the big deal?

I decided I wouldn't let myself be tricked by uncertainty. I closed the door and opened it again. Then I did it again. Then I did it a third time. But with a little celebratory swirl, as I came around, I noticed something on the coffee table. The frog was definitely smoking a cigar. I stopped mid-twirl and looked a little closer.

That wasn't right. I'd written cigar. Crossed it out, written cigarette, and now it was certainly a cigar again. I picked it up and held it up to the light. Definitely a cigar. No doubt about it. In every conceivable angle, I tried to get a reference point, like how the cigar was as thick as its froggy fingers.

A cigarette wouldn't be like that. that was something I could rely on. A measurement, not a casual observation. I put it down and stepped back, looking at the table as a whole. Without perceiving every single item individually, there were things I didn't recognize. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I knew something looked different. Or maybe not even looked. It felt different.

For the first time, I considered that. maybe kind of things weren't just a thought experiment. Maybe there really was something to them. Maybe the items at the fringe of our lives do possess some quality that we don't perceive until we sit down and look. And if that was the case, what might happen if you put 36 of them in a single room and close the door? Hold on. I didn't close the door. It was open last time I checked. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. I was spiraling for no reason, working myself up over nothing, like staring at a still picture, thinking there's a ghost in it.

There weren't creepy ghosts or creepy crawlies. They were just little things left by the roadside, figuratively, and literally. I picked up the first thing I spotted and held it up. A little glass snail. It lost one of its eye stalks. I looked to my reference sheet to confirm which I it was, only to realize the snail wasn't on the sheet to begin with. Had I missed it?

At that point I stopped. I flicked the snail across the room, grasped my head, and said no out loud. I needed to hear the word to ground myself. I was making things up. I had to be. I decided to call it a night, leaving it all on the table for now. I shook my head and turned to the window, grasping for the curtains as I checked my phone.

It was getting close to 11 p.m. There were no curtains. Looking up, I realized I was standing at the wrong end of the room. The window was to the right, and there were no curtains. I had been so certain just a second ago, but my hand just tapped against the egg. shell wallpaper. I was getting confused. Turning back around, I noticed two things. One, that the door was slightly more to the right than I thought it would be, and that the coffee table was up against the leftmost wall. It's like I'd turned the wrong way. My eyes briefly crossed over, and I saw double. I shook my head again, trying to make sense of what I was seen. I tried telling

myself it was conditioning. I had been thinking about uncertainty all day, and I was tricking myself into a pattern of thought. I headed for the door, turned the handle, and pushed outward. Again, nothing. This didn't make sense. I knew it opened outward, and I refused to believe otherwise. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And I had to accept. that this was not normal. Over the next few minutes, it felt like everything changed every time I looked away. The window felt smaller. The door had the handle on the wrong side.

The coffee table was up against the leftmost wall. Then the right. The wallpaper was eggshell. Then got a slight hint of maroon. The floor was imitation wood. Then a texturless brown plastic. I pulled on the door a couple of times, but it didn't open either. I turned to open the window, but it was gone.

I could feel a cold sweat coming on. I wasn't imagining this. It wasn't a misunderstanding. I knew what was out there, and I knew I'd looked out that window dozens of times. I backed away and put my hand on the light switch. I flicked it off and on again. A couple of things changed. A few items seemed to have moved.

One of the closet doors was open. I flicked the light again, faster this time. The table was slightly angled. The window was still gone. I reached for the light switch again, but it was higher up than before. I flicked it off and back on again. But the light did not come back on. I fumbled around in the dark.

I could feel myself stepping on things that weren't supposed to be. supposed to be there. I stubbed my toe against the coffee table in the middle of the room. I thumbled with my hands along four walls of the room, but I couldn't find the door. I couldn't find the closet. After a while, I couldn't even find the coffee table. I tried lying down flat and spreading out my arms, hoping to touch pretty much whatever. After a couple of tries, I couldn't even find my way back to the wall. It was just me and this impressionless void. It didn't make sense to me. I knew exactly where things were supposed to be.

I knew what I was supposed to be looking at, but that didn't matter. I brought out my phone and turned on the flashlight. I didn't have a lot of battery, but it would have to do. I could see my own hands, but nothing else. It was just this intense darkness where not even moonlight could reach. I got down on my knees and touched the floor. This textualess neutral floor. Not cold or warm, just a solid matte black.

The light didn't reflect off of it. I walked around. At times I could bump into a wall, but when I turned around, the way forward was wide open. I tried jumping a couple of times, but my feet didn't make a sound. I tried calling out, but there was no echo. Not even reverb. It was such a strange sensation that it hurt to comprehend. I ran and crawled and jumped and rolled.

There was just nothing, nothing, and when I screamed, I couldn't hear it outside of my head. It felt like I was inside a cube, not a room, but like a big, dark cube. It's as if the kind of things had made everything so uncertain that I slipped between the cracks, ending up in some place in between. If I tripped or fell, I could feel myself rolling off the floor, and landing on what was previously a wall, making me think every angle was made to be uncertain, designed to change.

After a while, I just started walking forward. I walked and walked and walked, but never hit a wall. Ten minutes, still no wall. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and I could taste salt on my tongue. Without anything outside yourself, you start to notice details you would otherwise, eyes ignore, like how you breathe or how your heart sounds as it beats. You can hear the tendons

stretching your legs with every step and you start to question why. I tried to fixate on things I knew for certain. My name, my parents, the name of my childhood friends, but even in that circle of grounding, there was doubt. What color were my mother's eyes, really? in that damn teddy bear keychain. What did it really look like? That seemed to shift something. There was a flash like a light post going past a speeding car. That was something.

Reaction. Maybe the kind of things, if they got me lost, could also help me find a way back. I thought about that teddy bear keychain. I tried to imagine myself on that first drunken morning. picking it up from the fence behind my family home. I remember turning it over my hands, looking at the colors and the patterns,

but in that thought, there was nothing there. Just this swirling pattern of black and white, like the static between TV channels, thinking about how it tickled my hands, making my brain feel like it needed to discard the memory like an unpleasant sneeze. I brought the memory back further, I thought about that night on the couch with that curly-haired girl.

That night when I first heard about the kind of things. Who had she been? We talked all night. We'd made out, but I couldn't remember her name. Did I ever see her again? And there were a couple of things that didn't add up. Had she known anyone at the party? Why was she the only girl there?

Why didn't we exchange numbers? My thoughts spiraled as I started to question every step along the path. You are what you do, and if all you've done can be called into question, you start to feel like nothing. And I felt to my knees. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt. It was like floating in a world that forgot to pull you down. I would sometimes find myself inches above the ground, having to stretch my toes.

down to feel something solid. After a while, I lost that too. But I kept my mind on that teddy bear. I pushed past the factual images I'd built in my mind. The red, the blue, the gray, the black, the lime and mango eyes. If you looked past all of it, there were certainties that never changed. It had two eyes, two legs, two arms, and a heart. heart on its chest. That was always there. That was certain. I repeated it like a mantra. Two eyes, two legs, two arms, and a heart. Two eyes, two legs, two arms in a heart. Something was happening. The ground came back. There was a light. Were there distant lamps, pieces of wallpaper, or lonely stars? It was a night sky. I recognized some of the constellation,

I spun around, pointing out patterns I recognized. I spun on my heel, excited to feel something solid beneath me, two eyes, two legs, two arms, and a heart. As I came around the second spin, my entire field of view was absorbed, something astronomically large, impossibly large, a planet-sized eye, so unfathomable. that it couldn't be considered a thing or a place it just was. An eye. The word rattled in my mind like a panicked bird in a cage, screaming at me over and over.

An eye. It was an eye. It repeated to the point where it turned from thing to word to noise. An eye. An eye. Anai. Anai. I shut my eyes and imagined the teddy bear key ring in my hands.

I imagined the texture. I decided I would have to commit to a truth that I knew to be true. I had to force myself to be certain. I decided it was blue with red details. That's how I remembered it from that first night. And that's what it had to be. Blue with red details. and lemon eyes.

Looking up, I could see dozens of coffee tables and random patterns, all covered in teddy bear key chains of various shapes and patterns and colors. All the while, something so large that the universe itself looked like the dark of its eye

bore down on me from every angle. It didn't need to say anything. I knew what had to be done. It wanted a choice, a certainty. I had to show it the right kind of thing. I have no idea how long I wandered that void, poking and prodding at those little key chains. One was darker blue with yellow lining. One was almost green. Every color combination

imaginable, in every angle. The eye was patient. I had to be right. I don't know how long it took me, but I found myself holding something. I held it up, and I looked at it. I knew it was the right one before I even noticed the colors. Maybe it became the right one just by believing it to be. That's when it hit me. It didn't matter. The original color was gone. There was no point in trying to restore an idea or thought that I passed from memory. I decided then and there that I would make this something it had never been. I rolled the keychain between my fingers and opened my eyes. My hand was on the wall as the lights flickered back on. I was covered in sweat.

All the items from the kind of things box were still neatly lined up on the coffee table. Even the frog with the cigarette. The mint green walls were there. The window, the curtains, the closet. And when my shaking hand touched the door handle, it effortlessly swung outward. I cried with relief and crawl. out, ending up in the hallway, clutching my teddy bear keychain. The next day, that whole box of items went straight in the trash. I stopped talking about the kind of things in my lectures.

I made up this other thing about humpback whales and their patterns, but it wasn't nearly as effective. People like talking about their own kind of things and their own ideas relating to it. I still hear people talking about it on campus to this day, despite not mentioning it for about three years. I have photographed and documented everything about that teddy bear a hundred times over, and it hasn't changed since. I know it better than the color of my mother's eyes. It's my one anchor binding me to this place. I could never go without it. I still get uncertain sometimes.

I think when you cluster so many kind of things, it triggers a kind of chain reaction. If you just have the one, I don't think they do that much. You might just make the occasional mistake when trying to remember them. I think what I went through was a result of a cluster impression over a prolonged period of time. I don't ask people that strange question anymore. I don't want to invite them into something they can't prepare for. But if you were to look for a kind of thing on your own, do so in a way that destroys it.

Photograph it, keep it close, remember it. If you keep it in the periphery, it may just drag you out there with it. I've heard so many ideas on what they are and why they function this way. Some say that it's demons touching things that we forgot to care for. Others say that it's ghostly possession. I heard one student claiming they are lost souls, looking for solace in places they won't be disturbed.

I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know for sure. It's the nature of kind of things to never truly be known. But as long as I have that one thing. to keep me grounded. I'll be fine. Maybe they'll be the occasional kind of thing in my life going forward, but at least I will know not to collect them.

For now, I'll keep my keychain close and look to things I know for certain. Two eyes, two legs, two arms, and a heart. My all-red teddy bear keychain with coal black eyes. And all right, guys, that wraps up some terrifying stories from Reddit. And I honestly loved the first story in this video, the Mr. Djangle story so much. That is just downright, one of the best Reddit stories I have ever read. So I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

And all of the other stories in this video were equally as good. But yeah, comment down below your thoughts. I love reading all of your comments, your comments, feedback, and concerns. and criticisms. Everything is super appreciated. And I just want to say, thank you guys so much for watching. It truly does mean the world.

And make sure you like the video and subscribe to the channel. That also helps more than you know. And alright, thank you guys so much for watching. You guys are the best. And this is Snook. And I'll see you next time. Bye.