Snook - Unnerving Horror Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: April 10, 2026

These were some Unnerving Horror Stories From Reddit! These stories were so creepy! 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! https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nz5k6c/id_only_been_overseas_on_business_for_two_weeks/https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1o45eyt/when_i_was_seven_years_old_my_neighbor_would/https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qzev3m/i_work_the_night_shift_at_a_hospital_and_the/https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1kzl6pw/blackeyed_susan/ 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

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to the channel. And today we're getting into some unnerving horror stories from Reddit. And oh boy, I've got some amazing stories for you guys today. These are honestly some of the scariest and most unnerving stories I have ever read on the channel before. So you're going to want to make sure to stick around. And I appreciate you stunt by means of world. And make sure to like the video and subscribe to the channel. The channel's goal is one million subscribers before the end of the year.

So please subscribe. And like I said, these are some of the best. Reddit horror stories I have ever read hands down, so I'm excited to get into it to make sure you sit back, relax, and grab a drink, and grab a snack. And without further ado, let's get into some unnerving horror stories from Reddit. I'd only been overseas on business for two weeks. When I got back, someone was in my home, painted to look like our cat, and my family couldn't tell the difference. Written by unalloyed St. Trina. Hey, get off my son, I barked, storming towards our couch, suitcase falling from my grasp somewhere along the way. Julie planted a firm hand on my chest

as I tried to pass her, asking what my problem was. She insisted that I must be exhausted from the flight, that I wasn't thinking straight, but I could feel the subtext. The insinuation was as plainest day. She thought I was ass over tits drunk, or worse, right in front of our son. Something I'd promised never to be guilty of again. Heats gathered under my shirt collar, a flush crept up my face. I was sober, stone cold sober, dry as a goddamn ditch. I mean, she was the one who'd allowed that freak into her home. She was. She was a was the one who was letting them lounge on our kids' lap like nothing was wrong. How did I know she wasn't on something?

Wordlessly, I ripped Julie's hand away and rushed past her. Dad, Dad, what's the matter? It's just Roger, Dad. Tears began flooding. It hurt to make Ike upset, yes, but that hurt was nothing compared to the fear I felt. The raw, blistering confusion of it all. It was the gentle sparks of a firecracker versus the roiling fireball of a ballistic missile. No contest. I loomed over the brown leather sectional. Ike slid out from under them and scampered over the top of the couch,

sprinting into his mother's trembling arms as soon as his feet hit the floor. The person dressed to look like our house cat didn't even react. Knees to their chest, curled and comfortable. they placed a painted five-fingered hand up to their mouth and rubbed their palm against their mask. I suppose they were simulating self-cleaning, but the mask didn't have a hole for a tongue to come out of, so their skin just squeaked against the material. My eyelids twitched, icy sweat drenched my back. I looked for my wife for answers, but she just seemed terrified.

terrified of me. Who? What is this? I whispered. Knuckles collapsing into a fist. Ike whimpered. My wife raped his beach blonde hair, silent, wide-eyed. Who is this, Julie?

The dry, crackling scream sent her dash into the kitchen table, where her phone was resting. Ike transitioned into full-on hysteria. and very much like a cat, the intruder appeared perfectly indifferent to our mounting duress. They stopped fall-licking their palm and stretched wide shifting their stomach towards me, unafraid, unbothered, unprotected. I stared at them, disbelief running dizzy laps around the base of my skull. They were around five feet tall, mask included, which was circular, stout, flattened at the top, triple the size of a human skull, and circumferentially smooth.

The shape reminded me of the box I used to store my extra drama symbols. Our calico's likeness had been meticulously painted across the mask, her emerald green eyes, the black spots surrounding her light pink nose, the ragged edges of her left ear, it was all there and accounted for. To fit the mask's bizarre dimensions, however, those familiar features needed to be distorted. Everything was a little too wide and a little too big. It was the same with their gaunt, emaciated body. They'd faithfully translated the markings of her fur onto their skin,

stretching the pattern to fit over their ghoulish proportions, a patch of white over their sunken, crater's abdomen, speckles of soft orange along their forearms, extremities which had cords of tendon revolting visible because of the way their thin skin wrapped tightly around their fatless frame. Worst of all, they were naked. No genitals, though. The crease was sleek and seamless like a kendall.

My rage boiled over. I descended, ready to cave their chest in with my bare hands. hands. Marvin, Jesus Christ, it's just a cat. Get a hold of yourself. Julie Blaired. My fist halted inches from their breastbone. They didn't flinch. I creaked upright so I could see my wife's eyes. You think this? You think they're a cat? You think this is Raja? Ike was beyond hysterics at that point. Shrieking, inconsolable. Face pressed hard into her pant leg. Julie didn't answer. She pulled away into another room,

urgently muttering to the 911 dispatcher. Yes, he's on something, or drunk or sick. I don't know. Just get someone over here. My mouth felt dry. I ran a quivering hand through my sweat, caked hair, slicking it back, wanted to look somewhat presentable when the police arrived. All the while, they loafed on the couch.

sleeping, smiling, laughing, watching, waiting? I couldn't tell. The mask had no holes and they never spoke. I stood in front of the couch, lightly swaying, or empty swing shivering in a cold wind, observing patches of painted skin sinking between their brittle ribs as they exhaled. How can they breathe, I wondered, given that the plastic edges of the mask seemed to be continuous with their neck.

I was no closer to an answer to that question when the police arrived a few minutes later. I implored them to arrest the intruder, begging them to see a reason, praying their view matched my own. They looked at the thing on my couch and snickered, eyes gleaming with amusement. I shouldn't have expected them to take the request seriously. How could I? It was just a cat, after all. The police graciously escorted me to the emergency room. Not in cuffs, thankfully, not that time.

All the tests were unremarkable. The clear fluid they drew from my spine didn't show any signs of an infection agitating my nervous system. The urine drug screen came back positive, but only for opioids, and the doctor expected that, given I was on. a few pills. The med helped dull any residual cravings for my old vices, alcohol, and booger sugar, but shared a chemical similarity to pills. My kidneys, my heart, my liver, every organ seemed to be in working order. As far as the doctor could tell, there wasn't anything wrong with me, and I hadn't ingested anything they believed could inspire psychosis. But when the psychiatrist asked, I remained incessant.

That thing wasn't a cat. From there, my trajectory was set. Next stop. Falling leaves Behavioral Health Hospital. The first time wasn't too bad. My fellow captives were tolerable. And the docs were nice enough. Smart, too.

They eventually had me believing I was suffering under an isolated, delusion precipitated by extreme stress. Their words, not mine. Initially, I rejected the theory. The more I considered it, though, the more it seemed to click into place. Undeniably, work had been taxing, and no one else had Saw Raja, as I did.

Occam's razor suggested something was wrong with me rather than everyone else. Not Ike, not Julie, and not the police, just me. Five days later, I was discharged. Ike was ecstatic, jumping up and down in the back seat of our sedan, wrapping a pair of little hands around my shoulders

as I clucked the passenger seat safety belt into the holster. Julie was more reticent about my release, but she did a good job faking happiness for Ike's sake. I was the last to enter when we got home. My feet felt thickly calcified to our stone stoop. It took Julie holding my hand to get me inside, practically yanking me over the threshold. The door swung shut behind me. Electricity sizzled up the curves of my neck as I scanned my surroundings.

Julie ran her thumb delicately across my palm. The massage was tender and affectionate, but I sensed a similar of electricity. hissing along her skin. She was nervous, too, and in retrospect, she had every right to be. I saw no mass intruder. My static calmed. I turned to Julie and saw her a flimsy smile. Then there was a noise above us.

A quiet, inscrutable message. A painful reminder. knock, knock, knock. My body became a live wire. Julie's thumb dug vicious stigmata into my palm, having sensed my panic. I glanced up, and there they were, lying prone on the balcony that overlooked our foyer, all but their mask wreathed in deep shadow, knocking the poor, oversized, facsimile. of Raj's skull against the banisters' small wooden pillars, alternating left to right, right to left,

left to right. Knock, knock, knock, knock. The lead psychiatrist at Falling Leaves informed me I went absolutely ballistic at the mere sight of our innocent house cat, and that might stay the second time around would be longer, much longer. I don't recall going ballistic, though. I have no memory of what transpired between seeing them again and the point at which I arrived at the psychiatric hospital. All I remember is their terrible, pendulous sway,

extending on into infinity, a video on a frozen computer screen, constantly refreshing but never riding itself, never moving on, perpetually misaligned and distorted. A part of me never left that moment. A part of me is still there, watching, helplessly. Knock, knock, knock. Julie still visited me over the following three months, but only weekly, and she wasn't bringing Ike with her.

Not only that, but judging by the way her cheekbones had begun progressively sharpening, she wasn't eating. The stress of it all was getting. to her, and that fact killed me. At first I pleaded, said things like, I'm not insane. I know what I saw, and for the love of God, Julie, you and Ike aren't safe. All she did in response was avert her eyes. My pleas were falling on deaf ears, and the only thing those outbursts were earning me was a longer sentence at Falling Leaves Behavioral Health Hospital. It was a tough pill to swallow, but I realized that feigning recovery from my delusion was the most logical step forward.

So that's what I did. Slowly but surely I recovered, even endorsed during a group therapy session that I've been covertly indulging in some designer pill-like drugs. Drugs that wouldn't come up on a routine test, but certainly could send a mind through the proverbial garbage disposal. The psychiatrist seemed to buy it. hook, line, and sinker. One hundred and eight grueling days later, my wife brought me home. Her lips twitched as she drove. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot.

She lost a significant amount of weight. Twenty pounds, maybe more. They were right inside the door when I opened it. Preening on their back beside our welcome mat, body contorted into a lazy stretch, soundly beseeching a stomach scratch. I watched her anxiety flourish into outright panic, knees fluttering, breathing sharp and shallow.

Her eyes flashed to me, then to what she saw as our defenseless cat, and back again, petrified about what I might do. Before she could pull her phone from her bag, I was bending down, rubbing my fingers against their belly. Its skin was doughy but disturbingly coarse, like partially congealed flour

with grains of asphalt mixed into the batter. As I suppressed a gag, I felt the silky touch of Julie's hand on my shoulder. So good to have you back, Marvin, she whispered. I nodded, still rubbing. The dead eyes of their painted mask pointed at me. Julie walked away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, I stood up and retected my hand, which was now coated in a fine, gray odorless dust. Something was different about them. Their abdomen seemed fuller than before. The solution to this mess, as I imagined, appeared relatively straightforward.

I didn't need to understand them. I didn't need to know what they were, why only I could appreciate their true form and what their purpose in my home was. I just needed to kill them. Thus, I needed my family incapacitated, unable to intervene. So I dose them. One pill for Ike, four pills for Julie. For the record, the pills were never my vice. I mean, who wants to sleep through their high. Never made much sense to me. Still, I had to use them outside of hedonism

as a sort of biochemical kill switch. Having these shakes from alcohol withdrawal, take a pill. Booger sugar gets you a little too revved up, take another pill. Thankfully, I was able to locate a dusty pill bottle stashed under a floorboard in the attic, a relic for my days as a fiend.

It wasn't as dramatic as something like chloro-furt, They both just became incredibly drowsy after downing some spiked lemonade. Neither very interested in having leftovers prior to turning in for the evening. I helped them up the stairs and that was that. Both were out like a light in no time. Ike told me he loved me. Julie reminded me to feed Raja three times. She might have had her suspicions in the morning and I figured she'd be distraught to find Raja.

missing, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. As I drew Ike's bedroom door closed, there they were, lying on their belly in the hallway, absent-mindedly flickering water around their bowl with their seemingly nailless human fingers. That moment was the first pleasurable one I'd experienced since the whole damn ordeal began. They were making it easy for me. I tiptoed across the carpet, gaze ripe with beautiful violence, and when I was close enough, I knelt down and straddled the intruder. They writhed, attempting to get out from under me.

It was no use. Only then did I experience a brief smoldering curiosity about what was hidden underneath. I clasped my hands at that point where its mask and neck became indistinguishable and began wrenching it upwards. A deluge of endorphins set my blood on fire. My entire body radiated blissful warmth. This fever dream was finally going to be over. When the mask started to give,

as threads of anchoring sinew started to snap, that's when I heard their howls. Both Julie and Ike wailing in discordant unity. paternal instinct got me upright. Before my conscious mind could even register the circumstances I was kneeling beside my son. He was sitting straight up. Shoulders tense to hell and back. Eyes rolled into his skull and God.

There was blood. Tiny crimson dewdrops formed a ring around his neck, exactly where I'd been tearing at the mask. His screams grew fainter. After a few seconds, he fell back limply onto his pillow, almost as if he'd passed out from within a dream. Only then did the whales completely die. Then the house was utterly silent. Julie had stopped too.

Whatever I did to them, it seemed to translate to my family. They were connected. Tethered. I turned around, neatly toppling back onto Ike from the sharp. of what I saw. They were there in the doorway, standing on two feet. Raja's stretched, vacant face, stared daggers into me. Gradually, it got back on all fours, pod past me, climbed onto Ike's bed and curled up

at his feet. And I just stood there, paralyzed. The message was obvious. They didn't need a voice for me to understand. Checkmate. The next morning, as I stood among a mug of lukewarm coffee at the kitchen table, Julie approached me holding her pillowcase. Hey, glad to see you up so early.

I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the black liquid. What do you make of these stains? Smells a hell of a lot like the bud, and it wasn't there before I went to bed. I thought I saw some dried blood on my neck, but I looked myself up and down in the mirror, and it doesn't seem like I have a scratch on me. I don't know.

It's just weird. She dropped the pillowcase onto the table and returned to her morning routine. A blotchy, maroon-colored oval marred the light blue fabric, no bigger than a quarter. Flex of coglation dislodged as I scrape my thumbnail over the stain. But as I put it to my nose and sniffed, I didn't detect even a hint of that sickly sweet. iron-kissed scent. Hmm. Yep.

Smells like blood to me. Strange, I replied, draping the pillowcase over the top of a nearby chair. Right? She paced out into the foyer and began calling for Ike. After years of snorting booger sugar, my sense of smell was effectively non-existent. Rarely, I'd get a faint whiff of something, but it have to be exceptionally fragrant to wake up my fried nerves, and it was always fleeting. Julie didn't know that, though. I was used to lying about it.

Too embarrassed to reveal the lengths to which I'd ravaged my body at the altar of feeling good. My eyes darted to the pantry. There was a muffled tapping coming from the inside. The clack of my wife's heels echoed as she moved to the open door. The intruder spilled out, mask thudding against the floor, cans of beans and boxes of spaghetti toppling over like bowling pins. Raja, you goof, there you are, Julie Coot. They got on all fours and began shaking violently, airing out their hypothetical fur, causing a cloud of pale dust to collect around them. Once settled, they tilted their mask up to look at my wife. She stared back at them, silent, grinning.

After a moment, she turned to me and said, Wow, he is vocal today, good Lord. At no point did I hear anything from them. Julie paced around the kitchen, chuckling to herself. I glared at the intruder. They had everyone else fooled, and I couldn't seem to pinpoint what made me so damn special. Suddenly, I had an idea.

What if something? Something in my blood was allowing me to see through the illusion. Could I be genetically immune? I pulled my phone from my pocket, walked up to them, and snapped a quick picture. Then I texted my brother. Free for tonight? Ic would love to see his uncle. Dan and I weren't estranged, but we weren't on great terms either.

He lived about an hour away and had his own shit to deal with. more than that though i'd said some things better left unsaid while still in the throes of substance abuse he'd kept me at arm's length ever since i towered over the indecipherable devil the haunting melody of my spellbound wife and son laughing upstairs thumping against my eardrums my hand buzzed sure good to hear from you cars out of commission mind Picking me up? Happy to, I replied. Then, with no context, I forward him the picture I'd just taken and waited.

The dots of a pending reply appeared across my phone screen. My heart racketed against my ribcage. My life teetered on what he saw. Ew, what the fuck is that, Marve? Relief washed over me. Tell you more later. Be there at five. I peered down at them and smiled wide,

bearing my teeth. Most of the trip home from Dan's was silent. I was too nervous to hold the conversation, maniacally tapping on the steering wheel, thoughts spinning. As we were pulling off the interstate, he broke that silence, but not in the way I was expecting.

Hey, you haven't taken anything, right? still on the wagon so to speak he asked automatically i responded what no god i wish each small word came out swift and punctuated even with just my peripheral vision i could tell he was given me that look a pitying condescension that always felt like a splash of acid gnawing at my skin the type of look that used to reliably throw me into a rage at a moment's notice. I swallowed and rolled my shoulders, focused my attention on the heat from the setting sun cascading through the windshield,

rather than the resentment bubbling in my veins. Things at home have been better, I sighed. Talk about an understatement. But what else could I say? Where would I even start? I lost my job. I was in a psychiatric hospital for months. There's a demon dressed as my house cat, and only I can tell.

No, he'd think I'd gone off the deep end. Once he saw for himself, then I'd be able to spill my guts. Once he understood, then we could strategize. I'm sure it's not as bad as you. He paused, sniffing the air. A bout of harsh, vigorous coughing took a hold of him. His eyes became glassy and red. I considered pulling over by our town's welcome sign, but he waited for me to keep going as I flicked my turn signal on.

Sorry, he sputtered. Allergies really have been a bitch this year. The fit abruptly dissipated. When I looked over, he didn't seem concerned, and his breathing was steady, so I just kept going. A minute later, we pulled into my driveway. hours passed before dinner was ready. We chatted, gave Dan copious updates about Ike, and even had time to play a few games of backgammon while the roast cooked. He continued to cough, but the fits are smaller, more contained.

Honestly, he didn't even seem to notice them. All the while, Raja never showed their face. Dredd crawled over my skin like termites through wood, but I kept my cool. They'd come. Around eight, the four of us sat down to eat. Lines of steam rose above the glistening pile of meat at the center of the table. Ike wanted to come off as a proper gentleman, insisted on serving us, dropping asymmetric portions of beef, mashed potatoes, and baked asparagus across each of our plates. All right, dig in, Julie announced.

My son descended ravenously. Still on edge, I gingerly mixed the gravy into the potatoes. Eyes darted between each of the three entrances to our kitchen. That's when I noticed something peculiar about Julie. She was holding her utensils upright, a fork in one hand, a knife in the other. But she wasn't moving. Eyes locked on me, but glazed over. Honey? Everything okay?

The only part of her that budged was her lips. Why wouldn't I be? Stummic twisting into agonizing knots, I turned to Dan. He was swiping out the meal, but every time his fork missed. A little too high, a little too far left, over and over and over again. Julie, this roast is something else, he muttered. Abruptly, my wife released her grip. Utensals clattering against the plate.

Wow, I am stuff, she proclaimed. Julie sprang from her chair. Might as well give Raja the leftovers. She bawled her hand into a fist, brought it close to her face, and began knocking on her forehead. The resulting sound had an unnaturally pervasive resonance like hot water running through a loose copper pipe,

metal expanding and colliding against an adjacent wall. Knock, knock, knock. A series of wild thuds emanated from the foyer, a bevy of hands and feet and knees crashing down the stairs. The frenzied stampede of a starving animal as the mass intruder charged into the room. Julie walked over to his dinner bowl and dumped her entire meal into it,

pieces haphazardly ricocheting onto the side of a cabinet and the surrounding floor. Suddenly, I realized I hadn't seen her eat anything substantial since I left for that trip months prior. A few slices of toast with her coffee in the morning, but nothing more. Dan pivoted to face them as they entered. I held my breath. He swung to me. His eyes were rolled back into his skull, white bowls of tapioca adorned with a lattice work of bright capillaries, tiny red worms wading through a thick ooze. I was wondering, when the little guy would show up.

I've missed him. My heart buckled. My mind fractured. Identically, my brother sprung to his feet, grabbed his plates, and dumped it in front of them. Might as well give Raj of the leftovers. Pets have to be fed. And we don't want Ike to be the one to feed them, right?

No, of course not. We want the best for our prodigy. We want them to grow. We want them to thrive, right? right? The intruder hastily gathered the tribute in their arms, gravy smearing an impromptu test along their trunk, and then began galloping past the table. At some point, Ike had gotten up and was standing by the screen door, creaking it open so they could crane into the backyard without losing an ounce of momentum. For months, this must have been the routine. Looking at Ike, I found myself

at a crossroads. I could just give up, allow my family to be eaten away from the inside out until there's nothing left, until they'd been made hollow. Hell, it wouldn't be hard, and who knows. Weak and empty. They might not even have the brain power to notice

if indulged in a vice or two on their side, a family that would stick around no matter what I did to myself. I wanted that at some point, right? or I could give chase that incomprehensible thing, that fucking parasite. Even if it felt hopeless, completely and utterly insurmountable, I could still try. Blood thrumming, heat's burning,

I shot up and followed them into the moonless night. It's currently 11 p.m. When I finally arrived home, Ike and Julie were sleeping soundly, and Dan was gone. But I don't know where he got to since I drove him. There are holes in the forest, burrows, tunnels. I watched the intruder dive into one, still holding the food. When I put my ear to the hole, I heard something.

Mewing. Multiple, identical, high-pitched yowls, overlaid with each other, sounded exactly like Raja, when we forgot to fill his bowl. Hungry begging button, eerie triplicates, I never considered what happened to the real him until that moment. If that truly is our original house cat lurking deep in the hole,

that's not all, though. On the way back, I passed by Mr. Hooper. He lives two doors down from us. He was walking what he believed was his husky. The man looked like he dropped 30 pounds since I lost saw him. It's not just happening to my family. I think the whole town is infested. I'm not sure what to do next.

Search for Dan, return to the hole. It's unclear, but I'll figure it out. I'm publishing this in case something happens to me. Julie, if you're reading this, I'm not crazy. I love you. And I tried. Black-eyed Susan, written by Satter Dead. Back when I grew up in rural Minnesota, my mother wanted me to keep in touch with my Scandinavian roots.

We haven't lived in the Nordic countries for three generations, but there are still a couple of things that stick around. Behavioral quirks mostly, and a couple of traditions that have been with her family for as long as anyone can remember. Putting porridge out for the forest gnomes was one thing. Mom used to trick me with these dolls that she put in the snow and points to, saying, Don't move too fast. You'll scare them. And let's not talk about dancing around the maypole. That stuff's just embarrassing.

But the most peculiar tradition is the one about a midsummer night dream. I know, that's a Shakespeare title, but it's also a traditional Scandinavian thing. It goes a little something like this. On the evening of midsummer, you are to glad, seven kinds of wildflowers then you bundle them up and put them under your pillow if you do you're supposed to dream of your one true love now I have three sisters they were all about romance and predestination and I couldn't have cared of less if I wanted to but every year they'd walk hand in hand collecting

wildflowers and putting them under their pillows and since I was too young to wander off on my own I have to stick around. That is, until they decided, it was my turn. It was my oldest sister who made the call. She was 12, and I just turned 7. But she figured the earlier, the better. You have to tell us what she looks like, she said. Like if she's tall or thin or fat? I bet she's fat, said my second oldest sister. Statistically, she's Chinese or Indian, said the other. That's where there are most girls. I tried to ignore them, but their cackling got on my nerves. They gathered up some silky aster, blue-eyed grass, silver leaf, wild bergamot, blue sunflowers, and ground plum.

But couldn't get a seventh one. They looked around but couldn't find one. I just wanted to go home. So I picked up the first thing I saw sticking out next to a rusted out barrel. How about this one, I said. holding up a yellow flower with a black spot. That's a black-eyed Susan, said my oldest sister. You're going to marry a Susan, grinned another.

Little Susie Wu gonna love you, who, sing sang the last. I rolled my eyes so hard that they almost popped out of my head as they cackled and teased. Put in my hair up in a bow, they bundled up the wildflowers and made me sleep with them under my pillow. I didn't notice anything strange at first. Just a night like any other. You have such vivid dreams when you're a kid. Like everything just happens faster. You even sleep faster.

But this was something else entirely. It wasn't just a dream. It was an experience. And the worst part is I didn't even remember it. I just remembered it was bad. Really? Really bad. It was so bad that I completely blocked it out.

I don't even remember waking up. I just remember laying in the bathtub submerged in cold water. I looked up at my three sisters. They looked terrified. My throw is hoarse and I was wide awake, but I couldn't even remember going to bed. Does it hurt? My oldest asked.

Her voice was different. Lower, careful. I shook my head. No, I said, I'm okay. It sounded of the first. Like it hurt, she continued. Like it really hurt. I think it was a bad dream.

Was it her? Asked my youngest sister. Did you dream of her? I couldn't tell. It was just a dark space in the back of my mind that made my pulse shiver when I thought about it. And yet, I knew the answer. Yeah, I said.

It was black-eyed Susan. Now, I've been teased by my sister my whole life, but they never teased me about black-eyed Susan. They'd never seen me like that. I'd woken up screaming at the top of my lungs, rolling around on the floor. They thought I was having a seizure. They took me to the bathroom while my mom called an ambulance.

We didn't talk much about it. They never had me checked for epilepsy, and I was perfectly healthy otherwise. They talked a little about it being some kind of allergic reaction, but I'd never seen a reaction like that. Over time, we came to this unspoken conclusion that those wildflowers gave me the worst nightmare of my life. And in that nightmare, I saw my one true love.

Black-eyed Susan. I wouldn't think much about that night over the years to come. It became this distant memory, like your first cold. But every now and then, particularly around midsummer, I would try to remember what that dream had been like. And something inside me would sink into this bottomless hole in my chest. It teased me. I could concentrate, and I'd see it, but I didn't want to. To have forgotten was a blessing, and I knew better than to challenge it.

But it's a weird headspace to live in, to have concepts such as a true. love and marriage so closely associated with trauma, especially since all other couples in my life were perfectly fine role models. My mother and father were an extraordinary couple. And while my sisters had some dating life drama, nothing bad ever really happened to them. So as I got into my teenage years, I didn't want to chase girls and flirt. I didn't want to fall in love. I joked about it a lot, but the feeling of meeting my one true love felt like throwing my soul down an endless pit. I tried to rationalize it away. It was just a stupid phase, a quirk.

It became a fun party story to tell in my late teens. It was funny in a way, saying I used to believe in such things. But there was an asterisk struck to that story every time I told it. A little white lie. I never stopped believing in it. It really started to bother me when I was about 17. At that point, I'd been in short relationships and I'd been in love, but I couldn't stop thinking that it wasn't real.

That true love was out there and that it was terrifying. Something that would make my heart sink into my stomach. so I decided to just bite the bullet and try the whole thing again to face my fears. So that midsummer, I put together seven types of wildflowers again, ending with a black-eyed Susan. As kids, we're very good at handling pain, or at least we're resilient. We have time to heal, but when you're 17, it hits differently. When I went to bed that night, I had cold sweats. And I couldn't stop thinking about what was waiting behind my closed eyes.

Would there be a reaction at all? Or had I wasted all this time being anxious about nothing? I closed my eyes and tried not to think about it. I counted down from 100, then 200. I twisted and turned, trying to get the sweaty cup. Averse to stop sticking to my skin. At the slightest stretch, my eyes would pop open. I'd get this ache in my face from trying to keep them closed.

But after hours, something clicked. My muscles relaxed, and I caught a whiff of the flowers from under my pillow. And something inside me screamed at me to turn back, to open my eyes, but it was too late. It felt like looking at the bottom of a pool, but straight ahead. A reflective shimmer. Ethereal but physical at the same time.

Like a night sky that you can push your hands through. I fumbled with my hands, trying to find something to hold on to. There was this swirl in the back of my head, like having a large drink on an empty stomach. Something reached for me and touched my fingertips, something as hard as fingernails, it poked and prodded me from different angles, a strange voice seeped through me, neutral, genderless, and with an unusual pronunciation.

Where have you been? It asked. I tried to regain my footing, but there was nothing to hold on to. Just these protrusions from the dark. Finally, I felt myself slowing down. A steadiness. Control. Something came out of the dark. I saw. So black that their head looks hollow against the night. A vaguely human skull connected to an infinite mass, like a broken flower growing out of cracked concrete. Muscle in vain, contracting and compounding at every angle. Ripples of flesh with every offset heartbeat.

It's been so long. Something wrapping around my ankle. Tightening. Come home. My eyes. snapped open, but I wasn't awake. I could feel her wrapped around my ankle. I pulled away the covers and watched my foot turn blue.

It was bending, and I felt nothing. Then the bone snapped. I've never experienced something like that. I've never broken a bone, and experiencing a trimalier fracture in the comfort of your own bed is inhuman. It hurts so bad you lose bladder control. And I couldn't do anything but to fall out of bed and rise on the floor, but the pain wouldn't go away. I just screamed.

I tried to reach for my phone, but it's like it refused to let me reach it. A neighbor heard me. Help came. It would take time for the leg to heal, but bones mend all the time. But true love doesn't. I pushed the thought of love and marriage out of my life for over and life. a decade. I would shy away from coy smiles and flowery laughter. Some people thought I had a problem with my sexuality. Others thought I was under some kind of religious repression. I tried to explain that

relationships just weren't my thing. But it's hard to explain without a reason. If I was really pressed about it, I'd say it was a childhood trauma that usually stopped the questions. I'd do this for years, a string of short-term relationships, where I kept hoping and praying I wouldn't fall in love, anything to keep me away from that dark space. I couldn't tell what was going to happen if I met someone who'd make me feel things, real things. But life isn't so simple. It would take me years, but when I turned 31, I met her. Lilia hit me like a summer spreeze the first time I talked to her.

It was a birthday party and she was invited by my mutual friend of ours. Lillia had been working overtime and forgotten all about the party so she joined at the last minute. She joined up in a oversized hoodie and yesterday's jeans, spending most of the night at the snack table looking at her phone. Her enthusiasm started and stopped at bobbing her head at music. When I saw that, we were out for pretzels. I went up to talk to her. Looking for snacks, I asked. Your mom's a snack.

She snapped back. All right, yeah, but I was talking about the pretzels. She looked at me like I'd struck gold. She'd been so hell-bent on the idea that I was coming up to hit on her, that it never even crossed her mind that she'd eaten a full bowl of salty pretzels. She snort laughed, apologized, and I felt my heart. skip a beat. I knew it was trouble. I liked her. Lillia was a work from home back-end developer. She spent most of her days trying to steer her team through rough deadlines and

absurd last-minute changes. She explained it as trying to teach Katz algebra while falling out of an airplane. She cycled through periods of insane stress to weeks of coasting, which she'd made into an absurd routine. Clearly something she couldn't keep up forever. We didn't start dating right away. We chatted a bit and found out we had a lot in common. She'd been dating this one guy since she was 14 years old and had only recently turned single.

So she wasn't eager to get back on the market. She didn't mind my vague trauma, but just liked being around me. I think our friends realized we were dating long before Lilia or I did. We just spent time together until one day when we didn't want it to stop. Still, I couldn't help but think of black-eyed Susan. No matter how soothing lilia's snores were, I could still lay awake at night.

There was a warmth in my chest as I imagined the smell of wildflowers from my pillow, an ache in my leg where I could touch the scars. If I were to truly fall in love. What would happen? Those nights came more often, from once every six months or so to every week. After having dated for about a year, Lillia was eager to help me get over the whole thing. She knew it was trauma, but she knew I didn't want to talk about it, but she couldn't let it go. And of course she couldn't.

She was falling in a loving relationship with a man who couldn't say he loved her. And all she knew was that something had happened. It got to a point where it was driving a wedge between us. She wanted to help, and I wanted her to understand, and I can only think of one way to show her. I had to do it again. On midsummer, we went outside to pick flowers. Lillia was excited, but her smile faded where she felt how serious I was.

I did what I'd done every other time. I picked six types, and a final flower would pop out. out of nowhere. And of course, it'd be the black-eyed Susan. I bundled them all up. I could feel a phantom pain cutting into my leg, which gave me a limp. So what are these for, she asked. For sleep, I said, and I'm going to need your help. Sure, yeah, whatever you need. If it looks bad, I need you to wake me up. How do I know if it's bad? I shook my head and took her by the hand. You'll know. I did some preparations.

I had gauze and painkillers. Lilia was prepared to call for help if necessary. She still had no idea what was going on, but I could tell she was nervous. Then again, so was I. Problem was, I couldn't sleep. I just laid there, and she watched me. After about an hour, she crawled up next to me. She knew it was something that happened when I saw.

slept, but she wanted to calm me down. I need you to see this, I said. It's okay, she whispered. Go to sleep. Promise you'll keep watch. I promise. I didn't turn my head to look. I trusted her, so I closed my eyes.

Let my breathing slow and felt my head fill with the smell of wildflowers. It was like waking up again. A mild tingle covering my body Like being draped in spiderwebs I blinked and blinked But it was all black A long drawn-out breath

Echoed like a field of signed flowers Beautiful A growth coming out of the dark Translucent Like living glass hardening into soft marble A woman dragging her legs through the nights Like she was trudging through a swamp She grabbed me by the hand, pulling me along.

It felt like I was carried through a current. I can see the bedroom from above. I lay there, and Lilia was sitting next to me. I can't really explain what it felt like, sort of like watching your reflection blink. I could see her struggling to stay awake, nodding on and off she was trying so hard. Is that what beautiful looks like?

Black-eyed Susan asked I don't even know what you are, I said. Of course you do, she said. I am your one, true love. The words slithered. A drawn-out S poisoned the air. I tried not to look at her. It was like the opposite of staring into a sun.

The lights in your eyes began to die and you can feel yourself grow colder, slower. You can't be, I said. It's impossible. But I am, she said. You love me. She turned her attention to the room hovering in front of us. I could see little tendrils creep under the furniture, reaching for Lilia and me.

Long, finger-like limbs and layered scales, bending at painful angles. One pulled down her phone, another moved a chair. Two of them struggled to move the bed. bed. What are you doing? I asked. Passing the time. One of the pendrils closed around my stomach. There was pressure like someone tightening a belt. It cut into my hips. Before the pain, I could feel a slight pop. If you love me, why are you hurting me? I asked. How else are you going to get used to it? She asked back. Get used to what? She turned to me. Breath reeking of ammonia with every spit of a word.

Us. A hand closed around my neck. My eyes flung open. I could not breathe. I couldn't feel my legs. I flailed with my arm, reaching for Lilia. She got out of bed only to find that her phone was gone. What's wrong?

She asked. What's happening? She had to cover her mouth when she saw my neck. She grabbed my arm, but the moment she did, something took hold of her. In the corner of my eye, I saw her getting pulled into the other room, clawing at the carpet with a terrified shriek. My left arm rose out of bed as if carried by an unseen string. Two of my fingers popped out of their sockets, like a painful countdown.

I couldn't scream. I could barely think. No oxygen. Lilia came running back and grabbed me. She pulled on my arm and something let go. I fell out of bed, gasping for air as she cradled my head in her arms. I could see color returning to my hands as two fingers turned purple. I didn't feel a thing, but I would in a couple of seconds.

Hold on, Lilia said, hold on. Her phone was gone. She bandaged my fingers and tried to keep them straight. I'm sorry, she gasped. I'm so sorry. She just shook her head, trying to process what happened. There were no words. We just stayed there on the floor. But I could see something in the corners of the room, little quirks and shades. Something was waiting for me to let my guard down.

What's hurting you, she asked. What is it? Something broke in me as I swallowed my words, but Lillia deserved the truth. I think she loves me. Over the coming weeks, I tried my best to explain. Lillia was terrified. She'd never seen anything like it, and there was no explanation that could settle her nerves.

It's one thing to know someone you care about has trauma, and it is another thing entirely to experience something impossible that can make or break you. but Lilia didn't break. She started asking questions. Why was I targeted? What was this thing? What did it want?

But things were getting strange. It's as if thinking about black-eyed Susan brought her closer to us in a physical, literal way. Like we were building towards something. I would spot movement in the shadows. I'd notice furniture out of place and hear creaking doors in the middle of the night, and of course it had to be her. She was playing with me.

Lilia would stay up at night reading about various Scandinavian traditions. The cast iron scissors under the pillow, the midsummer pole, the year walk, trolls, elves, dwarves, and gnomes. She gave me lists of things to ask my parents about to see if our family had been targeted by something ancient or evil. But weeks would come and go, and we wouldn't be anywhere close to an answer, and the shadows would grow longer, things would disappear, and every night when I closed my eyes, I'd catch a whiff of earthly wildflowers. Things would quickly progress beyond tricks and shadows. At one point, I was tripped while walking down a flight of stairs. Another time, something pressed down on the gas pedal, sending me straight through a red light. It's a miracle, no one was hurt. Lilio wouldn't go unscathed either.

Electronics would break her go missing. Odd sounds would wake her up at night. She told me that sometimes she'd see a silhouette outside the window, as if someone was trying to catch a peek of us. Every time she looked closer, it would turn out to be fallen leaves, a peculiar branch. It was stressful, but there wasn't really an option. What else could we do but to stick together and love one another?

I don't remember the moment we moved in together. It just made sense. Since we spent all our time together anyway, she just moved more and more of her stuff in. And all of a sudden, her place was pretty much empty, so yeah, we lived together. It wasn't really a conscious decision. Lillia had a couple of rough ideas about what that thing might be.

She had a binder with ideas ranging from authoritarian mythology to Dijin and some kind of Polish bird demon. None of them fit perfectly, though. And frankly, it was such an odd thing for it to all be tied to this one ancient tradition. How could this thing be my true love? What was I missing? We figured it had to be something connected to that very first night back when I was a kid, when they had to put me in a bathtub of it, wake me up. For a full year, all we did was try to make it to the next day.

It affected pretty much every aspect of our lives. The way we slept at night, the way we cooked, the way we did our laundry. There would always be something messing up the rhythm of the day. It exhausted us, not just mentally and physically, but social. We stopped going out. Hell, we barely even talked. Instead, we kept our heads down and tried not to think about it too much, silently hoping for the problem to solve itself as Lilia's binder gathered dust.

But once the next midsummer came around, there was a difficult decision to be had. We can't live like this. She'd sat me down at the kitchen table. The light bulb had burned out somehow. despite only being two weeks old. I'm sorry, I said. I wouldn't blame you if I'm not going anywhere, she said. You know that.

So what do we do? She looked around. The kitchen faucet was leaking again. I suppose we ought to try something, she said. You got any suggestions? She could kill us, I said. We can't go there. Maybe we don't have a choice.

I just sat there in the dark, counting the seconds. She was right, of course, but that didn't mean I had to like it. As midsummer came, we decided we could do this together. We got a single large pillow and gathered the flowers together. We didn't say a word. We just walked among the wildflowers as a low rumble lingered on the horizon. A damp taste in the air as a storm brewed. but to me, all I could see was the woman I loved

and how she carefully brushed her hands against the tall grass. Even now, she could find something to appreciate. Tradition, ritual, and myth be damned. At that moment, there wasn't a force in the world that could convince me that she was anything but my actual true love. We rounded out our wildflowers with a black-eyed Susan. It was a hidden next to her. a rusted out barrel, as if trying it's best to hide.

But like every other year I'd done this, I'd found one. And with all seven wildflowers in hand, we bundled them up and wandered home, hand in hand. We hugged each other tight as we went to bed. Somehow, some way, we would make it through the night. We had to. When I opened my eyes, something felt different. I thought I was standing in sand, but it was more like a fine concrete dust. The moon covered most of the night's sky, but I couldn't see any stars.

There were black trees in the distance, leafless and skeltonized by years of thirst along the horizon, was a single large tree, tall enough to almost reach the moon itself, as an apocalyptic vision, if anything. Who are you? A melodic voice, kind, but... unsure. I turned around. Lillia? My first thought was that she looked taller, but that wasn't it? She was the same as always. It was me that had gotten shorter. My hands were smaller. I looked down at the seven-year-old version of myself, still dressed in my most comfortable childhood jammies.

Lillia didn't really sound any different, but a child's ears hear things in other ways. She had the most beautiful voice. It's me, I said. Somehow. You're really cute, she smiles, but I don't get it. I don't either. Maybe we're not supposed to. Maybe.

We wandered down a trail, hand in hand, there was no one around. No wind blowing through dead planes, no birds in the sky, no chirping cicadas, and no rustling leaves. Just feet on dust. There's no one here, I said. This can't be it. Did we do it wrong? She asked. I don't think so.

She's usually here by now. Lillia blinked, looking around. Then something dark settled over her eyes. What if she is? She let go of me and brushed her arms up and down in a self-hug, something she usually did when stressed. We wandered around for what felt like hours, nothing happened. no one came to disturb us it was just her me and nothingness no black-eyed susan and nothing to tear us apart does this mean you're my one true love she asked i mean i am dreaming of you

that would make you mind too i smiled i thought that was occupied i thought so too but there was no one there to challenge that claim we just smiled at one another. That had to be it. Despite it all, something good had to come out of this. But no matter where we went or for how long, nothing happened. We started to worry. We weren't waking up. We didn't get hungry or thirsty or tired.

It was just this complete stage of emptiness. We would walk down forgotten paths for what felt like hours, strolling past, sand-burnt concrete ruins. I don't know how much time passed. It might have been days. It might have been months. It was impossible to tell. And Lillia always had this amazing ability

to make every moment pass by in a flash. She was impossible not to love. Even then and even there, we'd make jokes and laugh, though I couldn't get, over the feeling of being stuck in my younger self. You don't realize how much you've changed until you step back into old shoes like that.

Then I noticed something, a flicker of yellow. Right there behind a rusted out barrel was a black-eyed Susan. The same yellow flower I'd found on that fateful midsummer night as a kid. I don't know how I recognized it, but I did. It was the same flower. It had to be.

I picked it up and showed it to Lilia. Strange, huh? I said. Only one of these I've ever seen around. I wonder what it does, she said. You think it means her voice cut out. The light warped in front of me, blurring like I was watching through a thin layer of rushing water. I could feel a tingle in my eyes.

Lillia looked different. Further away. Don't go, she called out. What are you doing? I'm not. I just picked this. I held it out and dropped it, giving her one last flower. We drifted apart. Something shifted. My head rolled back and I felt this intense heat settling into my head. Then a coolness someone tried to lower my temperature. Young voices terrified. Lillia drifting further away, screaming at me to stay with her. Her voice goes from beautiful to desperate to something else.

She would scream how much she loved me And then scream how much she hated me I would leave her in that place For what would equate to eternities For her to twist and turn in a place where She'd have nothing but her thoughts and regrets Where a starless sky would seep into her Whispering things to do

Ways she would play whenever I returned Her head spinning with tales of Dijin and Mars and demons It would just be seconds passing as I felt to disappear. But in those seconds, there would be eons. Long enough for a body to forget what humans looked like. For a mind to forget what love is supposed to be. For a word or a phrase to change.

True love. An ammonia reeking scream reflected off a fractured space as she reached to me. Try to pull me back through the breaking light. a hand so warm that it burned my face. How could I be so cruel as to leave her for endless time to suffer? How could I be so selfish? Black-eyed Susan. Lillia.

My one true love. Then I woke up. My head burst through the water as I looked up at my three sisters. I was seven years old and still in my jammies. submerged in the bathtub of my childhood home. And as healthy young minds do, my memories healed themselves, sealing away a trauma for me to uncover years down the line. Life would turn out the same way. Awkward teenage years, short relationships, and I'd come back to that broken place time and time again,

and she would play her games, reminded me of the betrayal she felt and I wouldn't understand. That is, until one night when I woke up alone. We'd gone to bed together, but only one had made it back. I'd lived a life twice, and I hadn't even realized it. I stumbled into the shower, said to cold, and collapsed. I could just think of one thing to say. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

Another view of the world from behind a shimmer. be it warm tears or running water. Today, I'm 47. Never married. No serious dating. I go back to Lillia every year hoping I can find something to remind her of what she used to be. I've tried bringing things along, something to bring her back with me. I've yet to find something useful.

It doesn't work like that. Sometimes I try to stay a little longer, but the people, pain is unbearable. I suspect one day, she'll kill me, and I won't come back. I suppose that's the only way this can end. I try not to think about it, but when I do, I try to convince myself that I will end up the same way as her. Maybe we can find solace in our madness.

Maybe we'll live together in a paradise of dust and strange moons. I don't know. I don't think that old tradition just shows you. you your true love. I think it will take you to a place where you can meet, but perhaps that place isn't what it used to be. Maybe there used to be more flowers and dancing. I've asked my sisters about what they've seen the times they've done this. All they tell me about is handsome men and blue skies. I guess we don't all go to the same place. After all, true love isn't the same for everyone. If there truly is someone for everyone, well,

well, then we must face some hard facts. They could live across the world. They could have passed away. Or maybe they're just not what you expected. But the older I get, the less I worry. Maybe I'll wake up in that bathtub a third time, years from now. And if not, then at least I get to see her again. There must be something of Lillia left in black-eyed Susan.

There has to be. or else she wouldn't still be my one true love. I stayed the night at my crazy uncle's place. I'm still traumatized by what I saw. Ran by Cave Lice. There's one in every family. Our shows up each Thanksgiving. Chuck her hat, worn shirt, faded jeans.

We get to listen to his di-trives about the economy, the fake moon landing, and how big, brother is trying to kill us with weather manipulation. It's not natural, he says, clutching a turkey drumstick. Those white streaks in the sky, it's population control. Someone's got to do something about it. Typically, these conversations only last a few minutes. My family has learned the art of distracting him with questions like, so, Uncle Hank, how's the new boat? Are you enjoying retirement? Did you get your head? hip looked at. But this time, several Thanksgiving's ago, it got really bad. Uncle Hank had a little

too much to drink. Got on one of his many rampages and wouldn't stop. The government's cooking up a virus, he shouted. It'll make Ebola look like the flu. It'll go airborne and wipe out 70% of the population. We've got to rise up. His tirade started to make grandma sob. She had just lost grandpa and was still processing her grief. Dad shifted in his seats, furious, then leapt up. Enough, he said. And escorted Uncle Hank out of the room. Listen, I'm sorry, Hank apologized. But dad let him outside and slammed the door. I didn't see much of him after that. But then a few years later, my girlfriend, Vanessa and I had to drive south to tour her new University. She had just been accepted to a master's program and wanted to check out the campus.

I was so proud. We were navigating an isolated road when our GPS stopped working. Before long, our car ended up in the middle of a forested back road, surrounded by darkness. See anything, Vanessa asked? Checking for road signs? No, I said. Craning my eyes. The sunlight was vanishing. Then the car shuddered. Voundly. Shit. I pulled over and parked. Smoke billowed out from the hood as Vanessa and I got out. It was so cold, the air clung to our skin. We pulled our jackets clothes. I didn't have a flashlight, so Vanessa held her phone over me as I peered under the hood. I couldn't see what was wrong. I called the tow truck company. They told me they couldn't be there. until the next day.

Damn, I turned to Vanessa, cold air biting my skin. Looks like we're stuck here for the night. She buried her hands in her pockets, shivering. Do you know anyone here? I frowned as I thought. Yeah, I know someone. I made the call. It was about an hour later when Uncle Hank's truck appeared down the road.

He pulled up behind my car and stepped down. wearing his signature cowboy boots. Whoa, we, Uncle Hank whistled. What have we got here? Hi, Uncle Hank. I offered my hand to shake his, but he just gave me a big bear hug. You know, the kind that feels like your ribs are about to break.

Then he turned to Vanessa. Who's this? Vanessa, she said and shook his hand. Thanks for saving us. My pleasure. It's what anyone would do for family. Hank turned and peered inside my vehicle. He couldn't figure out what was wrong either.

Well, it looks like the mechanic will have to sort this out. He duss it off his hands on his pants. Why don't you stay over at my place? I'll drive you to the shop in the morning. That'd be great, Uncle Hank. Vanessa and I got our bags, left the keys in my car, climbed into Uncle Hank's truck and drove off. We were in the cab.

for about five minutes when Uncle Hank cleared his throat. So where'd you two meet? University, I said. Ah. He leaned over, made eye contact with Vanessa. Universities are for brainwashing. Lizard people use them as tools for indoctrination. Lizard people, she said.

They rule the world. She just nodded. I can tell she was uncomfortable. Best way to tell a lizard person is to, so Uncle Hank, I piped in. How's your boat running? Oh, that old thing, he thought. Boats fine, but the damn thing keeps breaking down just last weekend. I smiled and relaxed. Satisfied my question had diverted him. About 30 minutes later, we were at his place. It was a small squat building in the back end of nowhere. There wasn't another house for miles. Come on in, he said.

and held the door open for us. Don't break anything or I'll murder you. Vanessa and I looked at each other, disturbed by his off-putting joke. Just kidding, he said and pointed to a room down the hall. You lovebirds can take the guest room. He signaled to another, there's the bathroom, master bedrooms are out of the corner. If you hear any strange noises, don't come looking for me. Vanessa and I looked at each other.

What? I'll let you two get unpacked. Good night. He disappeared around the corner as I helped Vanessa move our bags to the guest room. A few minutes later, Vanessa went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I stored our stuff in the closet and Uncle Hank popped in. Pst, Tommy. Yes, Uncle Hank.

Your girlfriend, is she a flat earther? A what? Flat earther, like, does she believe the earth is round or he made a horizontal motion with his hand. I thought the question was strange, but I humored him. I don't know, Uncle Hank. I'll have to ask her. Please do. He just stood there, looking at me. I prayed the awkward moment would pass, but it kept going.

Finally, the sound of cascading water hit our ears. Vanessa must have started the shower. Well, I better hit the hay. Uncle Hank wrapped his knuckles on the door. You love birds get some sleeping. Remember, you hear any strange noises. don't come knocking. The repeated comment creep me out,

but I shrugged it off. It was one night. How bad could it be? Okay, Uncle Hank. He wandered into the hall, footsteps pattering. I heard a door close and thank God he was gone. A few hours later,

I flopped into the bed next to Vanessa, both dressed and ready for sleep. I held her hand as I drifted. it off. Later that night, God only knows when, I felt someone stir me awake. It was Vanessa. Tom, what? I sat up and rubbed the groginess from my eyes. It's your uncle. I heard a loud moan come from the hall, desperate, pleading, like someone was having a violent seizure. I sat up and listened. Another agonizing squeal erupted from his bedroom, like a person. Apsi, was being eaten alive.

What the hell is that, Vanessa said? I don't know. I scrambled up and went to the door. Another painful groan. Is your uncle okay? I'm sure he is. It sounds like he's dying. The screams grew louder.

Then a gasp of pain, almost sob like. Oh my God, Tom, do something. He told us to leave him alone. Just make sure he's all right. The groans turned into a serious, of belly wrenching screams. I ventured out of the room.

Oh, God, help me, help. It was Uncle Hank, wailing in misery. I raced to his bedroom door, pounded on it. Uncle Hank, what's going on in there? Another loud scream. I twisted the knob. It was locked. God, no, help me, ah.

His voice sounded shell-shocked, entreating. I'm coming in. I backed up and slammed my shoulder into the door. Bang. Then again, bang. Help me. Finally, I broke through. Uncle Hank's bedroom was dark except for a sliver of moonlight peering through the window.

Hank was sitting on the edge of his bed, gasping. And something small, no bigger than a bulldog, was sitting on his shoulders, whispering into his ears. No, please, I can't take any more, Tank begged. The shape's voice sounded eerie and soft, almost seductive, but I couldn't tell what it was saying. Please, no more. I crept back, trying to rationalize the situation. Your lies, they hurt so much. Then my voice slipped out of my throat.

It must have been a gut reaction to all the insanity. As soon as the words came, I wanted to pull them back in. Uncle Hank, are you all right? Uncle Hank turned. His voice was cold, menacing. I told you not to come in. I'm sorry. He left off his bed, dashing toward me.

I tried getting away, but he grabbed my arm, slapped a sweaty palm over my lips, pinned me against the wall. I squirmed, trying to break free. but his grip is strong. Uncle Hank leaned in close. His breath hot against my face. You should have listened to me, Tommy. I nodded, begging to be let go.

The weird shape was still atop of shoulders, whispering. It was so dark I couldn't tell what it was, but it had glowing yellow eyes and the smell. I can't even describe it. You must not tell anyone. What you've seen? Uncle Hank said. I was so scared.

What was even happening? I just nodded. Sweat pouring from my face. Uncle Hank removed his hand and backed away. Go to bed, Tommy. I bobbed my head, stumbled back into the hall, my mind swirling. I staggered to the bedroom, left inside, shut our door. Vanessa just stared at me from the bed, white-knuckling her comforter.

What happened? I don't know. Seriously, Tom, what was it? I don't know. Is he all right? I can't tell you. I just flopped into bed, silent, not wanting to make any more noise. Why won't you tell me?

Trust me, I can't. Vanessa frowned and turned away. I sank back into my sheets, delirious, hoping to disappear. Needless to say, I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning, I could hear Uncle Hank whistling through the house, getting ready for the day. Five minutes later, he knocked on our door. You kids want something to eat.

Vanessa and I had just finished packing. We were both dressed and ready to go. No thanks. All right, come on out when you're ready and I'll drive you over. Not long after, Uncle Hank had shuttled us to our shop. We got to our car, told him. mechanic about our problems, case closed. Uncle Hank pulled me aside after I had finished talking with the mechanic.

Now listen, Tommy. About last night. It's okay. We don't need to talk about it. No, no. I need to apologize. You see, I've got this cat. A cat?

Sometimes when I get scared, it comes to me and sits on my shoulder. It tells me things to comfort me. I just stood there, not knowing what to say. Last night, it was telling me about my past. Uncle Hank's voice drifted away as my mind blocked out his words. Anyway, he slapped a hand on my shoulder, reassuring me. I'm sorry for overreacting. Let's just keep this between us, all right?

Okay, Uncle Hank. He hiked back to his truck, waving goodbye to Vanessa. Take care of my nephew. Will do, she waved. Grateful to see him going. Uncle Hank gone in his truck, backed out, and merged onto the road.

Vanessa frowned. You're still not going to tell me what happened? I just shrugged. How could I? I didn't even know what had happened. My eyes glanced back to Uncle Hank's truck as it shrank in the distance. In the rear window,

I could barely notice. A small, bulldog-sized creature perched upon his shoulders. Its yellow eyes focused on me. I had no idea what it was. But I knew this.

It sure is hell wasn't a cat. When I was seven years old, my neighbor would sneak in through my closet, written by horror junkie one, two, three. I don't remember when it started. I was too young. Johnny, one of my neighbors,

used to sneak in through the crawl space at the back of my closet to play. Even now, I can still picture him so clearly in my head. His sharp blue eyes, embedded in sunken sockets, his filthy, unwashed hands, fingernails overgrown and caked in dirt, his crooked smile with three front teeth missing. I can smell him too. The musk of sweat and grime, the sickly sweet stench of someone

who's been rolling in grass and dead leaves. He seems like such a recent memory. Even now, 19 years later, as much as I want to, I can't forget him. Not after what happened in the summer of 06. Knock, knock, knock. Three knocks from inside my closet. That was the sign that Johnny was there. I opened the door, greeted by my friend, his toothy smile on full display.

I returned the gesture, inviting him into my room. Hurry up, I want to show you the new game I got. Pokemon Emerald had come out a year prior. and I just managed to scrounge up enough money to buy it. I took Johnny by the wrist, his lanky frame bending awkwardly to accommodate. He didn't protest. He listened intently as I explained the game mechanics. His eyes glued to the screen.

That's one of the things I liked about Johnny. He was an adult, but he didn't treat me like all the other grown-ups did. He listened to what I had to say. He made me feel seen. Maybe that's why I didn't tell anyone sooner. After around 30 minutes, Johnny told me that he had something of his own that he wanted me to see. I perked up, temporarily distracted from my game. I found it at the park today, he said, extending a cheap camera for me to hold.

I didn't want to put him down. I had a way nicer one than that, but he was obviously proud of it. Neat, I said. Turning it over my hands. Want to take a picture? Johnny nodded, a grin, injuring across his lips. I leaned in, and he took a snapshot of us. We couldn't see what it looked like.

He'd need to get the film developed for that. Cool. I'll give you one when I get them back. We suddenly heard footsteps creaking from down the hall. Johnny's eyes grew wide. We knew what that meant. He scrambled to my closet, shutting himself inside before my mother reached from my room,

to tell me that dinner was ready. I didn't see Johnny very much after that. That wasn't too unusual, though. Sometimes he would go a week or so without coming to see me. I think about ten days had passed before I heard the signal from my closet again. Knock, knock, knock. I eagerly leapt up and threw open the door. Johnny's familiar grin was there to greet me.

He accompanied me to the rug where we usually sat. stationed in front of the tube TV. Come on, Johnny. You said he'll play Jank with me last time. I got the block set up already, I said, tugging him to where the tower sat undisturbed from where I'd built it days prior. Oh, yeah, I remember, but first I got something for you,

he said, pulling a photograph from his pocket. I'd forgotten all about it. Here, this is for you. He handed it to me. And I glanced down at our smiling faces. My eyes traveled from the photo to the cork board on my wall. Johnny understood the implication. Joey, you got to keep this picture somewhere safe, okay?

Somewhere your mom can't find it. We'll both get in big trouble if she sees. I nodded. We've been over this plenty of times before. Mom couldn't know about Johnny. Not ever. If she found out, he wouldn't be able to come over anymore. At a boy, he said, ruffling my hair.

Now let's get to this janky game. Johnny started coming by more frequently after that. He began showing up almost nightly to the point where it was becoming routine. He would knock, I'd let him in, and we'd play it with action figures or board games or draw pictures until mom would come down the hall in scaramount. off. I didn't have many friends in school, so I really enjoyed our arrangement. That is, until one night when Johnny came back. Different. A day went by without him popping in. Then two, then three, and then I hadn't heard from him in two weeks. I was starting to worry. What if something

bad happened? As much as his absence shook me, I knew there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I was just a kid. But to my relief, eventually, he did come back. Now, I wish he never did. I was sitting on my bed, reading a comic book when I heard it. Three knocks from inside my closet. These didn't sound like Johnny's regular knocks, though. They were quicker, more frantic.

I didn't register the difference at first. I was just happy that Johnny had finally returned. I leapt off my bed and raced over to the door, throwing it open with a huge grin on my face. I expected to find Johnny standing there, bearing that same toothy smile that he always did. But when I opened that door, I was met with a different sight. Johnny stood before me, but he wasn't smiling. He looked even dirtier than he normally did. The coat he wore pockmarked with holes and his hands caked in a layer of grime.

He had scabs on his face, as if he'd been relentlessly picking at the flesh. His eyes darted around the room, shifting from one object to another. My heart dropped. I could tell that something was wrong. Johnny, are you okay, I asked? A sudden feeling of unease coursing through me. Johnny's eyes snapped to me. His skeller was marred by spiderwebbing red veins.

He grabbed my wrist and, tried ushering me towards the closet. Joey, there's something I have to show you. Come with me. He pulled me hard. His dirty fingernails digging into my flesh. Little red droplets appeared, tumbling onto the floor. By that point, I was scared.

This man was not the gentle, caring friend I knew. I screamed, both out of fear and pain. I could hear mom's footsteps crashing down the hall in response. Normally, Johnny would have hidden at the sound, but not this time. He was determined to take me with him. Joey, you have to see this. I need you to see this. They're going to get me soon.

Tears involuntarily welled in my eyes. I didn't know what Johnny had to show me, and I didn't want to know. Fortunately, I would never have to see what it was. Mom burst into my room in full mama bear mode. It took her a moment to register what was happening, but the second she did, she rushed over to us and began hitting Johnny as hard as she could. He eventually let go of me and fell to the floor. Then Mom scooped me up and bolted down the hall and into her room,

where she locked the door and phoned the police. I didn't see Johnny being let out of the house in handcuffs. I'm glad I didn't. I think that image would have been stuck with me for a long time. Mom had long since forgotten about the panel at the back of my closet, buried by old clothes and shoes. Inside was a small storage room. It turns out that there was never a crawl space that led outside. I'd been lied to.

But even more disturbing was what the police found in their search. Among a slew of wrappers and empty food containers, they discovered a sleeping bag, dozens of dirty needles, and photographs, hundreds of them. I was in every single one. Walking home from school, eating breakfast, playing with the neighborhood kids, I didn't know how he got some of them. That still terrifies me. How many times had Johnny been lurking just out of sight?

Additionally, they found a notebook. It only had one entry. The photograph that I'd taken with Johnny was taped inside with the words Johnny and Joey, Best Friends Forever Written Beneath. I don't know how many years he received. We moved shortly after he was apprehended, and Mom didn't ever bring it up again. I don't blame her. I try my best to forget.

But even after all this time, I can't get it out of my head. Sometimes, I glanced down at the tiny scar on my wrist, and I wonder what would have happened if I'd followed Johnny into that room. I worked the night shift at a hospital, and the child I treated was the only survivor of a brutal crime, written by Accomplished underscore Low 7889. I thought that night shift would be quiet until I saw Emily being rushed into the hospital on a stretcher, pushed by three police officers.

It rained like hell that night. She was 13, maybe 14 years old and had a fragile body covered in dried dirt and dark blood. Her left arm showed a deep bruise spreading from wrist to. elbow. There were abrasions on her legs and shoulders, like she had rolled across rough ground. The girl was unconscious and completely soaked from the rain. What happened, I asked, gripping the side of the stretcher as we moved towards the emergency room. The officer in front of us, a heavyset man with a tired face, kept flipping through a small notebook without looking up. His badge read Harris, Detective. The girl called 911.

woman reporting a break in, he said. She locked herself in her bedroom. When we arrived, we found her unconscious on the ground outside, in the backyard. But the worst was inside that house. What do you mean, I asked, cutting the sleeve of her shirt with my scissors? It wasn't a pretty scene. He finally looked at me. His tone calm, like someone who sees this kind of thing every week. The girl's parents were dead in the bedroom. Bruises around the neck. broken nails and signs of a struggle. There was water everywhere, too. We still don't get that part.

I pressed gauze against the wound on her arm. The skin was scraped in splint pieces, swollen from impact, consistent with a fall. Looks like she fell from something, I said. Yeah, Harris replied. Her room is on the second floor right above where we found her. She probably just tried to get away from someone. and did you catch the one who did this? Harris hesitated, like he was weighing his words, solving an equation in his head.

Well, he said, things don't make much sense right now. No signs of forced entry, no indication anyone else was inside the house. The family had security cameras outside, so that should tell us something. I security temporary wrap around her arm and nodded to the nurse who came to help me. We moved Emily into an observation room and there stood just the three of us. Me, Harris, and the nurse setting up the IV and checking her vitals. While I worked, Harris stepped away from the bed. He stood near the wall, writing frantically in his notebook.

Emily then moved for the first time, still unconscious and a low sound slipped from her mouth. Big Brother is here. She murmured as if in a fever. Don't let him in. I must have had almost two cups of coffee before the nurse called my name. Her voice excited. She's awake. I expected to find shock from her after she woke up.

Instead, Emily sat upright in bed, perfectly still. Her eyes were fixed on the window, where rain was still falling like bricks against the glass. Her hands were clenched tight in her lap. Detective Harris was again inside the room, notebook in hand, standing uncomfortably close to her. What are you doing? I asked him. She's not ready to take questions. Tell me what happened.

He ignored me. You call 911 and said you were scared of a big brother or something. His pen hovered. Waiting. Emily said nothing and kept on staring out the window. Where was he standing? Harris continued. Did he touch you? Did you see him hurt your parents? I step between them. That's enough. She's a patient and a minor.

Harris closed the notebook with a quiet snap, then left. I couldn't understand why he was treating a victim that directly. Emily kept staring at the window. Her fists still closed. I checked her arm again. The swelling was already going down, and the nurse crouched beside the bed followed Emily's gaze. Would you like something to eat? The nurse asked softly. My shoulder hurts.

She finally spoke, not answering the question. I checked it, and it was a mild bruise. Nothing serious, I said. Adjusting the pillow beneath her shoulder. She relaxed a little, so I asked if she felt any other pain and told her that her hand would be fine soon. She nodded, and I took her silence as a response to trauma. Some people cry.

Others shut down. For a moment, I saw her glance toward a few magazines and books stacked at the far end of the room. Forgotten there by a previous patient, no one had bothered to clear out. I picked up the books and brought them to her. She opened one of them right away, curiously lighting her face for the first time.

Do you read a lot, I asked. She nodded and told me a little about the books she had read, how she really enjoyed science fiction and how the news school her father made her attend didn't have a library as big as the last one I didn't ask about her parents but there was a tension there she didn't put into words my big brother was the one that gave me books

she continued suddenly that's when I read my first science fiction who is this big brother you mentioned I asked Emily stayed quiet for a few seconds before answering he's my brother she said He's not here anymore, but he still talks to me a lot. Sometimes he is nice. Sometimes.

Sometimes he is not nice. Sometimes he does bad things. Especially when he sees that I'm angry. Like what? She didn't look up. Like what he did today to dad and mom. I talked with Emily a little longer. Although she didn't come back.

to the murders. Then I stepped into the hallway, found Detective Harris standing by the nurse's station, hunched over his notebook. His eyes were wide, focused, almost manic. He waved me over. The cameras don't show anyone entering the house, he said. None of it makes sense. I need to get her statement. She mentioned a big brother a few times, I said. Maybe you can start with that. Yeah, same one from the 911 call, he replied. but it doesn't add up. Only three people lived in that house, and we're finding some concerning details about the girl.

Like what? We found Emily has been in long-term psychiatric care since she was nine, and she was expelled from her last school for a violent incident. I'm trying to breach a therapist in the school to understand what happened. My stomach tightened. I didn't like where this was going. She's just a kid, I said. She wouldn't have the physical strength to harm it to adults.

I'm not saying she did it, Harris shot back, but kids can be dangerous. You have no idea what I've seen on this job, especially kids with the same kind of issues I think Emily has. He paused, rubbing his face. I don't understand exactly how it happened either, but something about this big brother thing doesn't add up. His phone rang, thankfully. One second, he said, walking away. I agreed something felt wrong, but I pushed it aside. I had other patients waiting.

It took me an hour or so before I returned to Emily's room. She was alone now. The rain hadn't let up. She was still reading quietly, and I wondered if I had ever seen a child handle grief so calmly. I stepped closer. asked about the book and checked the injury on her arm again. A few minutes later, Detective Harris stormed in, eye sharp. Emily lowered her head when she saw him.

Did you try to strangle a girl at your school, Emily? He asked, standing too close to the bed. Is that why you were expelled? Emily's fists tightened, and she stood silent. In this big brother who hurt your parents, Harris continued, Dr. Janick told me you often talk to him when you're alone. Isn't that right? He leaned in, resting his arms on the edge of the bed. Tell me what really happened that night, Emily.

Then we can help you. He did it, she said quietly. Her voice breaking. My big brother. Enough of this nonsense, Harris snapped. Enough. I raised my voice, stepping between them. she's in shock and you can't interrogate her here i'm no lawyer and i'm pretty sure this isn't okay

harris pulled his hands back and took a step away andre right he continued his voice softer now your big brother's name the one who died five years ago in the lake i remember the news emily froze at the sound of the name who is andre i asked her older brother harris said flipping open his notebook again, drowned at Lake Sammamish with a group of friends once summer, a tragedy. Emily, you've been hearing him ever since, haven't you? Tears finally began to fall from Emily's eyes. This isn't a police station, I said.

My voice tight with anger. Get out. Now. No. Let him stay. Emily interrupted me. lifting her face. I'll tell him everything that happened. I told her she didn't have to say anything yet, that it would be better to wait for a representative. Her grandmother was on her way from a nearby town

and should be here within the hour. She shook her head. I can do this, she said. I'll tell him now. I have to. I swallowed hard as I caught the look of Harris's victorious face. I told them I had other patience to attend to and left the room with a bitter taste in my mouth, leaving the two of them alone. A few minutes later, I was in the break room, halfway through my third cup of coffee of the night, listening to the rain pound outside. Thunder rolled past the windows and a few lights flickered before suddenly going out. The blackout lasted less than a minutes before the backup generator kicked in. When the lights returned, some of them were dimmer than usual, flickering as the system stabilized. As I walked back through the Paging Corridor where Emily was, I noticed something

wrong immediately. Her room was completely dark. I opened the door and felt something cold and wet soak into my shoes. There were a couple of inches of water covering the entire floor. Emily was still on the bed. Her face locked in an expression of terror I don't know how to describe. She looked at me like she was desperately trying to warn me of something, but she didn't need to say anything. I saw it on the floor. Detective Harris. He lay in a spreading pool of water. His body still. His eyes were bulged, staring at nothing. And his neck bent at an angle so extreme it made my stomach turn. My instinct was to scream for help, but Emily spoke first.

Stay quiet, she warned me. Or I'll touch you. I wanted to ask who, but the words wouldn't come out. And then I realized I was about to give my answer whether I wanted it or not. I felt something behind me. Pressed against the wall near the door I just entered through. Its shadow stretched across the floor, tall and wide. slowly I turned.

It was pale, towering over me by more than five feet. Its shape was vaguely human, but its limbs were too long, too thin. There was no hair, no clothing. Water dripped from its body. And its torso was tangled with algae and freshwater plants. Its eyes were white, empty and unblinking. Don't hurt him, Al-Andre. Emily whispered to that thing.

Please, he's a good one. I'll go with you this time. It didn't respond. It just kept staring at my petrified body. Emily spoke to me again, her voice firm now. Walk slowly to the door. He won't hurt you if you do just that. I can't just leave you with it, I said,

using the last bit of courage I had left. A low, wet growl filled the room. The thing didn't like that. And every cell in my body told me it wanted to do to my neck exactly what had done to Harris. He won't hurt me, she said. He just wants to protect me. Stay with me. I knew then I couldn't do anything.

Stain would only get me killed, so I did what she said. Step by step, I moved toward the door, turned the hands. handle and stepped back into the hospital hallway. The thing allowed me to do it. It's white eyes following me every inch of the way. But immediately after I got out, I ran. I ran like I never had before, straight to the head nurse's station, shouting for her to call hospital security and the police. Then I went back towards Emily's room. My legs weak with guilt for leaving her behind. I left the door open when I fled, so I peeked inside carefully, trying to get a better look at the thing. Emily was no longer on the bed. I stepped inside. Emily wasn't in the room. Neither was that thing.

On the bed, resting on the blanket where she had been sitting was the book I had given her. The window she had stared at all night was now open. Rain blowing in. wide open My productivity app keeps logging things I never did written by salty underscore astronaut 77 I shouldn't have been awake when I found it it was 2.14 a.m. And I just spent an hour scrolling mindlessly

promising myself again that I'd finally fix my sleep schedule. That's when I saw the ad. boost your focus, track your life, never lose a single minute. The app was called Chronicle, and something about its slogan hooked me. I tried a million so-called productivity hacks before, time-blocking, bullet journaling, those planners with cute stickers. None of them ever worked. But this app promised something different.

It claimed it could track my schedule automatically, even when I wasn't logging anything. It said it knew what I was doing even if I didn't tell it. It sounded too good to be true, but at 2 a.m., half delirious, I downloaded it anyways. It opened to a sleek black screen with a single glowing question. Do you agree to let Chronicle? monitor your activities. I tapped yes. At first, it was amazing.

When I woke up the next morning, Chronicle had already built a timeline. 7.48 to 8.16 a.m. showering. 816 to 8.34 a.m. making coffee. 834 to 9.42 a.m. scrolling TikTok. It was eerily precise. I hadn't entered anything. thing. Yet somehow it knew exactly when I stepped into the shower, how long I stayed in the kitchen,

even the black hole of wasted TikTok time. The strangest part, I felt comforted, as if I wasn't drifting anymore, as if my life was being watched, recorded. Even the meaningless in-between moments suddenly felt like they had weight. I started using it obsessively over the next few days. Chronicle filled my life with crisp little entries and for the first time in years, I felt like maybe I wasn't wasting anything. Then came the first anomaly. Thursday night. I woke up groggy, throat dry, and reached for my phone. Chronicle had already logged the night. 1140, 2 p.m. to 11.m. to 11.m. 7.a.m. standing outside neighbor's window. 207 to 6.44 a.m. sleeping. I blinked at the screen.

Standing outside my neighbor's window? My neighbor, Claire, is an older woman. We barely speak. Why the hell would I be standing outside? her window at one in the morning. I laughed nervously and assumed it was a glitch. Maybe Chronicle had misread something, like me getting up for water. I almost deleted the app right then, but some dark, gnawing curiosity kept my finger from pressing uninstall. Instead, I decided to test it. The next night, I stayed awake on purpose.

I sat at my desk with Red Bull, Netflix playing softly in the background, making sure not to move. Around 2 a.m., I finally checked Chronicle, 12.07 to 159 a.m., watching Netflix at desk. 159 to 241 a.m. standing outside neighbor's window. My stomach turned. I had it moved. I hadn't even gone near my front door, but Chronicle insisted I'd spent 42 minutes outside Claire's window. I locked the door, closed all the blinds, tried to convince myself I was just being paranoid. Monday morning, Claire was waiting for me in the hallway. You were out late last night, weren't you? she asked.

Frowning. No, I said. My heart pounding. Because I could have sworn. She trailed off, shaking her head. Never mind. I'm sorry. She shuffled back into her apartment.

But the way she looked at me made my skin crawl. I opened Chronicle again. The entry was still there. Black text on a white background carved into reality. 159 to 241 a.m. Standing outside neighbor's window. After that, the logs only got stranger. Saturday, 312 to 3.47 a.m. digging behind communal trash bins.

Sunday, 223 to 302 a.m. watching someone sleep. It didn't even say who. Just someone. Every time the memory was gone, I've been asleep or awake. in my apartment the whole time. But Chronicle logged those missing hours with unnerving precision. I tried recording myself a night with my phone's camera. The footage showed me sound asleep in bed the entire time.

No movement, no interruptions, and yet when I checked Chronicle, 144 to 2.19 a.m. Standing on the edge of the high, highway overpass. I stopped sleeping. I stayed awake until my vision blurred, terrified that if I closed my eyes, I'd wake up to another entry.

Another life I didn't remember living. My skin went pale. My eyes bloodshot. Coffee didn't help. Neither did alcohol. But Chronicle never stopped. It filled my nights with horrors I couldn't explain. 201 to 253 a.m.

Kneeling in the park, whispering. 317 to 402 a.m. Scratching the locked basement door. 136 to 2.11 a.m. standing motionless at the intersection, watching cars pass. I showed the app to my friends, desperate for reassurance. Most of them thought I've been duped. that Chronicle was some elaborate ARG or viral marketing stunt.

But when they tried to download it, it was gone from the app store. One night, I made a mistake. I decided to confront it. If the app said I was outside Claire's window again, I'd go there myself, prove it was fake. So when Chronicle logged the entry, 158 to 241 a.m. standing at neighbor's window, I grabbed my coat and ran downstairs.

The night air was cold, the apartment complex silent. I crept toward Claire's window, heart hammering. Her curtains were drawn tight, but inside I could see the faint glow of her TV. And then, as I stood there, my phone buzzed. A new entry appeared. 212 to 2.13 a.m. Watching yourself. I froze.

Slowly I turned my head. Across the parking lot, in the shadow of the dumpsters, a figure stood, tall, motionless, my shape. It didn't move, just stood there,

holding a glowing rectangle in its hand. My phone buzzed again. 2.13 to 2.14 a.m. smiling. The figure's face split into a smile I could feel in my bones. Too wide, too knowing. I ran back inside. Lock the door. And didn't come out until sunrise. That was three weeks ago. Since then, I've tried everything. Deleting Chronicle, factory resetting my phone, buying a new one, Nothing works. The app always comes back. No icon. No sign of installation. Just there.

Waiting. The next time I unlock my screen. And the entries keep getting worse. 301 to 3.44 a.m. practicing with the knife. 411 to 4.59 a.m. standing at the bedroom door. watching yourself sleep.

222 to 258 a.m. Digging again. Almost ready. Almost ready for what? I don't know how much longer I can take this. I've stopped eating. I don't leave the apartment. My friends stopped checking on me

after I scared them with my rambling. But tonight, tonight was different. Chronicle log something I can't ignore. 1.44 to 2.13 a.m. writing confession. 2.13 to present. Posting on Reddit. And as I type these words, my phone buzzes again. One last entry slides into place with the inevitability of a headstone. 214 to the end becoming permanent and all right guys that wraps up some unnerving horror stories from reddit and i really really enjoyed these stories in today's video like i honestly thought

these were some of the best stories i have ever read and ever narrated i just really thought they were entertaining and scary and like the title says unnerving and i hope you found them interesting as well if you did please comment down below your thoughts i read every single comment so please comment down below any feedback advice whatever i appreciate every single comment this is the best community on youtube hands down you guys are awesome and if you enjoyed this video i'm sure you'll enjoy other videos on the channel so go check out some other videos and uh yeah thank you guys so much for watching your support means the world and this was snook and i'll see you next time bye