Snook - Uncanny Reddit Stories

Episode Date: March 10, 2025

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Hey, what's up guys? And welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today I've got some uncanny Reddit stories for you. And all the stories I picked out for this video are honestly so great. I love all of them. They're super, super scary, interesting, disturbing and just super entertaining. And thank you so much for something by. I appreciate every single one of you. You guys are the best. Please like and subscribe if you haven't already. It's the channel's goal to be at 500,000 subscribers before the end of the year. so please subscribe, and yeah, without further ado, let's get into some uncanny Reddit stories. I'm a cop. Was a cop. I'm resigning. F this job. I never thought I'd say that. To curse the career I'd loved for the past 12 years, but here I am, ready to kiss it all goodbye. I'm not going to show up

to work today, not after what happened last night. It was a quarter to midnight when I got the call, a domestic disturbance on the 1500 block. It was a slow night. I've been sitting in my cruiser for most of it, so having something to do was relieving. The call didn't seem too urgent. A neighbor reported hearing a woman screaming down the hall of her apartment building. Most of the time, these calls never amount to anything,

usually turning out to be a mother, reprimanding the unruly children, or a husband getting an earful from his angry wife. God knows, I know what that is like. I'd even turn on my sirens when I pulled out into the road. I pulled up to the apartment complex and reported my status to dispatch. The radio sputtered and the woman on the other end confirmed my arrival. The static of her voice echoed through the night.

There were a few curious eyes looking through the windows, nosy neighbors ready to see why a police cruiser was in the parking lot. I tried ignoring them, but even after all these years, it always unsettled me to be the messenger of malice. Like the retreating dark clouds after a torrential, downpour. I walked down the hall and the botline's close as the bad omen stuttered past the glass. I try not to take it to heart, but it gets to you sometimes. I reached the stairs and made my way up to the third floor. The hall was dark, a few pothole lights illuminated the passageway.

They buzzed overhead with an electric hum, ready to burn out any second. Although no one was watching me through the windows on this floor, I still felt like someone was there. There was a primal uneasiness that was making the hairs on my neck stand on end. Walking forward, the clinking of my shoes on the concrete, an ungraceful presence and an eerie calmness. I found myself fighting not to put my hand over my holstered pistol. I couldn't be the trigger-happy cop, the rotten eggs you may see in the news, but I still had my fist clenched by my side. I'm a grown man, but I'm still wary of the monsters that lurk in the dark, only after all these years. I've learned that people are the roots of all evil. the father who abuses his children, the murderer who kills out of spite, the old lady with a

murderous twinkle in her eyes. She was watching me through a crack in the door, her unneutilating eyes screaming bloody murder. It startled the hell out of me when I saw her. I hadn't even heard the door creak open. She whispered to me, backing me over with her gnarled, arthritic finger. My stomach was a knot. Something told me not to get closer. There was a virile, in my mouth. Like looking at the necrotic flesh of a dying animal. Maybe it was her balding, unkempt hair, or the toothless, gritted mouth, but she didn't seem too friendly. But I had an obligation to step forward to help anyone in need. And by the state of her grunt face, this woman needed my help. Her voice was shaky, a mix of fear and malnutrition. What the hell took you so long?

I was confused by her question. Fear was slowing my mind, but when I looked at her, I was in my mind. But looked at the number on the door, I made the connection. This was the address that had placed the 911 call. I composed myself and asked her the details of the situation, but she shushed me, telling me to keep quiet. She looked down the hall, making sure that no one else had hurt us. She nearly closed the door on my face when one of the lights of her had flickered. Her eyes pleaded for me to come closer. I hesitated, but obliged. It's down the hall. It's watching us. I felt my chest flutter at the ominous tone in her voice. A horrendous screech made its way down the door and almost knocked me on my ass. The old woman slammed the door, but I finally had my hand on my

gun. On the far end of the hall, crouched an intersecting passage. A woman, naked and bare, trembling like a stray dog. My left hand reached from my flashlight, but I had a hard time turning it on, instinct telling me not to look at the sickly figure caressing its knees. But I flipped the switch, the hall glowing a bright white as the woman was suddenly in the spotlight. She looked like she was crying, rocking back and forth, hair draped over her face. Yet there was no whimpering. I called out asking her if everything was okay as if I already didn't know. She looked famished, skin and bones, her ribs visible through her chest.

I took a step. Her body shuddered as my foot struck the ground. I assured her that everything was okay. I'm not sure who I was trying to comfort her or myself. I reached for my radio, pinned to my chest, and requested EMS, but dispatch didn't respond. No one was there, and the woman had stopped shivering. For some reason, I felt like I just stepped on a pressure-sensitive landmine. In the moment I moved, I was done for. I tried swallingly lump in my throat, but my mouth, was dry, the air was stale, toxic, and I didn't know why. The woman's chest was pulsating, panting. I shifted on my foot, not taking a step, but just enough to disturb the fuse on the bottom of my soul. The woman lifted her head, and I caught a glimpse of what her hair was masking. Her mouth was stitched shut, globlets of blood dribbled off her chin. I couldn't see her eyes still hidden behind her bangs, but the way the crimson tears streamed down her face. I knew they were also sewed. The woman perched herself on the floor, and I found my pistol already in my hand. I stepped back, off the mine, and the woman ran at me. I dropped the flashlight and opened fire.

The muzzle blasts giving me still images of the woman barreling towards me. I know I struck her a few times. I saw the bullets cutting through her flesh, but she kept on coming. My finger was automatically pressing the trigger, and before long I'd emptied my mag. The last still image I saw was on the ground, and the woman was standing over me. I'd struck a few lights in the exchange, and now my dropped flashlight was the only thing piercing the darkness. I scrambled for the flashlight and turned it on to the woman, but she was gone. I heard the door slammed shut, and I violently panned to the sources of sound.

I managed to catch the woman's foot disappearing behind a door, the same door that belonged to the old woman. I frantically reached for the extra mag on my belt, reloaded my weapon, and tried radioing for backup. I was relieved when someone actually answered this time. Shots fired, shots fired, I said. Almost instantly I heard the sirens howling in the distance, but that wasn't the only thing that howled. From the other side of the door, the old woman was pleading for help.

Her muted screams filled me with the contradicting resolve. Help was on the way, I shouted through the door. The woman screamed as her voice gargled with the sound of death. I knew she was dying. I knew she wouldn't make it until backup arrived. I nearly pulled out my hair as I wrestled with my conscience, unconsciously, I was already kicking the door down. I'm dying, the woman screamed.

The door started to buckle as I heard the squelch of her flesh getting torn apart. Help me, please. I'm dying. The door finally let go. The room instantly went quiet. Police. Come on out. I tried to sound authoritative, but my voice was quivering.

I panned the light as I walked into the living room. And found the old woman standing in a corner, her back. toward me. Show me your hands, I commanded. The woman didn't move. I cautiously made my way to her and nuzzled my gun into her shoulder. Still, she didn't move. There was a lamp on the other side of the room that shattered on the ground and I frantically looked in the direction. Behind the couch, a person's hands gripped the fabric. I knew who it was. Hands. Show me your fucking hands. The woman let go of her hold on the couch, her spine unfurling like a serpent readying itself to strike. The stitches that once kept her mouth shut were now ripped apart and hanging off her face.

Though her eyes remained closed, she opened her mouth showing me her teeth. They're filed down to a point. All of them. She hissed, and I raised a shaky gun toward her face. Get on the ground, I yelled. That was when a pair of teeth sunk into my neck. It was that other old woman. She had latched onto my skin, her once gummy mouth now riddled with jagged fangs. The woman from the hall just stood there, listening to me, fight to get the hag off my neck. I bashed her head with the butt of my flashlight, thunked her with my fist, pulling out clumps of hair with my hands, but nothing loosened her jaw. I heard the swashing of my blood as she sucked it into her mouth. My legs were starting to go limp, my vision, hazy, and I was losing consciousness.

The world started dissenting itself. I was drifting away, dying. My body growing cold, my heartbeats becoming hollow. I dropped the flashlight. That was the last time I saw the light. My eyes no longer worked, but I saw everything, heard everything. The spiders weaving their cobwebs in the corner, their mouths smacking as they shaped their masterpieces.

I felt the earth turning underneath me, the cold midnight air, the heat of the day cresting the horizon somewhere in the east. I felt the building growing old, the wooden boards in the hall slowly rotting, withering away. That was when I saw them, all of them. The apartment complex should have been teeming with life. The units filled with a rhythmic flurry of heartbeats, but the only thing I heard was the growling of their stomachs as they pressed an ear to the walls. As the old woman fed

on my body, as my blood drained into her mouth, my heart pumped for the last time, and I no longer felt physical pain. But dread started coursing through my veins when a car's brake squealed into the parking lot. Help had arrived. The two women retreated into the hall, leaving me on the floor. It wasn't long until a radio sputtered from down the hall and an officer walked into the room. Moments ago, he would have been my saving grace, but now I was his demise. His arteries pulsated in his neck. I wanted to sink my teeth into his skin, to refill the void the old woman had left behind, but I couldn't. I knew this man. He was a friend. I couldn't do it to him. What had been done to me? Suddenly, the building was empty. While I was listening to the thudding of my buddy's heart in his chest, the things in the

building had managed to scurry away. They were gone. Dozens of officers arrived and taped off the area. They sat me in the back of an ambulance where they tried to take my vitals. I refused, telling them I was okay. They took my service pistol, a standard precaution after an officer discharged this gun. I know I will be on death's duty for a while as they investigate me for discharging my gun, but I'm not sure if I could sit in a room filled with a dozen beating hearts. I came home last night to find my worried wife waiting for me at the door. Someone from work had given her a call and told her that I was shaken up, but okay. I smelled the anguish in her blood. It gave her copper-scented flesh a tinge of saltiness. She hugged me and tried to kiss me, but I pulled away. I would have sunk

my teeth on her lips if she had. I sat on the couch all night, fighting not to tear my wife's neck open. But the longer I fought, the worst my stomach growled. A taste wouldn't hurt. I stood over her trying to restrain myself, but found myself tracing my tongue on her skin. She playfully pushed me away, cresting the back of my head. I lost control. The next thing I knew, she was lying lifelessly underneath me. I waited for her to wake up, just as I did, but for some reason she didn't. She was gone. I'd killed her.

My body was momentarily replenished, but at what cost? I was already growing hungry again, and the love of my life was gone. This was supposed to be my S-word note, but when I put a bullet in my mouth, it didn't work. I want to die. I don't want to live like this. To be like this thing, this monstrosity. Someone is going to come looking for me when I don't show up for work tonight. I don't want to hurt anyone else, but as time drones on, I'm conflicted.

Now I'm not sure if I want them to stay away or if I want someone to come asking questions. I don't think I can restrain myself if they do. I'm not sure I want to restrain myself. My new coworkers hate me. I landed a new job a few weeks ago as the director of a psychiatric facility. My patients are mostly okay, but my coworkers are freaking me out. I interviewed with this gentleman from the state, the director of the state's Department of Health and Welfare. While he was kind, he was also very blunt.

He informed me that no one was willing to take the job, so by default he was given it to me, the only willing applicant who met the minimum educational requirements. For anyone else, this candor would have been a gut punch, but for me, it was a godsend. No one seemed to want to hire me, and suddenly I had an offer. I happily accepted a decision I've come to regret. Today was my first day. I walked through the security screening, and the guards made me hand over my cell phone. When I moved to question the reasoning, the guards simply pointed at a sign that read,

This is a closed facility. There are no cell phones nor other outside communication devices allowed within the building. As I walked into the hospital, I was greeted by the janitor, a middle-aged man who seemed to be in the early stages of Parkinson's. Tremors visibly afflicted his hands. I wish I could say the man welcomed me warmly, but he looked at me like I was nothing more than an annoyance. I'll show you to your office, he grunted out frustratedly. I followed him down this long corridor. All the while, the many keys clipped to his belt loop, chimed through the halls, garnering the attention of everyone we passed. The patients minded their own business, for the most part, but the staff

all gave me the meanest of scowls. If I didn't know better, it seems like they hated me already. The stroll to my new office gave me a chance to get a feel for the place and, sad to say, I was not impressed. The facility was in shambles. It was run down and unsanitary. Rats feasted in any and all open trash cans. The patients looked as if they haven't been bathed in days, and some even took the liberty to ship freely. in the halls. As you can imagine, the smell was horrific, but the most horrific aspect of the building was that I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone was watching me. One man, in particular, caught my eye. An older gentleman who wore a tattered hospital gown, the only patient who seemed to share the same

arbitrary hatred towards me. We reached a door that still bore the name of my predecessor, are Dr. Richardson. Fidgeting with his keys, the janitor plucked one and inserted it into the doornop, swinging the door wide open and promptly turning around to leave. I tried showing my gratitude, but he simply returned a, yeah, yeah, yeah. The sound from his keys grew fainter as he traveled further down the hall. The perimeter of my office was surrounded by file cabinets, and an old, outdated computer and a landline phone sat on the mostly empty desk. In the center of the center of the house, the flat top sat a lone piece of paper. The paper's header read. Must read. Important information regarding several of the patients at the facility. Dr. Richardson left me some guidance. This was a kind

gesture and I was grateful for the last psychologist foresight. No one likes to be dropped into the deep end. The note started off by detailing basic facility rules, then it conveyed several tidbits about notable patients, though the note did not say anything about the relevant files being heavily redacted as I'd soon come to find. Patient 106 suffers from extreme schizophrenia. Do not assume she can be transferred to a less vigilant wing of the facility solely because she appears to be improving. She is crafty and will take advantage of any breathing room you give her.

She will harm herself and others, if given a chance. I couldn't help but pull this patient's file as I read this passage. And science should have been a complete medical history of the patient in question, but besides a brief physical description, age 42, gender female, height 51, black hair, the rest of the documentation was made unreadable by streaking black ink. However, what wasn't redacted confirmed the information given by my predecessor's note. Patient 103 is in near constant state of ketosis, with emphasis on the near. He will briefly snap out of his trance if you give him your back. Do not let him sneak up behind you. In his file, age 28, gender male, height 510, bold.

The patient suffers from a near state of ketosis with brief bouts of extreme violent episodes. The rest of the file was redacted in the same black ink as the last. The patient list was long, but as I neared the end, another large heading caught my attention. Do not skip. Information on Patient 151. The section was written completely in bold letters. ensuring that the instructions popped out against the white paper. This patient is the most dangerous in our facility.

You'll find out more about him in his file, but to ensure the safety of yourself and everyone else, you must follow these rules. Number one, avoid looking at patient 151. He doesn't like it. Two, do not acknowledge his presence when he creeps around you. Three, do not say his identification number out loud. Number four, do not mention Dr. Richardson's name, my name, around him.

Follow these rules to the letter, and 151 will not make your life difficult. As you can see from the heavy security, this facility operates cautiously. The information within this note is for you and you only. Do not share with anyone. I wish you the best of luck with your new position. Best regards, Dr. Richardson. I lean back against my chair, digesting the information the doctor had given me before the need, to pull 151's file overtook me. The Manila folder was buried at the far end of a file cabinet.

When I opened it, surprise, surprise, heavily redacted. Name. Black ink redaction. Age 71, height, 53, hair gray. 151 has a history of strong delirium, along with countless other conditions that amplify his delusions. This patient has an extremely violent history and has admitted to a long list of crimes. The patient is self-admitted, but there is doubt that he will ever leave the care of the state. Authorities have been made aware of his confessions as state law demands. His condition continues to worsen, but for now, we can only await a court order for his transfer to a better-equipped mental hospital. Note, no matter what we try, the patient manages to escape confined men.

follow the rules regarding this patient, and no incidences should occur. In the back of the file was the only image included with any of the documentation. A simple black and white picture of the old man. His face was wrinkled, his skin drooping off of his bones, and his eyes had an aura of sadness to them. It felt almost hypnotic to gaze into his gray eyes like they were trying to tell me something, drawing me closer the longer I stared. Suddenly, I heard the pitterpenter. patter of bare feet on laminate flooring in the doorway crested a man's gray mane. It was the patient

who had been watching me from the second I first walked into the facility. It was as if the man knew I was thinking about him. I looked down at the picture in my hand and back up at the man, finding that the two were the same person, though not exactly identical. The eyes of the man before me did not radiate sadness like the ones in picture. They gave off curiosity. Not to mention that it seems like his orbs had grown since the last time the photo was taken, doubling in size. They now struggled to fit in his eye sockets. They bulged and slanted slightly. His mouth has also changed.

Its edges had migrated outwards and now finished in the middle of his cheeks. The man's lips began to part, and he showed me his wide, toothless smile. In all my life, I had never seen a face as distinct as his. I must have stared a second too long because his brows furled, and he produced an evening. ear-piercing screech from the depths of his chest. It was so high-pitched that my ears yawned a instantly remembered the instructions in the note. Number one, avoid looking at patient 151. He doesn't like it. Number two, do not acknowledge his presence when he creeps around you. I instantly averted my eyes, looking at the blank wall, but it was too late. The man was not

pleased. He started taking a few awkward dragging steps towards my desk until his thighs brushed up against the hard mahogany of my flat top. With one swift motion, he propelled himself off of the ground, feet landing on the desk in front of me. He pursed himself in a very animal-like position, sitting on his calves and arms between his legs. He inched his face toward mine. I felt my heart race and a lump begin to form of my throat. I was glued to my chair in fear. His mouth opened, tongue slithered out, oozing in secretions, but just as it was about to slide across the side of my face. The sound of steps against the floor billowed into my office. 151 instantly darted out of the room. When he'd rounded the doorframe, another figure appeared

on the other side. The situation with 151 had made me very uneasy, and I couldn't help but jolt as the woman came into view. She was a nurse, her embroidered scrubs reading Jenny. As the woman suddenly entered the room, she apologized. Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Clarence, I didn't mean to scare you, she said. Just then I remembered my predecessor's guidance. This note is for your eyes and your eyes only. I hid both the file and the note under my arms. Jenny was obviously privy to this information because she averted her gaze, preferring to look at the ceiling. Yes, Nurse Jenny, what can I do for you? She fidgeted with her legs, crossing one over the other, like a little girl who'd walked in on her dad's conference call. Um, well, I thought I would give you a tour of the facility, just so you could

It's your bearings, you know. Jenny said. She looked strangely nervous. I looked at her and back at the papers under my arms, mauling over her offer. Seems like a great idea. Thank you very much, Nurse Jenny. I slid the papers into my desk drawer and followed her out. The tour Jenny took me on did not change my initial impressions of the facility. It was a rotting hellhole. I'd have half mind to call the state to get this place shut down, but if I did that, I'd be out of a job. We walked into a common area where most of the the patients interacted outside of sleeping hours. Instantly, the hustle and bustle of the room stopped. It was as if my presence had sucked the air out of the common area.

The silence was cut by the rhythmic banging of something hard, thudding against the brick wall. I seemed to be the only one to acknowledge the sound. When my gaze investigated, I saw a man, the same man who had hopped on my desk, banging his head against the wall. Thud, thud, thud, thud. The wall audibly strained under the stress of his banging, and several cracks now branch off that impact point. The man suddenly stopped his back tensing hard, like a soldier. 151 made a left-facing pivot, feet pointing in my direction.

Bloodstreamed from a gash on his forehead. I shot my gaze to the floor, and in an instant, the hustle and the bustle of the room. Roared back to life. Right this way, doctor, Nurse Jenny pointed down to long, hallway. The sign overhead read. Wing 3, PICU, psychiatric intensive care unit. Posted at the wing's entrance in this little glass room was a lone security guard dressed in his uniform, which included a baseball cap. He was on the younger side, but the furled brow he bore signaled he'd seen some things. His sights were firmly planted on the CCTV screens in front of him. This is Clebus,

Jenny introduced. He's not much of a talker, but when it comes to being a great security guard, you can always count on him. I looked over at the guard, who didn't even acknowledge our presence, but Jenny continued. For this wing, you will need to press this button here to gain access. She reached into Clevis's office and pressed a little button on his table. As Jenny clicked the button, the door swung open, revealing a long corridor with metal doors on either side of the hallway. The corridor was darker than the rest of the facility, only the emergency light. dimly illuminated the passage. I eyed the long passageway, dreading the monsters behind every door, but as my dress shoes clinked against the hard laminar flooring, the monsters stayed put.

I couldn't help but turn to a few of the little-tempered windows. To my surprise, most of the rooms are empty. We reached a door on the left side of the corridor. Nurse Jenny pointed over to the sign next to the frame. It read, 106. This is 106. I assume you've already looked over her file. Jenny asked, waiting for an answer. Not much of a foul look at, I thought to myself, but nodded, confirming her inference. Good, she gleamed with a hint of relief. Curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't help but peering into 106's room. Inside was a woman in a straight jacket, sitting alone on the floor of the padded room.

Her eyes drifted toward the little window, and her filed description came back into mind. 8.42.5.5.1. Black hair. Her face was youth. for a 42-year-old, if I hadn't known better. I'd say she was in her late 20s to early 30s. Her hair was dark, but not as dark as the file's description suggested. It looked more like a darker shade of brown if you ask me. She seemed taller than her file said, but I couldn't be sure of her seated position. Her face looked dazed, drugged even. Mental facilities usually pumped their patients full of sedatives. I smiled warmly at 106, signaling my quiet introduction. I could tell

106 wanted to say something, but as she opened her mouth, only a stream of slobber trailed down her face. It's almost time for her next dose of meds. I'll be sure to give it to her as soon as we're done with her little tour. Jenny was spectated over my shoulder on her tiptoes. Come on, doctor, right this way. I followed closely behind her. The next door with a sign came into view. 143. This is 143. He is nothing to worry about as long as she trailed off into a daydream, looking at the ceiling. Well, I'm sure his file says it all. Don't turn your back to him. The line written in Richard's note came to back to mind. Stepping up to the tempered glass, I saw the figure of the catonic patient described by Dr. Richardson. His mouth was ajar. Eyes permanently fixed on

the wall, but like 106, the description of the patient did not fully match. 143 was not as hairless as the file suggested. Instead, he totted a short buzz cut. I could tell, Jenny noted my mild confusion, but as if she knew exactly what I was thinking, she clarified. Oh, we shave 143's head regularly. We had an incident involving his hair a few months ago. We thought it was safer to just cut it all off. She looked back up at the ceiling. After I'd seen her do this a few times, I gathered her fascination with the roof tiles with some kind of nervous tick. I'd seen many of my former patients perform this behavior, but usually when they were lying. There was something she wasn't telling me. Well, that's the facility. If you have any other questions about

the place, be sure to let me know. Jenny clapped her hands in conclusion, abruptly changing the topic. Just then, a familiar sound of a bare feet met my ear. It was only the second time I'd heard the sound, and I already knew who the steps belonged to. I saw Jenny's eyes widen as a figure entered the corner of my gaze. My heart was now in my throat as the smack in a feet inched closer. there was something about 151's face that brought about a very primal fear. My breath became uneasy. To my relief, 151 paid us no mind. He just strolled right past us and down in Long Corridor.

When I was sure his back was to me, I turned in his direction. Almost as if he'd seen me. His face instantly pivoted my way. I quickly returned my gaze to the nurse in front of me. Jenny noticed my interaction and itched her arm in uneasiness. As I turned to look at her jittery gesture, she cowered slightly. but her eye given me a high stress twitch. I had so many questions about 151,

but after my abrupt introduction to the psychiatric patient, I never wanted to speak his name again. Another question festered against my tongue. I blurted it out in my anxiety-filled state. Nurse Jenny, her eyes darted to my lips, almost saying, don't you say a word. How many people work here, I questioned? The whole tour I had only seen a few other workers,

Jenny and this shy security guard included. Her face washed over with relief before answering my question. So you noticed that we're understaffed, huh? About seven. We've been working overtime to keep up with all the patient care. Her eyes again turned to the ceiling. A few workers for dozens of patients seemed more than understaffed, in my opinion. From the shit and rats decorated in the halls, I'd say the place was in the midst of a crisis.

Well, Nurse Jenny, we're going to have to do some. some rigorous hiring in the next few weeks. Jenny looked at me and gave a slightly uncomfortable smile. Yeah. Yes, doctor. I think that'll be a great idea. Her gaze turned back to the roof, suspicion rearing its head once again. We made our way back down the hallway, and I couldn't help but look over my shoulder.

151 had disappeared. As we reached the beginning of the wing, Jenny reached back into the security office and a very cold chill washed across my body. like the unsettling feeling you get when walking up a set of dark stairs at night, thinking someone or something is following. Thanks, Clevis, Jenny said to the security guard, who didn't return the sentiment. Well, I better get back to work, a lot of patients to tend to, and only one of me, Jenny said with a quick glance upward. I nodded as I tried to make sense of how odd everyone seemed to be acting.

Of course, I responded, giving Nurse Jenny a tilt of the head that signaled my appreciation. She disappeared off into the quiet facility. Meanwhile, Clevis stared at me in silence. Clevis' stare was peering into my soul. His gaze was glazed over by his mouth, which gave off a contradicting expression. A very hungry grin inched across his demeanor, and his mouth visibly salivated. I couldn't break my connection with his, but my eyes seemed to have dissuaded his stare because his eyes slowly turned back to the security monitors.

Creeped out by the ordeal, I briskly walked back to my office. but as I rounded the corner, I couldn't help but look back one time at Clevis. His eyes were running me down like a predator ready to pounce on his next kill. I locked myself in my office. There was something really strange happening at this facility, not just with 151, but with the rest of the staff, Jenny included. I ran back over to my desk, thrusting the drawer open, expected to find 151's file where I left it, but as the drawer clinked against the wooden stopper, my heart fluttered. The drawer was empty.

There was no file. There was no note. I rummaged through every file cabinet frantically, searching for the documentation of 151. When I didn't find it, I slumped back to my chair in defeat. The first day on the job and I had already misplaced documentation. My hands draped over my eyes trying to rub the confusion from my mind. But just as my nerves began to quell, a strange sound came from the door.

Bang, bang, bang. I lifted my head, turning to the door. The sound rang out again. bang, bang, bang. It sounded like someone was knocking on the wall next to my door. The memory of 151 banging his head on the common room wall flooded back. I raised myself off of the chair, trying to be as quiet as I could, but the chair gave a loud ear. Hello?

Is anyone there? I called out. But no one answered. I gripped the door handle, taking in a deep breath before peering out at the culprit. But as the hinges squeaked and my eyes cautiously looked into the dimly lit hallway, nothing was there. Instead, the harmonic chime of keys echoed through the wall, followed by the sloshing of water and the scraping of wood on the hard, laminate floor. I turned to the end of the very long hallway to see the janitor, mopping the floor in a very strange fashion.

The head of the mop was up in the air, and he rhythmically painted the floor with the end of the mop's handle. All the while, the keys on his belt loop continued to ring. He was perfectly situated under one of the many pothole lights that decorated the passage. I gripped the edge of the doorframe. As a psychologist, I'm trained to seek a psychotic break when I see one. The janitor seemed to be having one before my very eyes. Just as I was about to call out, Nurse Jenny stepped out of an intersecting hallway.

She cautiously walked up to the janitor, whispering something in his ear. They both froze under the light before simultaneously swiveling their heads towards me. The warm gaze that Jenny had welcomed me with what had disappeared. It was now replaced by an icy, look of hatred and disgust. The janitor mirrored her expression. The man dropped them up, and they both quickly walked into the dark intersecting hallway. An exaggerated buzzing from one of the many pahoe lights in the opposite direction caught my attention. Standing under one of the hoarder's lights was patient 151. He was staring into the shine of the bulb. His eyes were fixated

on the humming fluorescent fixture, and his neck craned in an unnatural position. I wanted to open my mouth, but I couldn't find the words to disturb his trance. His arms cranked to the back of the posture, elbow snapping at the bend, and flexing past a normal range of human ability. His mouth gaped wide open, and the crackling of unwilling joints filled the air as he fought not to let his jaw unhinge. Despite his best effort, his jaw dislocated, and now hung disgustingly by the ligaments of his face. The jagged fingers on his hand became more gnarled as they snapped at every joint, with every crackle and pop, patient 151 gave an audible gas for pain. The light fixture began to waver, and patient 151's body started seizing.

The bulb started to flicker. The bulb buzzed more violently until finally it cracked, raining down shards of glass all over the sickly man. Sequentially, the rest of the bulbs down the corridor began to burst, showering me in specks of light and smog as the bulb's inner plumbed out into the air. The hall was pitch black, all was quiet. and nothing stirred. Only my unsteady breathing was heard as I quivered out every lungful. The smoke from the exploding bulbs set off the fire alarms, which now blared wildly as their

little strobe lights rhythmically joined their howls. In the flashing lights, I saw Patient 151 standing in the same position at the last scene. He was a statue. Suddenly, his left hand gave the slightest of twitches. In an instant, the fingers on his hand had caved into his palm, palm into his forehead. Soon, his full arm had retracted into his torso. His shoulder joint was in a visible pucker. The sight made my skin crawl, but soon the bile from my gut started to burn the back of my throat as the man's arm visibly floundered inside his chest. The hand inched its way up past 151's collarbone, into his neck, and out his esophagus. As the hand began to exit his mouth, it pried apart his dislocated jaw, stretching his face open like some human Pac-Man. The

man's body began to morph as the hand continued wriggling its way out of his face. I noticed a head began to peer through the large opening. I liken the sight to a snake shedding its skin. Only this man was not shedding, he was turning his body inside out like some reversible sweater. Soon the man's body was in a full inversion. The inner linings of his body now glistened under the strobing lights. In my shock, I quivered out and unthinking, my God. 151's disgusting face violently shifted in my direction.

Again, I had unwillingly violated one of the rules on Dr. Richardson's note. Don't acknowledge 151. He took to a full sprint and I retreated back into my office, slamming the door shut. I now spectated through the little window of my office, expecting 151 to rear his ugly head. Seconds turned into minutes, and the head never crested over the window's edge. I inched closer to the glass, expecting him to lunge. But as the strobe lights continued to eliminate the corridor, I could see that patient 151 had disappeared. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. The voice in my head frantically and

repeatedly stated. I needed answers to everything I'd just seen. Running to my computer, I pulled up the patient roster and searched for patient 151, but only an error message returned. Patient 151 does not exist. What the fuck I whispered through my shaky lip? The image of Jenny came back to mind, so I quickly pulled up to the hospital employee records, typing Jenny into the search bar. When the records pixelated in front of me, my face filled with a warm wash of panic-stricken blood. In Nurse Jenny's file, there was an employee photo, but it wasn't the nurse, Jenny, that had greeted me.

It was the face of Patient 106, the woman I had seen in the padded room wearing the straitjacket. I darted to Patient 106's file and held the documentation up to the light. the black ink had not masked all the redacted portions of the documentation. Under the shine of the bright lights, I could see the distinct outline of lettering. My eyes swayed as I read the redacted portions on 106. 106 is highly manipulative and extremely intelligent. She tends to bend the truth to the point where she almost believes her own lies. 106 has a tell whenever she's being untruthful.

Her eyes will always look at the ceiling. My mind returned to the way Nurse Jenny, or this imposter Jenny, would look at the ceiling whenever she was nervous. Instantly, Cleavith, the security guard, came to mind. When his staff profile glanced my screen, I saw an image of patient 143, the one in a constant state of ketosis. Only in his work ID image does he have a full head of hair. It was not shaven. My mind darted to the cap the security guard wore. Clevis must be bold under there.

Do not turn your back to him. The word in Dr. Richardson's note came back to mind. The image of Clevis's expression changing every time I gave him my back screamed in my mind. The image of the janitor replayed in my mind and the visible tremors that afflicted his hands now resembled medication withdrawals rather than the shake of a Parkinson's patient. Then it hit me. While Nurse Jenny was given me the tour of the facility, the janitor must have come into my room and rummaged through my things, taking the note in 151's file with him. Sure enough, when I pulled up the page on the janitorial staff,

the man mopping the floor earlier was nowhere to be found. I wanted to pound my head against the desk as I came to terms with the fact that the patients had taken over the facility and I was trapped in a building full of freed psychopaths. I turned to my office's landline wanting to call for help, but as I raised it to my ear, the line was cut. I grunted in frustration. I need to get help. I need to get the real hospital staff out of the hospital staff out of the way.

the building. My mind wandered to the woman in 106's room in the trail of slopper that trailed down her chin. Nurse Jenny's words were playing in my head. It's almost time for her next dose. This imposter nurse Jenny was drugging the staff, making sure they were so stoned they couldn't say a word. This imposter was no nurse. And if I can't get back to the hospital wing, three, she could give the real nurse Jenny a lethal dose of psychiatric medications. The man passing as 143 might already be beyond the point of no return. I need to get to the Wing 3, but Patient 151 is lurking somewhere,

just outside my door. I've tried signaling for help through my computer, but no one is returning my fucking emails. Fuck this close of facility. So now I take to the internet chat forums, hoping someone knows what the fuck is happening with Patient 151. His affliction is obviously beyond my area of expertise. His condition seems demonic to me.

Please, please, please, scour the internet for any information regarding 151's affliction, send it to me before it's too late. I have to get to patients in Wing 3, and if nobody can provide me with information, I'm just going to have to make a run for it. There's no telling what Jenny is planning. I keep replying the information I've seen on the non-existent 151 in a line that makes me feel very uneasy. No matter what we try, the patient manages to escape confinement. It seems like my office door will not hold back 151 for long. Help, please.

I don't want to die. The Center for Missing and Exploited Children has a picture of me. The picture was posted on a wall at the local supermarket. There were two pictures side by side, one of a little boy and the other an age progression photo, one that looked exactly like me. I'm 17 now. The same age the child and the missing poster should be. We had the same dark hair, the same eyes, the same smile, as you would expect, I was thrown through a loop, and I started to hyperventilate a bit.

But the logical side of my mind quieted my thoughts. It can't be me. The boy's name was Joseph. Mine was Taylor. As if a child's name couldn't be easily changed. The birth dates were off, as if a date wasn't as malleable as a name. People tend to be so stupid when they're in shock. A fragile assurance took hold.

I was in full denial of this situation. I shrugged the picture off and walked away, but the seed of doubt had already been planted, and it was only a matter of time before it shrouded leaves. The missing poster continued to quietly torment my thoughts, a faint image of the bold red lettering would seep into my mind, causing me to relive it the first time I saw it. I try not to look at the poster whenever I went to the store, but there was something that kept beckoning me to go back to the wall, zoning out on the boy's dark brown eyes. I tried not to relate that stare with myself, but the more I looked, the more unsure I was

that this wasn't me. After all, I look at that exact same face every time I look in the mirror. I started ruminating on the poster, finding it hard to sleep, to eat, to think of anything other than the headline. Missing. It didn't take me long to memorize the details on the paper. The boy went missing 12 years ago. He went by Joe and his face had been plastered on this wall for some time. A light coating of dust covered his face. It seemed that hope was waiting for him and all the other children on the wall. I was the only one who actually stopped by to look at the pictures. If only it wasn't out of pure self-interest. I felt sorry for them, for Joe. My parents started to notice a change in my demeanor. It's kind of hard to be happy when you're wondering

if these people are actually your kin. But when my mom rubbed my back, it still comforted me. I still out secure around them. She was my mom, the only mom I'd ever known, and nothing was going to change that, but I couldn't help looking at them in a different light. I started playing hypotheticals. Suppose these aren't my parents. Was I kidnapped when I was five? Was I sold it in the black market to the highest bidder? Would I actually want to know the truth if given the opportunity? So much was flooded my thoughts, and a gloomy cloud had formed overhead. My mom urged me to talk to her. and tell her what was wrong, but I hesitated. I didn't know how to pose the question. Was I kidnapped as a kid? Are you actually my mom? I played the wording in my head, but nothing felt right. Nothing felt just.

It was as if I was about to throw the love she'd given me throughout my life back into her face. Nothing was strong enough to bypass the lump in my throat or gentle enough to speak my truth, so I decided to show them. We walked up the wall of missing posters. While I studied my parents' expressions, looking for any sign that would tell me I was onto them. I gestured to the wall, quietly telling them to look at the pictures, and they did. I watched their pupil sway as they examined each poster. Joe's picture was on the bottom and their eyes were nearing that row. I braced myself for their stunned faces when they'd finally realized that I knew what I thought they knew. But that moment never came, and instead of their shocked looks, confusion focused itself on my direction. It wasn't

the reaction I was expecting. My mom didn't break down in tears telling me that she could explain. My dad didn't try to deny the evidence on the wall. He didn't even say a word. Instead, their face signaled genuine curiosity. Why are we here? I felt slight alleviation when they didn't react outlandishly. But to be honest, I was slightly disappointed. This whole time, I had crafted a story in my head, one that would explain the doppelganger on the wall. But I guess this kid wasn't me. When nothing came of my little impromptu trip to the store, my parents walked away without giving the ordeal a second thought. But before I left, I looked at the wall, one more time, for go old time's sake. But as I looked at the bottom row, the picture was gone. Believe me when I

tell you that I shuffled through every possible scenario in my head after that, from maybe Joe was found to maybe I imagine it all, but no matter what, I couldn't get that face out of my head. Joseph stares at me every time I brushed my teeth after all. My parents never mentioned the situation again. My mood changes were swept under the rug as normal teen teenager, mood swings. Everything seemed normal. That is until that night. I was supposed to be out of the house at the time. I told my parents that I was going to a friend's house, but I had left my phone on my nightstand. I walked into the house to find an eerie silence, strange given that my dad was always lying on the couch watching the news.

I didn't think anything of it, but as my ears adjusted to the void, I heard a voice slither from upstairs. Her tone was annoyed, frustrated as she questioned how the hell this could happen. I pictured my dad swain on his feet as mom's wrath spat a steady acidic fury into his face. Mom's and dad's fight, it's no big deal. As I walked by their bedroom door, I heard my name through the cracks. How the hell could he know? We were so careful.

Twelve fucking years and we never thought to check on the missing posters at the damn supermarket. Suddenly I had my ear pressed up against the door. I heard mom's panting anger. The floorboards creaking as dad shifted uncomfortably. My heart pounding in my ears. That damn kid, I told you that we should have gotten rid of him while we had the chance. We had to go and ruin it at all. Oh, he's just a boy.

He won't remember what happened, you said. while he knows, and we're fucked. How long until he, shh, dad quieted her disdain. We can fix this, Carol. How the fuck do you expect us to do that now? He's 17. It was different then. Who the hell is going to ask questions about a boy? Now he's all grown up. He's got friends. He got school. You don't think his teachers won't come sniffing around asking questions. Look at this. A piece of paper crumbled in our hands. I knew what it was. Who it was. We're so lucky that no one recognized him. The paper was ripped apart and a

floated to the ground, the bed groaned as someone plopped down onto the mattress. For some reason, I knew it was my mom. She started sobbing. The cries muted in her palms against the door. There was an uncomfortable silence until dad's voice pierced the awkwardness. We'll fix this, he said. Mom, still emotional, whimpered back to him. How? How are we going to fix this? The room went still. The unspoken third party on the other side of my mind running at light speed. I fought not to claw against the wood. I was hanging on every word, wanting to know more, while at the same time thinking of jumping out the window. By doing what we should have done all those years ago, Dad said. Mom led on a spread of emotion, and I fought back mine.

There was an unmistakable sense of finality in Dad's words, and we all knew what he meant. When Mom regained her composure, I thought she would defend me, but her words sunk down into the pit of her stomach. They waved me down, cementing my feet to the floor. How are we going to do it? The unspoken third party chimed in as dad formulated his plan. Tonight at dinner. His voice was now quivering. We'll put these in his food. There was a rattle, the sound of pills smacking against a container, the sound of a rattlesnake's tail right before it sinks his teeth into your flesh. Mom cleared the snot from her nose, and I found myself stumbling down the stairs. I wasn't running, but rather walking, defeatedly as the reality that I'd come to know in love caved in around me.

But before I walked out of the house, Mom asked me what they'd do after I was gone. Dad answered coldly. We'll plant him in the garden under Rex's grave. I drove for hours after that. Without a destination of mind, I found myself parked by a river looking out at the water as dad's words were played in my head. under Rex's grave. I hardly remembered Rex. He was our Belgian malanos. I was so sad when he died. I think I was around six of the time. I kept thinking of what to do. Go to the police, take my little Honda and drive off into the sunset, crack a window and plunge into the water in front of me. But nothing felt right.

I felt like I was giving up of my life, letting the villain win. I weighed my options to stay, to leave, to run, to fight, to be or not to be. It was hard, especially when you didn't see the point of living anymore. My life was a lie, a lie orchestrated by the people's closest to me. There was a pang in my chest, a hole that was growing hungry, ravenous for revenge. I needed to see my parents die. To see them scream, to beg for their lives, but most importantly, I needed answers. I need to know who I was, who they were, as if I already didn't know. They were the monsters that ripped me away from a life I never knew. I walked into the house. The air was thick with tension, permeated with the scent of my last meal. It was chilly, my favorite. How considerate? The two looked at me as I

stepped into the foyer, grinning nervously as I looked at the dining room table. They've been waiting for me. Their special guest, the man of the hour, in his last hour. I've been. I've been I pulled the chair out and it squealed across the floor. I tried acting normal, but I'm sure I seemed strange to them. Their paranoia was clouding their senses, and I knew they were questioning every aspect of my demeanor, wondering if they saw what they thought they did. I sat on the chair and dad sat across from me, mom pouring the chili into a few bowls and setting them in front of us. I looked down at mine, the steam coming off, the hot food, not looking too appetizing knowing what I did. My expression was blank. I couldn't help it. It was the only expression I could muster.

With anger boiling out of my chest, I looked to dad, who looked away when my eyes met his. I looked to mom, whose eyes watered over her bowl. I looked back to my bowl and saw a strange viscosity in the soup, swirling around the ground meat. I questioned if I should just let them win. If I should just scoop the food down my gullet, laying in the darkness, carry me away. You'll be simpler that way, but life is never simple. That much was evident, especially now. I felt the stairs aimed in my direction, so I lifted my eyes.

I was scowling. I didn't mean to scowl, but I was annoyed. They were going to let me die without even saying goodbye, casting me aside when they were done with me. Their boy, their sweet baby boy. I didn't think. When I said what I did, I just came out and it made my mom sobbed to her plate. So this is how you guys were going to do it, huh?

My dad gave me his thousand-mile stare from across the table. table, mom huffing in spurts while instantly denying what they thought I knew. Taylor, it's not what you think. I lifted my spoon, letting the chili trickled back down into the bowl. I think it's exactly what I think. No, Taylor, it's not. I threw the bowl against the wall. It splattered on impact. The chili painting the wall red as chunks of meat streamed down its face. I'll tell you exactly what I think. I pointed my finger at them accusingly. You assholes were going to poison me. Then bury me in the garden with the fucking dog, the fucking mutt. Mom sobbing became frantic while dad looking at me, stone-faced.

No, it's not like, let the boy speak, Carol. My dad interrupted her excuses. My mom sucked in her words, but the emotions continued to seep out of her mouth like a festering tea kettle. My nails were digging into the table, and my knuckles turned white. You fuckers kidnapped me. He stole me away from a family that loved me. For what? Just as he could toss me out like a piece of trash kill me,

erase all memories? of me? Do you think I was going to let that happen? You think I was going to lay down and take it? I reached into my pants and pulled out a tire iron that had hit it in my pant leg before coming in. I slammed it on the table. The wood splintering with the iron's reverberating ping. Mom's chair scooted back, but dad still didn't move. I pointed the curved end to the man on the other end of the table. I'm going to kill you assholes. But before I do, I need the truth. Who am I? What are you to me? I was gritted my teeth and an animal ballistic fury coursed through my veins.

Mom opened her fucking mouth. She should have stayed quiet. Your... Our son. I bashed the tire iron across her head. Her skull caved in with a satisfying snap. Her limp body flopped to the floor before she started seizing.

Gurgling foam spilling out of her mouth. That was the last sound she ever made. Dad was now standing. His face twisted in disbelief. What did you do? You killed your mom. Mom. She's not my mom, I said. She is. She's your mom. Lies, I roared, but dad didn't waver. She is. I was there. I was there when you were born. I saw the doctor pull you from her body. I saw you take your first breath. You and your

brother. Brother, my legs were shaking, my heart fluttering. I roared again. Only this time it was unsure of itself. Lies. It's not a lie, Taylor. You had a brother, a twin brother, born an hour apart. He slammed a torn paper on the table pointing at the birth date. He was born an hour ahead of you, him at 11 p.m. and you at midnight. I didn't need to look at the paper. Its image was seared into my memory. His name was Joseph. When he died, you were in a strange sock.

One you never came out of. You wouldn't speak for weeks after he died. It was only when he got Rex that you started talking again. What? What? The question stagged in my throat. What happened? My dad chimed in.

Don't you remember? You killed him. Taylor. I walked in on you, dismembering his body with the kitchen knife. The memory brought bile to the back of his throat. Your hands were in his chest cavity when I found you. You were nine on his heart. All because you were jealous of the attention he got,

the attention that you weren't receiving. We were heartbroken. Your mother was inconsolable. She thought you were a little monster, told me that we should have reported you to the police, but I couldn't have taken, let them take you away. Not my baby boy, not my tailor. So we reported Joseph as missing. My head was spinning as I leaned on my body against the wall. Got you the dog and you seemed normal again. That is until you killed him too. We buried him in the garden right above Joe's body just in case someone came sniffing around. Luckily, no one ever did. I slumped down onto the floor against it, the wall. I was crying.

My dad walked over to me and wrapped his hand around his baby boy. He'd pulled me to my feet and he let me weep into his shirt. The memories were all flooding back. It was like dad's confession had unchanged the thoughts. They were locking away. Somewhere deep. I saw Joe and me playing together, laughing and smiling. I remember loving him and feeling this connection with him that no one else mirrored.

But then I saw my dad, and how he hugged him. How it felt when I wasn't the only one getting his attention. The anger that was slowly building in my little body. I remembered the smell of Joseph's blood, copper, the taste of his heart, iron-rich, chewy. I remembered the satisfying way his tissue squelched when I cut him open, him and the dog. The only thing that brought me as much joy was the way the bitch's head cracked when I opened her skull, the way she shook on the ground, the way the foam spilled out of her mouth. My dad caressed the sides of my face telling me that it would all be okay,

that we're going to clean up all this up, and no one is going to lock his baby away. He was smiling at me when I stuck him between the eyes, his left eye rolling to the back of his head. I buried them in the garden, where I found the skeletal remains of the dog, where a child's body was hidden under the dog, where I laid their bodies in a row next to their favorite son, next to Joseph. I don't know why I'm writing this, but I guess I just need to get this off my chest before someone comes sniffing around. Right now I'm enjoying a bowl of mom's chili.

It's the last thing she ever cooked for me. I feel the warmth of her love washing over my body. I feel myself getting sleepy, but before I go, tell them that I found Joseph, that I found my brother. He is no longer missing. He is with his parents, with our parents. And holy shit. that last story was one, for some reason, the most disturbing story I've ever read. Is it just me? Or did you guys also think that was really disturbing? A really well-written scary story,

but just disturbing as hell. Holy shit, that gave me goosebumps. That was crazy. Comment down below what you thought about that last story, but that was, whew, that was disturbing. I really haven't read a story like that in such a long time because that one was realistic, you know?

just weird. Damn, that was really interesting. Comment down below if you enjoyed that one as much as I did. That was really, really interesting and disturbing. And thank you so much for watching at the end of the video. That was a little bit of a ramble, but I appreciate all of you watching at the end of the video. This is about an hour-long video if you comment down below.

Let me know down the comments below if you'd like to see 30-minute videos, an hour of videos, shorter than that, longer than that. I appreciate all of you. Please like and subscribe. is the channel's almost to 500k so please subscribe and you're the best i love you and this was snuck i'll see you next time