Snook - Unsettling Horror Stories From Reddit

Episode Date: March 13, 2026

These were some Unsettling Horror Stories From Reddit! These stories were unnerving! What was your favorite story? My favorite was the first story "The Shift," it was just so eerie and creepy! Although all of the stories were unsettling... 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!  Gingerlox_ - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1r403qd/the_shift/ Howtoscream - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ppsfhe/i_worked_32_years_as_a_midwife_this_is_the/ BuddhaTheGreat - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1n0qn8p/ive_been_a_doctor_for_thirty_years_i_quit_today/ Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ql71kv/she_thinks_shes_people/ Garden_Lad - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1r1p7we/my_papaw_had_one_rule_dont_acknowledge_memaw/ 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 unsettling horror stories from Reddit. And like the title says, we're getting into some unsettling stories. And they're scary. They're wild. And they are just horrifying. So you want to make sure to stick around. I appreciate you stop by Me's World.

Please 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. It helps more than you know. And this video will be long enough already. You guys have been loving the long video. Here's another super long video, so enough yapping with the intro, but sit back, relax, grab a drink, and grab a snack. And without further ado, let's get into some unsettling horror stories from Reddit.

The Shift, written by Emily Knight. We met at a pool party. I remember that day clearly. It was in the middle of an unforgettable heat wave. Alfie smiled at me from across the pool, and the rest was history. Not only was he gorgeous and completely unaware of it, but he was also a fantastic listener. No matter who he spoke to, he listened intently. He was never just waiting for his turn to speak, never just nodding absent-mindedly.

He absorbed every word, eyes bright and understanding. Later, when I told him that was one of my favorite things about him, he smiled and said, most people just want to be understood. It isn't difficult if you pay attention. He has always paid attention. Even in the early months of our relationship, he remembered everything, how I take my coffee,

which side of the bed I prefer, that I can't sleep without my bedside fan or my childhood teddy, scrappy. There had always been a quiet predictability to our life together. We'd wake up at the same time, each morning. I'd shower first. He'd make coffee. We'd meet in the kitchen in the soft light of dawn before the day properly began, moving around one another with the ease that comes from long-term

familiarity. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes we wouldn't. Silence never felt uncomfortable. Then came the shift. He was handing me my morning coffee. Milk and two sugars, right? I laughed because I thought he was joking. We'd been together for nine years, married for four, and I'd never taken sugar in my coffee, not once. No sugar, you're sweet enough, he'd say. We had both been sleeping a little less than usual lately. I put it down to nothing more than a brief moment of forgetfulness caused by tiredness.

I kissed him on the cheek, took the coffee, and told him not to worry about. it. Then he started watching me in my sleep. Now, I've always been a light sleeper. A change in temperature or a shift in the light will wake me. For years, that sensitivity never bothered me. If I woke up in the early hours and turned my head, I'd find Alfie beside me exactly as expected. Fast asleep with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, breathing deeply. Recently, though, I'd turn to face him and find him already awake, not moving, not on his phone doom scrolling, just simply lying there, looking right at me. The first time it happened, I smiled at him, still half asleep, and asked him what he was doing.

Couldn't sleep, he said, did I wake you? No, I told him, and reached for his hand. beneath the covers. But it kept happening. Not every night, but enough for me to pick up on it. Each time, the explanation was reasonable. He'd woken early. He'd had something on his mind.

He hadn't wanted to disturb me by getting up. Although it made sense, it kept me up at night. There was something about the way he was watching me that bothered me. It wasn't intrusive or intense. If anything, it was gentle. The same attentive expression he'd always worn around me. But lying there in the dark, meeting his eyes before either of us had fully entered the day,

I had the faint, disorienting sense that something was off. I just couldn't put my finger on what? Even with minimal sleep, life continued, as it does. The usual routine of work, dinner, and an evening lounging on the sofa. All the normal things. He became more perceptive than ever, more aware of my moods,

quicker to anticipate what I needed before I asked. It felt, on the surface, like a deepening of the same gentle love he'd always shown me, which is why when I'd catch him staring, I'd tell myself it was nothing more than a look of admiration. and for a while, I had no reason to believe otherwise. With time, the staring crept its way into the daytime, too. I'd be washing the dishes and would catch him in the reflection of the kitchen window,

standing behind me, still as a statue, just watching me. I'd turn around and he'd spring back to life, tending to whatever menial task had previously garnered his attention. He also started repeating things I said. said. It would happen hours after the initial conversation, sometimes even the next day. He'd do it casually, and in a slightly altered context, as though the words had occurred to him independently. One afternoon, I mentioned that the air in the house felt strangely heavy. It wasn't a particularly unusual observation, just something I had said without thinking as I opened a window.

At the time, he'd simply nodded, but then later that evening, as we sat on the sofa scrolling through Netflix, he looked around the room and said those exact same words. The air feels strangely heavy. I waited for a sign that he was joking, that he was deliberately echoing me, but instead he looked mildly contemplative, like the thought was completely his own. When I asked him what he meant, he shrugged. I know it might not sound like much, but I can't express how unlike Alfie these behaviors were. There were other changes too, like slightly delayed responses.

I don't think anyone else would have picked up on it. But I knew my husband like the back of my hand. He was changing. If I laughed, he laughed, but a little too late. If I frowned, he frowned, but after a pause. It felt like he was mirroring me. as though without my lead, he wouldn't know which emotion to express. One evening, after a particularly shitty day at work, I relayed my frustrations to him.

It was nothing dramatic, just office politics, the sort of thing we discussed a hundred times before. As I spoke, I watched his face. For a brief moment after I finished, his expression remained completely neutral. then as if remembering what should come next, his features arranged themselves into sympathy. That sounds frustrating, he said. The words were correct. The tone was correct too. And yet, for reasons I couldn't properly justify, I felt uncomfortable.

Enough was enough. I decided I would call him out on it, hoping to clear things up to stop me feeling so on edge all the time. You've been a bit different lately. I said one day as we cleared the dishes, hoping I didn't sound too accusatory. He looked up at me. His expression blank. Different. The word hung between us for a moment.

I felt a flicker of embarrassment, wondering if maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I opened my mouth to soften the blow. To explain that, I had it. meant anything serious by it, but he spoke first. I'm sorry if it feels that way. Work's been taking up more space in my head than I realized. His voice was warm, reassuring, just like always. I nodded, already prepared to let the matter go. But then, in that same even tone, he continued. You've seemed a little on edge yourself recently. What? I said, surprised. I assume that maybe you were just tired.

You haven't been sleeping properly. He was right. I hadn't. With a small, sympathetic smile, Alfie stepped closer, resting his hand lightly against my arm. You've been noticing things more, haven't you? I nodded. Sometimes, when you focus on the little things too much,

they start to feel bigger than they are. I contemplated the words. It wasn't until that exact moment I considered maybe I had been the problem all long. The conversation began with me expressing a small uncertainty about him, but now I was questioning myself instead. Yeah, I eventually replied. Like you said, I'm probably just tired. From then on, I deliberately tried to stop noticing things,

telling myself that it's easy for ordinary behaviors to, appear unusual if you examine them too closely. So instead, when he paused before responding, I tell myself he was just thinking. When I caught him looking at me from across the room, I assumed he was just admiring me. When small details slipped like a forgetful moment or a repeated phrase, I let them pass without comment. This worked at first. The house felt calmer, but underneath that calm ran a thin, persistent awareness. that I was working quite hard to maintain it,

that I was adjusting my own perception so that nothing he did would seem unusual enough to question. I snapped out of that mindset when evening when he did something so strange and out of character that I just couldn't ignore it. I'd been brushing my teeth when I caught him staring again. I spun around and met his gaze, expecting him to smile or say something.

He didn't move. He didn't break eye contact. He just stood there, hands by his sides, head tilted slightly, staring. Something about his eyes bothered me. They were a little too wide, and there was a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. And with it came a feeling I'd never felt towards Alfie before. Dread. After what felt like eternity, he parted his lips to speak.

You've been brushing your teeth for a while now. everything okay how long had he been standing there he walked towards me eyes unblinking instinctively i took a step back he noticed and let out a chuckle seemingly amused by my uncertainty i tried to stand my ground as he approached me further but my body flinched as he raised a hand to my shoulder another chuckle come on darling let's go to bed my heart sank darling he never called me that. I was certain then. He was different. So in the days that followed, I began testing him. While pretending everything was fine, I purposefully changed small details and my stories to see how he'd react. The old Alfie would have questioned me, maybe gently corrected me, but this altered Alfie

didn't register. Or if he did, he didn't let on. I spoke about the day we first met, describing it as a snowy day in December. He didn't correct me, so I kept going. I talked about wearing a brown fur coat when we pass each other on the street. I told an entirely fabricated story, watching him closely, waiting for him to burst out laughing or call me out on my bullshit, but he didn't. He listened without interruption, smiling softly. That evening, as we lay in bed in the dark, he rolled onto his side and said,

said softly, you're as beautiful as you were the day I met you. I froze, waiting to see if he'd taken the bait. I knew even then that you were someone I could build a life with. That beautiful, snowy day changed everything for me. I felt sick. I rolled over and pretended to be asleep, but I didn't sleep at all that night. I lay there, staring at the wall, wondering where the Alfie I knew and loved had gone. I cried softly as he slept, oblivious to my heartache. The next morning he handed me my coffee. Two sugars, he said. Extra sweet. Just like you. I set the mug down on the counter a little too's forcefully, startling him. We didn't meet in December, I said flatly. It was August during that awful heat wave. Remember?

He looked up at me, confused. No, he said slowly. It was definitely December. It was snowing. You were wearing that brown fur coat. I scoffed and shook my head. I've never owned a fur coat of my life. You know I hate fur.

He held my gaze as if waiting for me to correct myself. Are you sure? Absolutely sure, I snapped. Grabbing the mug and pouring its contents down the sink. And I don't take it. take sugar in my coffee. Yes, you do. You always have. Two sugars. Sweet like you. Are you feeling all right? No, I snapped. No sugar. I'm sweet enough. We stood in silence waiting for the other to cave. Sorry, he muttered eventually. I've been a bit forgetful recently. I'm sure you're right.

He looked genuinely sorry and I felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't raised. He hadn't raised. his voice, he hadn't said anything unkind, and there I was snapping at him, slamming things about, something I never did, not even on our worst days. I had acted out of character, and the irony of that was not lost on me. I exhaled deeply, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had arrived. No, I'm sorry, I said quietly, unable to meet his eyes. I shouldn't have staffed like that. He accepted my apology and kissed my cheek before leaving for work. Once again, I couldn't shake the creeping suspicion that perhaps this really was all my fault,

that I was the one distorting ordinary moments into something they weren't. I felt like I was losing my mind. That evening, I would doubt my sanity once again. I was getting ready for bed. Only Scrappy wasn't on the pillow where I left him. Alf, I called, tearing apart the duvet and searching under the bed. He appeared in the doorway, wearing a pair of blue pajamas I'd never seen before. He normally slept in his boxers.

Hmm. I can't find Scrappy, I said. Putting the pajamas to the back of my mind, I've looked everywhere. I was met with the blank stare I was becoming all too familiar with. Scrappy, I repeated. I can't find him. Alfie pointed to the cupboard. Why is he in there, I asked.

You put him there. What? No, I didn't. Uh, yeah, you did. You definitely put him in there this morning. I watched you do it. I tried to think back, but all I could remember of that morning

was Alfie's sorry expression and the guilt I'd felt for accusing him of being different. A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, so I closed them, pinching the bridge of my nose. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I'd accidentally tidied Scrappy away. That didn't feel right to me, but it wasn't entirely impossible. I couldn't focus in the office the next day. He had definitely been wrong, hadn't he? Of course we met in the summer, right? Had I really put Scrappy in wardrobe by mistake. Then I started to wonder if it even mattered at all.

I eventually concluded that perhaps it didn't, and once again, I was prepared to let it all go. I stopped by the bakery on my way home from work to get some of these blueberry muffins he loved, a peace offering. A way to put this whole thing behind us. I let myself in the front door, box of muffins tucked under one arm. Before I could shout hello, I noticed him sitting on the sofa with his hands placed neatly in his lap. He wasn't doing anything,

just sitting there, staring at the TV. It was switched off. Our eyes met in the reflection of the black screen, and he slowly turned to face me. He raised his arm, robotically, and gave a forced, unnatural wave of his hand. Ah, you brought muffins. His voice was devoid of emotion.

Chocolate? Blueberry. Oh. His mouth formed a thin line, and he slowly turned away from me. I thought they were your favorite. I said to the back of his head. I'm allergic to blueberries. I stood there.

Dumbfounded. He absolutely was not allergic to blueberries. He wasn't allergic to fucking anything. Anger surged through my veins, but I bit my tongue. He was messing with me. me he had to be you weren't the last time you ate them i muttered look he replied taking a deep breath and turning to face me i don't know what's going on with you recently and i didn't really want to say anything but i'm starting to get worried you keep getting things confused and it's clearly

making you angry that's so unlike you you've just been so different lately me i scoffed you're the one you keep staring at me and copying me and being all fucking weird. I had never raised my voice to Alfie before. He looked shocked, then disappointed. He shook his head solemnly. See what I mean? He said quietly. You've got it all backwards.

You're the one doing all those things. I wake up in the nights and you're just watching me, staring at me. And you keep repeating things I've said. Really weird, insignificant things like, ooh. Ooh, the air feels strangely heavy in here, when I'd literally said that exact phrase only hours before. What? There was no way.

That couldn't be possible, could it? My heart began to thud and my head spun, caused me to stumble backwards. Alfie jumped up and rushed over, offering me his arm. I took it, trying to swallow the sickness that was creeping up from the pit of my stomach. Let's talk about this later, okay? He said softly, before kissing my forehead. Why don't you take a nice bath?

We can both take a moment to cool off and we'll have a chat this evening. Sound good? I nodded. I took myself upstairs, locking the bathroom door behind me. For a while, I just stood there. Hands clutching the edge of the sink as I stared at my own reflection. The skin under my eyes was puffy, almost purple. I tried to slow down the sudden, shallow rhythm of my breathing.

How could I possibly be the one of the wrong? I was certain that blueberry muffins were his favorite. We'd had blueberry cake at our wedding, too. It had this beautiful, pale, baby blue icing with fresh blueberries cascading down one side. I was sure of it. I made a mental note to dig out the photo album later and prove it to myself. I turned the taps on, letting the bathroom feel with steam as thoughts whirled around in my head. I squeezed my eyes shut as a sharp, pulsing headache pressed behind my temples.

I shifted my focus to the sound of the Russian water, waiting for the pain to fade into a dull ache. When I opened my eyes, the water had nearly risen to the rim of the tub. I lurched forward and twisted the taps, not bothering to question how long I'd zoned out for. I lowered myself into the bath. The house was quiet, and the warm water offered some sense of comfort. My eyelids grew heavy, and I allowed them to close, focusing on my breath. In, out, in, out. I stayed like that for a while before drifting into a dreamless sleep.

A loud creek woke me up. I glanced over at the locked door. The thin strip of light beneath it dimmed suddenly. A shadow. Every muscle in my body went rigid as I stared at that narrow line. Someone was standing there, right on the other side of the door. Not moving. Not knocking.

Just there. I could feel it in the air. The way you can feel someone's presence even without seeing them. That unmistakable awareness. of another body occupying the space just inches away from yours. Seconds dragged past. Heavy and distorted, my heart pounded. Then, without warning, the shadow vanished.

Erratic footsteps tore down the hallway outside, thundering away from the door. Too fast, too uneven, a chaotic scramble that sent a violent jolt through my entire body. I flinged so hard that the water sloshed around the tub. The sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a suffocating silence that pressed in from all sides. Had that really just happened?

Had I been dreaming? In a days, I reached for a towel and dried myself off. In the bedroom, I put on my pajamas, grabbing scrappy from the bed and pulling them close to my chest. I lingered in the doorway for a moment. moment before forcing myself into the hall and down the stairs. When I reached the bottom and looked into the living room, I stopped. Everything was wrong.

The sofa was pressed up against a different wall with the blanket I'd never seen before, folded neatly onto the back of it. The TV sat on the other side of the room. In fact, every piece of furniture was in a completely different place. I looked at the curtains. They used to be gray, but now they were blue. The candles on the side table were green, not orange. But most disturbingly of all, there on the mantelpiece, was a photo from our wedding.

Slowly I edged towards it. Babe? Alvi appeared from the kitchen. I lent in, examining the picture. We were cutting the cake. Our plain, white, wedding cake. I collapsed my knees. Alfie hurried across the room.

His footsteps quick but careful. He crouched down beside me, lifting my chin with his finger. Hey, what is it? He asked. His voice low and soft. The kindness in it was too much. My chest tightened and before I could stop myself, I began to cry. I buried my face in his chest, clutching his t-shirt.

He wrapped his arms around me without hesitation, holding me close as I shook against him. It's going to be. be okay, whispered. I've got you. I took the next few days off work, and so did Alfie. I didn't ask him to, but he insisted. He held my hand as I made a call to the doctors, set in of an appointment for the following week. He brought me coffee, black, no sugar. He even rearranged the furniture just to put me at ease. Huh, I like it better this way, he said. As he stood back and admired the room, I smiled. Thank you, I said weekly.

My head still throbbed and my eyes were still crusty from all the tears, but I felt okay. For the first time in a while, I felt hopeful. Alfie was right. I was going to be okay. We went to the appointment together. The doctor didn't look at me when he spoke. Stress, he said, tapping something into the computer and exhaustion. very common.

He printed the prescription and handed it to me. These will help you sleep. Deep sleep. That's what you need. Alfie squeezed my hand with a reassurance smile. The first week of taking the tablets was bliss. I'd pop a pill and fall asleep within minutes. It was a good sleep too.

Dreamless, like I was dead to the world. But nothing lasts forever. Apparently, as sometime during the second week, I started feeling the side effects. I kept having these awful nightmares. In them, I'd wake up to find Alfie acting strangely. In one dream, he was completely undressed and hunched over. His mouth hanging open in a wide, unnatural smile

that stretched the skin of his cheeks. In another, I rolled over in bed to find him staring at me. His eyes so wide, I could see the whites all the way around the irises. Every time, I'd squeeze my eyes shut. willing the dream to end. Eventually, I'd fall back asleep and wake up sometime later in a cold sweat. I'd tell Alvi about these nightmares each morning. He'd listen, frowning, equally as disturbed by them as I was. He suggested that perhaps my brain was just adjusting to the medication, that eventually the dreams would stop. I hope so, I said. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

They're not real, remember? Just dreams. I nodded. Just dreams. That night, I awoke suddenly. Heart thudding. I sat up. The bedroom door was slightly ajar,

and at the end of the hallway, something moved. He was there, on all fours. My husband was crouched at the end of the corridor. His spine arched strangely high. His head hung low between, his shoulders. His eyes were wide, wild, and fixed on me. Alfi? His mouth moved. That same huge,

silent smile. Then he moved. With a jerking of limbs, he scurried at an inhuman speed. Palms and feet slapping the floor as he rushed towards the bedroom. I shrieked and threw myself back into bed, dragging the covers over my head. The mattress dipped as he climbed onto it. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath, waiting for fingers, teeth, anything. I woke up gasping for air. Morning lights filled the room. The door was closed. Alfie's out of the bed, cold and empty.

That night, I didn't take a tablet. I kept this information to myself, not wanting to concern Alfie. I waited until he was in the bathroom, then slipped the tablet back into the bottle and return it to the bedside drawer. When he came back to bed, I pretended to swallow it with a sip of water. I lay awake for hours, waiting for nightmares that never came. At some point, Alfie stirred next to me. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, not wanting him to question why I was awake. I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. Damn it, I thought. He's on to me. I kept my breathing slow and heavy. Counting a few seconds before stirring to make my sleepy act seem more convincing.

When I rolled over, his voice came from across the room. Over here. When my eyes adjusted to the night, I saw him standing rigidly in the corner of the room. His eyes bulged from his face, as though something inside his skull was pushing them outward. Saliva dripped from his gaping mouth, which was stretched into a wide painting grin. Something at his side shimmered in the light of the moon. A knife. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I watched in horror as he slowly raised the blade to his neck,

dragging it gently across his throat in a silent, mocking promise. I shut my eyes tightly and turned away, burrowing beneath the duvet. My body locked in terror as I felt him crawl back. back into bed. He fell asleep not long after. I lay awake trembling, still unable to move. When the morning light finally crept through the curtains, and I heard him rise to start his day, I realized what I witnessed hadn't been a dream at all, because I had never fallen asleep. I made a plan to pack up my things and get the hell out of there. Whether I was imagining it or not, I couldn't risk staying in that house with them.

He checked on me before leaving for work. As I lay in bed pretending to be sick, I mumbled some excuse about calling the office to tell them I wasn't coming in. He rested his hand on my forehead, and it took every ounce of my being not to recoil. You do feel clammy, he said, feigning a look of concern. Do you want me to stay with you? My pulse raised.

No. I said, trying to sound casual. No point. I'll be asleep for most of the day, I imagine. He nodded. Okay, well, take it easy. I'll be back this evening to look after you. I love you.

I waited for the sound of the front door to close behind him before springing out of bed. I just needed the essentials. My keys, my phone, my charger, my purse. I'd figure the rest out later. I shoved my things into a bag and hurried down the stairs. Shit, scrappy. I ran back up to the bedroom. He wasn't on the bed.

He wasn't under it. The wardrobe. I flung open the cupboard and rifled through its contents. He was buried beneath a pile of clothes that had fallen from their hangars. I went to grab them, but something else caught my eye. The glossy corner of a photograph peeked out from a small gap in the back, panel of the wardrobe. A sickening thought crossed my mind. Pressing gently against it, the panel shifted with a soft, reluctant creak, revealing a narrow seam that hadn't been there

before. Heart hammering, I pushed it further. It was a secret compartment. I took a closer look at the photo that had led me to this discovery. Voment rose in my throat. My hand shaking as the picture fell from my gentle grasp. It was us on our wedding day, cutting our cake, our blueberry cake. Reluctantly, I leant forward, peering into the compartment.

Our photo albums were back there, but they looked different. I pulled one out and opened it. On every page, sticky notes clung to the photographs. Frantic arrows, underlines, suggestions. The notes didn't describe our memories,

they dissected them, speculating how each image could be changed, reframed, and made to say something else entirely. There was a picture of us in the living room when we first moved in together. The furniture was exactly where I'd remember it being. A cold, sharp dread settled in my chest as the pieces fell into place.

Every conversation that had left me doubted myself, every time I caught him staring at me, every odd behavior, every time he'd convinced me, I was the problem, all of it had been orchestrated by him, by Alfie, by the love of my life. The slow erosion of my sanity hadn't been accidental. For months and months, he sowed the seed of doubt in my mind, manipulating me, tricking me, fucking gaslighting me. All of it had been reached. and all of it had been him. I sat there on the bedroom floor, a sea of emotions rushing through me.

I felt everything all at once, and it was too much for me to deal with then and there. A voice in the back of my head told me it would take years of therapy to unpack this. I wouldn't be able to trust anyone ever again. Numbly, I retrieved my belongings and descended the stairs. The urgency I'd had only minutes ago had completely left my body. There wasn't room for it. I was halfway to the door when it opened towards me.

Only me, I forgot my... We stopped. Our eyes met. With a look of concern I knew was pretend, Alfie examined my face, checking for tears, for anger. For anything that might tell him

what he was walking into. to. I watched him do it. I watched the familiar softness appear. That careful attentiveness he wore when he thought something was wrong. Then he saw it. He knew that I knew. His concern vanished in an instant. It was as if a switch had been flipped behind his eyes. The warmth replaced with something icy and cold. You figured it out, he said. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I didn't run.

I simply looked back at the stranger in front of me. The love I once had for him, non-existent. Why? I asked. Why did you do it? He shrugged. No, I said. I need an answer.

It's the least I deserve. His eyes were steady and clear. but eerily empty, as if nothing human stirred behind them. Because I could. And that was it. All that he'd done. All that he'd put me through. There was no reason, no master plan, it was all for sport.

I pushed past him. Door closed behind me as I headed for my car. I sat with my hands on the wheel as I stared back at the house. we'd shared together. It was nothing more to me now than a pile of bricks. While reversing out of the drive, unsure of where I was going, a realization hit me.

I understood with a cold and final clarity that the most terrifying part wasn't what he'd done. It wasn't why he'd done it. It was how easily he would go on living now, untouched, unbothered, While I gathered the scattered pieces of my mind, he had so carefully, deliberately broken, just because he could. I've been a doctor for 30 years.

I quit today. Written by Bouda the Great. At the very outset, I must apologize. I'm not very familiar with this platform, but I talked to my son, and after a good few hours of refusing to believe me, he thinks I should go on the internet with my story. As a warning. We didn't have all these computers when I was young, and words still traveled just fine,

but I guess the world has changed. Up until today, I was a doctor. A damn good one, if I say so myself. I have the biggest goddamn E-N-T practice in the next five states, and I'm proud of it. I was, at any rate. Now, I've just lit a cigarette on the final, smoldering chars of my degree. It's a whole load of bullshit anyways. No man who's seen anything

like I've seen would have any faith left in those authoritative medical textbooks. It all began, you see, in exactly half past ten. When the private line at my upscale sector v clinic began ringing, if I'd just been a little luckier and a little less stupid, I would have ignored it, like on any other day. I have, I have. strict principles I don't take appointments after nine and I don't see patients after 11 it's how I kept my marriage intact you didn't disrespect my clock if it was urgent too bad if it were an emergency find someone else everyone who worked with me knew that I was a goddamn super specialist I was not going to run around on midnight calls like some junior

resident. That's why my secretary ignored the line the first time. And the second and the third, even though the ringing somehow grew louder each time. Then, just as I was planning to call it a night, my chamber intercom clicked in turn green. The line had been patched through. Ronjana, I barked through the door to my chamber. I've told you not to. I didn't, she appeared at the door. nervously tugging at her skirt, eyes wide. It didn't even ring this time. I don't know how it got routed to you. You must have hit the wrong button.

Even as I said it, I knew it was unlikely. Ranjana had been with me for eight years. She didn't make mistakes, let alone stupid ones. Well, since it's already here, I moved to press the button to receive the call, but before I could, the speaker crackled to life on its own accord. Dr. Sharma, Dr. Sharma, can you hear me? The voice was staticky, flickering in and out, like we were not over a landline, but on a satellite phone in the middle of a rainstorm.

There was so little fidelity that I could hardly tell what the person on the other end sounded like. Yes, hello, hello, I said. The second hello a little louder, hoping to cut through whatever strange interference was plugging the line. I didn't even know why I was trying so hard to break my own rule. I suppose after even all these years, I am a professional first. All right, we're through. They were talking to someone on their end. Now that the line had cleared up slightly, I could tell it was a man.

Dr. Sharma, I hope I'm not bothering you too much, but we have someone we would like to get checked out as soon as possible. I sighed. as expected. Look, Mr. He didn't volunteer his name. I don't take appointments at this hour. If you need to come in, call us in the morning,

and my secretary will give you a date and a time. I must warn you. We have a backlog. This is an emergency doctor. It positively cannot wait. Then you should have set an appointment earlier. Call my office tomorrow, please. Good night.

I moved to cut the line. It's very urgent. Are you sure I cannot persuade you? The voice on the other end was polite, even deferential. But there was a hint of steel behind it that stayed my hand. What kind of urgency, I said, despite myself. It's a close friend of mine, you see. Nothing life-threatening, but he seems to have completely lost his voice.

Perfectly all right otherwise, but he's completely mute. "'Mute,' I asked. "'Some forgotten curiosity rising within me. "'Do you mean his voice is broken? "'Horse?' "'No, doctor. "'There was a sting of triumph in his tune. "'He's completely silent.

"'Not a peep. "'As if he didn't have a mouth at all. "'And nothing else wrong with him? "'Nothing. "'Healthy as a horse. "'Then I see no reason "'he shouldn't be able to wait until morning. Ornarily, you would be right, but there are urgent events he has to attend to that require him to be able to speak.

We need him seen tonight, and there's no better doctor in the city than you. I rub my forehead, raising a quizzical brow at Ranjana. She shrugged helplessly. I had never broken my rule. On the other hand, the case was, money's no object, if that's your concern. His tone was light and breezy, almost dismissive, as if he couldn't believe that was even in question. Is that so? What's your consultation fee, Dr. Charma?

I opened my mouth the answer, but he cut me off. It doesn't matter. All you need to know is it's more money than you'll see in your life for seeing a walking patient at a clinic, significantly more. Despite myself, I bristled. How cheap did he think I was? It has six zeros, he added helpfully, as if reading my mind, all of that for one single consultation. It shouldn't take a skilled professional like you more than 15 minutes. What do you say? Sir, Ronjana whispered. Her tone, some mix of warning and trepidation. I silenced her with a knowing look.

She wasn't wrong. Something in my gut told me. I was being paid to see something no one else would. But I told myself it didn't matter. Fuck curiosity. Curiosity is for students. I was a professional. I just had to diagnose a mute man and go home with enough money to build a second house in Goa. Your friend must be really desperate, I said.

Try not to blurt out my shock. We need this solved with minimum delay. Off the books, are you in or are you out, doctor? Looking back, that is the moment any reasonable man should have walked away. No one gives that much away for essentially peanuts. If they are, they are usually buying significantly more than what you think you're selling. Instead, I looked at the clock. Ten.

I still had an hour before I had to get home, technically, before my wife. started crying. How long could it take? Fine, I said Tursley. When can your friend come in? I could almost hear the smile in his voice. Oh, don't worry about it, Dr. Sharma. My friends are already there. Right on cue. I heard the clinic door swing open. The line clicked and went dead on my desk. Ranjana read my glance immediately, rushing out to greet them. There was the sound of heavy boots against the floor, three or four of them, by my guess, but there was something

else right alongside them, a chill that settled into the room as the door swung closed, prickling up my spine. Out of habit, more than anything else, I checked the air conditioning, still at the usual settings. I rose from my seat, an inexplicable, heavy sense of foreboding, coiling around my heart, telling me I was making a mistake, telling me to send them away. I ignored him. The money was too good. The fucking money. The first one that caught my eye was the leader of the pack. A man with brown, metallic complexion, hair slicked back expertly into a part my own grandmother would approve

of. May she rest in peace. His suit looked remarkably expensive, the kind that would burn holes, even in my pockets, which I supposed explained the willingness to pay. Even as he approached me, his mouth splitting into a perfectly rehearsed smile. The air in the room began to grow pungent with ozone, like the calm before a thunder clap. Flanking him on either side, a few steps behind were two others, one male and one female. Unlike their companion, they were dressed almost too casually. ratty, sagging t-shirts and faded jeans. Their faces were uncovered, but every time I tried to focus on them,

my eyes would instantly slide off and onto something else, like slipping on black ice. Even what few details I could have glimps dissolved almost as soon as they entered my mind. All I could comprehend was an ever-shifting mirage, an unsolvable puzzle where their visage should be. in between them was another man, a foreign tourist by the look of it. He was wearing a faded and stained sky blue shirt, a silver cross glittering darkly on his collar. His dirty blonde beard was long and unkept, matched by the mop on his head, though he was able to stand by himself.

His forehead was slick with sweat. His eyes half-lidded as he tried not to knot off. Dr. Sharma, The man in the suit approached first, wearing a well-rehearsed polite expression as he extended his hand. Thank you so much for seeing us at such short notice. I want you to know we are all very grateful. You must be. We are the associates your caller mentioned, yes. I took his hand. I thought he said you were friends, Mr.

Elias, his grin did not waver. His grip firm as he shook. You can call me Eli. And yes, he does like to think of us all as friends, doesn't he? But just between you and me, I prefer to keep it a little bit more professional. I see. Well, no use getting involved in that. Instead, I crossed over to the man they had dragged in.

I assume this is your patient. What gave it away? Elias chuckled at his own joke. Adjusting his suit? Well, where do you want him, Doc? We can wait outside or take a walk, or if that's what you want. want. After escorting him all the way here, they were just fine with leaving me alone with their friend. Nevertheless, working would be easier without three people breathing down my neck

and asking questions. You can step outside if you want, I said diplomatically, but I would appreciate it if we had the room. Understood. Alas, nodded. People, let's give the doctor his space. I'm stepping outside. Got a smoke, the man said. As an Ian, anti-specialists. I hated smoking. As a chain smoker myself, I sympathized perfectly. Besides, I had something else to worry about. He's just spoken. No doubt about it. However, even though these sound passed through my ears and I remembered every word he had said, I already had no recollection of what he sounded like. Not a single detail. Not a pitch, not a cadence, not even the language. There was a gaping void in my memory. There was a gaping void in my

memory where his voice should have been. You sure you can handle the stock? Elias asked. His eyes slightly narrowed as he read my expression. You look a little flustered. Long day? I'm fine. I said quickly, reflexively. Admitting fatigue was a bad idea. Commercially and legally in my profession. I can take him from here. Can I go? The man asked again, urgently. Go ahead. Alas gave me another smile. We'll be outside, Dr. Sharma, just in case you need anything. Then he walked over to the patient, patting his cheek like an affectionate father. Don't worry, kiddo.

He's the best doctor for the next five states. If anyone can fix you up, it's him. A few seconds later, we were alone. Wordlessly, I gestured to my patient to take a seat. What's your name? It was more for politeness's sake than anything else. though it would be nice to know if the muteness was merely psychological. No answer.

Predictable. How long have you been in India? You don't look local. Did you come here on holiday? The questions were more to fill the silence than anything else as I rifled among my other tools. I caught Ron Jana's eye through the door. She had taken her seat at her desk. Whatever else, she was ever the professional.

Something unspoken passed between us. a language cultivated over the years. Keep the equipment running just in case. They were paying good money, obscene money. The implication of that was clear. I had to find an answer, no matter what. Now that we were alone, I was beginning to notice more details about him. His breaths were coming short and shallow, chest heaving like a pigeon, though he didn't

look very distressed by it. his blinking was out of sink the left eye a few moments late to blink in the smell I had a faint memory of it from my medical school days a smell I found so disconcerning that it was the single most important factor

for me to pick medicine over surgery old stale blood I frowned mind racing to find explanations even as my hands gathered the necessary equipment the asynchronous blinking, shortness of breath, vasovagal response, nervous issues? Maybe he had tried to take some shoddy drugs at some obscure village music festival.

Common enough in around here. And the tourists always passed through Bengal on their way back. The dealers knew this, but the smell. A sharp rap on the window. Both of us jumped to the sound. The man's eyes followed mine. A jet black crow was perched on the window sill outside, had turned to the side to look straight into the room. Its eyes were big, too big for any bird of its kind I had seen.

Pupils round and aware. Intelligence glinted behind them. Almost as if it had been waiting for me to look. It deliberately wrapped its beak on the window again. And then again. I could not understand what it wanted. To come in? A clatter drew my attention back to my patient.

His resigned demeanor had been replaced with a strange, unnatural excitement. His eyes were wide as he stared at the bird. Breath coming ragging and fast as he shuffled to get as far away from the window as he could without getting up. The fear in his eyes was raw. Animal. Whatever that thing was, he knew it. It knew him. I looked back at it.

It meant my gaze head on. Its baleful eye growing and growing and growing until it swallowed the whole room. I was a speck of dust before its massive pupil. Its glare boring into me. Cold waves ran through my body. It was scanning, thinking, questioning, and I did not know how to answer it. Seconds stretched into hours. My muscles petrified before the intensity

of this little bird. And then, before I knew it, the moment passed. It caught once, and as any other bird would, spread its wings, and disappeared into the darkness outside. Doctor?

The voice pulled me back to the door, where Elias's head was sticking through the crack. Everything all right? We heard a little commotion. The... The bird? The bird?

Elias did not sound incredulous. Rather, he sounded a little irritated, like he had just been informed of the arrival of an unwelcome guest. Is this bird still there? No. I caught myself before I could get more upset. Well, never mind. It's all right. We were just a little startled. I will begin with the examination now. Elias gave me a polite smile. Of course, Dr. Sharma. Once again, if you need anything. He left the implication hanging, closing the door behind him. The man was still wide-eyed, craning his neck to look behind me, confirming if he were truly alone.

I understood the feeling, but I could not have him fidgeting for the rest of the inspection. It's gone, sir, please. Try to sit still. I raise the inspection table to get the appropriate height. I'm going to make a physical examination of your throne now, just to see if there is any visible problem. Is that all right? He hesitated for a second, and then nodded. Okay, good. I snapped on my gloves with practical ease.

I first started outside, palpitating his neck. There was no obvious inflammation or irregularity, no swelling, no bumps, no excessive throbbing or heat. In fact, there was little heat at all. His skin was cold, like touching a sheet of metal left in snow overnight. Even the thin sheen of sweat was almost ice cold, seeping through the gloves and numbing my fingers. This cold and still sweating, he did not look uncomfortable, but even so. The man on the phone had said he was healthy as a horse. Either he had been grossly misinformed, or he had been lying to my face.

That was expected to a certain degree, but this. I shook my head, better to concentrate on what I could. There did not seem to be any external evidence of inflammation, tumors, or infections, nothing that was serious enough to be noticed through the skin. At any rate. I need to have a direct look to rule it out fully. Open your mouth, please, sir, as wide as you can go. I grabbed the torch and a tongue depressor from my tray, clearing a visible path.

Despite the harsh light, his pupils remained. unmoving, refusing to contract, even though he was clearly uncomfortable with the brightness. You can close your eyes, I whispered, concentrating on his throat. He needed more than an E&T specialist to see him. I was half tempted to call up a few of my friends for referral, but I had been asked for discretion. Whether that extended to other medical professionals, I did not know, and I did not want to risk finding out the hard way. When people were willing to pay that much. It wasn't just about privacy. Losing the money was the least of your concerns. Disobeying instructions could land you in a ditch, or worse. Even under direct inspection, his throat

looked perfect. Too perfect. Not a single blemish, aberration, or benign growth. Not even minute scarring from where. It was immaculate. It looked like my patient had, walk straight out of the ideal diagram in my anatomy and textbook. No real person's body looked like that. It was as if he had never spoken, caught a cold, or even coughed too hard in his entire life. How old was he? Above 20, at least. That was impossible.

I flicked off the torch, trying to keep my confusion from my voice. You can't talk? At all? The man shook his head. What about sounds? Can you sigh, cough, shout? The man blinked. He hadn't tried yet. Why don't you go ahead and try to cough from me then? I hoped he knew what coughing was, given the pristine condition of his throat. He nodded and coughed lightly. It sounded normal, no gurgling or scratchiness, that ruled out mucus buildup, though I hadn't seen any in the first place.

He coughed again, a little harder this time. It's okay, sir, you can stop now, I said, reaching for my next instrument. He coughed again, doubling over this time. Sir? His coughs grew in intensity until he was shaking and thrashing in place, each retching cough racking his whole body with spasms. Runjana, I called out, straightening him up. Water, now.

As he coughed, something black and vicious began to pour out of his mouth, bubbling with intermittent spitting mucus. It came without relief. First, in nasty globals and then in a thick stream. Staining his shirt and splattering it onto the floor. The smell of blood lingering around him intensified until I was forced to cover my face with my sleeve to stop myself from gagging.

This close, it was joined by others. The raw smell of overburnt incense, the pungent odor of the pungent odor of burning hair and sickening mildew. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. He gasped, taking long, shaky breaths, looking at the tar-like substance now covering the floor in his clothes. It's right.

Happens more often than you know. I lied. We'll get it cleaned up. He nodded slightly. Clearly not believing me. Well, I had to press on. If only to finish up in time and, get back home. Why don't you drink that water? And then I'll take a direct look at your

larynx. Brunjana, true to her usual punctuality, arrived within a few seconds. Face fixed and studied disinterest. She lowered the tray with a glass of water before my patient. He drank it gratefully. Needy gulps. Eyes darting around in some mixture of shame and feet. We stepped outside, gave him in his privacy as best we could. What's that mess, sir? She whispered under her breath. It all came out of him. I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms and trying to study him without glaring.

That much? She looked, wide-eyed at the floor. Is it blood? No. It wasn't. That smell didn't come from the sludge. It was coming straight from him, oozing from every pore. Then what is it?

I have no idea. She glanced in me, surprised. It was the first, and now probably last time she had heard me admit I did not know something. We should get a sample of it. It's contaminated now, but it'll have to do. This needs to go back to a lab as soon as possible, I said. Falling back into the safety of professionalism. I think we'll need to see this patient a few more times.

She nodded. Yes, sir. Even as I looked at it, the thick gelatinous globals wriggled around the floor, refusing to stay still, as if they were trying to crawl away, as if they were alive. Yes, I had never seen something like this before, and the gods help me. I never wanted to see it again. The man finished his water, looking around for a place to set the glass down. Rangana took it from him, flashing amen.

A measured smile of hospitality. Are you ready to continue? I asked. Trying to make my voice as gentle as I could. We can take a few minutes. He shook his head. Very well. I crossed back over to the tray,

keeping up the appearance of control. Now, we're going to take a direct look at your larynx, your voice box, that is. I held up my lanoscope, letting him take a look at it as I got it hooked up to my monitor. Normally, I didn't bother, but the more upper-class clients like the show, the illusion that they knew what was going on. I'm going to insert this through your nostril and down your throat.

You may feel a little uncomfortable, but it will pass. It has a camera that allow me to take a direct look at your vocal folds, see if there is anything physical going on. When he didn't protest, I fell back into practice procedural ritualism, administering a third, light tropical anesthetic before guiding the tube in through his nose. He made a half-hearted attempt to sneeze but stayed otherwise still as I watched the video feed. His nostrils looked normal, with no inflammation or mucus prized into signal an infection. In less than a minute, I was through. Reflexes and experience taking over as I definitely entered the throat and proceeded downwards towards my destination.

The Farinix passes by, looking as pristine and perfect as it had visually, just a little more, and I would have the vocal folds in sight. As I rounded the last fold, a crackling sound sent ripples of distortion through the monitor feed. The sound grew, like miniature lightning inside the machine. Then the feed cut out, replaced by darkness. I frowned. This machine wasn't anywhere close. to giving out like this. It was less than a year old. No, the monitor hadn't turned off.

It was still powered, responsive. The laryngoscope was transmitting its feed just fine. It was merely looking at nothing. Perhaps just the torch I given out. Then the darkness began to shift. Vague outlines melting out from the black void, shifting, moving. The vote was a vote. The vote focal folds? No, that looked nothing like a larynx, even from what little I could see. I fiddled with the controls, trying to get the torch working again. Unfortunately, it did. The light flicked on, bathing the patient's throat once more. Right before the camera, a black, bulbous mass, writhed, tentacle-like projections wrapped tightly around the tissue. It had no features whatsoever, except for the,

occasional tar-like bubbling, setting ripples across its undulating surface. No features, except a mouth. A wide grin, human-like teeth jutting straight to the camera. Its eyeless stare began climbing, back up the fiber optic. Terrible instinct crawled on my skin like a warning. It breached the monitor, somehow looking through something that could not look. It was looking. It was looking at me.

With a cry of surprise, I let go of the laryngoscope, staggering back, almost tipping over my chair in the process. It almost slipped out, dragging roughly across the soft tissues of the throat and nose before the man caught its heavy end with a strangled grunt of pain. I panted, skin flushing with heat and adrenaline. The AC was still humming, but I was sweating like the room at Turn Tropical. my skin prickled, my shirt clung to my back. I stared wide-eyed at the monitor. The feet had actually cut out this time, only to flick back on a few moments later.

The camera was looking straight at the man's larynx, a normal larynx, except that it was too perfect, too clean, like everything else in there. Like something was disguising itself with the healthiest image it knew. Doctor?

I heard Elias's voice from outside. I'm fine, I called back. Staring at the image. We're fine. No. Not a single trace remained of anything out of the ordinary. I wiped the sweat off my face, rubbing my eyes. Was it fatigue?

Had I been sleeping too little after all? Maybe binging those shows every night wasn't a good idea after all. No matter, no matter what? what my wife said. I fixed my patient with the firmest stare I could. What exactly happened to you? Tell me. Leave no detail out. He looked at me helplessly. I grabbed my pad and a pen from the desk. Right, I need your history. I can't make a diagnosis without it. He nodded, taking the pen from me. I flipped the pad to a blank page and held it out. He touched the pen to it and scratched the the first line. Then the pen clattered from his shaking grip, followed shortly by the pad as they

landed in the black mess on the floor. He cried out in pain, cradlinged his hand as the fingers shook and contorted, bending backwards until I was afraid they would tear themselves out of their sockets. If he hadn't been so young and mostly fine up until now, I would have begged him with palsy on the spot. Something nervous then. It had to be. It had to be something else, anything else, other than what I had seen. Never mind, then. There is one last test we have to do.

I retrieved the appropriate machine from the tangle in the corner. I would have to have a word with the cleaner by organizing that. In electro-myography. He gave me a quizzical look. Some things never change. It will let me measure electrical activity in your muscles. I quickly withdrew the, Landerscope, wheeling it away with perhaps a little more urgency than I had to.

I have a suspicion that your problem is related to nerves, since I can see nothing physically wrong. Well, that was a lie. Your vocal folds may not have been getting the correct signals from your brain, or any signals at all. That might be why you can make sounds, but no complex speech. I held up a hand to forestall the next question on an impulse. It's minimally invasive. Don't worry. It wasn't about the money. Not anymore.

I needed to know I was sane. I showed him the electrodes. I just need to insert these into your throat externally. He sighed. His expression resigned. He did not believe I could help him. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure either. But he made no moves to refuse.

So I continued. This time, I did not imagine. administer any anesthetic. I needed the electrical activity to be as clean as possible, just in case. As soon as the monitor flicked on, my questions were both answered and increased. The electromyalogram was dead. Completely dead. Not a hint of electroactivity present anywhere. It was never completely dead. That would mean. Can you try to speak, I asked, just to make sure. humor me he strained still no activity on the display i sighed moving to switching off weird or not i had my answer then the graph moved within seconds when there was nothing before there was now frantic activity

lines and spikes going everywhere and nowhere erratic and impossible nerves could not carry signals like this. Every hint of medical knowledge I had went against it. And yet, it was happening. A miniature thundercloud was raging inside my patient's throat, painting the monitor with hints of its power. The lights in the clinic flickered. As if the electricity was overwhelming the circuitry, traveling back through the computer and into the room around me. I rose from my chair, opening my mouth to say something. With one final blinding flash, every light in the room detonated, sending sprays of glass everywhere.

I ducked, covering my head with my arms as small shards pattered against my clothes. In an instant, we were cast into blinding darkness, the ghostly glow of the electromagnet the only source of any illumination. someone banged on the door, trying to open it. It did not budge. In the darkness, I felt something moving along it, something heavy, holding it in place with its bulk. The monitor continued flickering, casting dancing shadows that shrouded more than they revealed. I looked at it again, despite every instinct screaming not to,

that's not, I murmured. that's not how it works neural impulses don't transmit the spikes were converging melting into each other forming something coherent forming words sprawled across the screen

with impossible physics the price is paid leave it alone he is mine I wanted to look away everything in me screamed not to

My legs burned to run, but I stared, transfixed, like a lab rat watching its own autopsy. Then the letters were melting, crashing into each other, twisting and rolling, stretching into a smile, a ghostly, terrible smile, drawn in impulses, a sharp crack split the air. It came from my patient. Something was dragging its way out of his mouth, jaw breaking out of its hinges, as it was stretched and possibly wide. His eyes lulled back into the back of his skull. The cornea glowing with an eerie light as his tormentor revealed himself.

Its long serpentine body uncoiled, black and slippery, growing in girth every second as it dragged itself along the floor, along the walls, along the ceiling, surrounding, suffocating, drawing ever closer. Then it was facing me. The head of the beast smiled. Its body pulsing everywhere around me. I was in a room made of it. Any hint of my clinic long since gone.

Its mouth split into a grin. Then it opened and the thing spoke. Its voice was deep, gravely, sending tremors of weakness through my legs. You are wasting your time. time, doctor. He has sinned, and he has atoned. There is nothing for you to heal. It is late. Go home. Be with your family. The threat was clear. Before it decided I couldn't. With a crash, the door burst open, quicker than I could blink. The monster withdrew, like a rubber band snapping back in a place as it crawled back into its host.

His jaw snapped back into place, just as torchlight from the doorway blinded me. Elias and his companions shone their torches into the room, flickering from me to the patient and then back again. Beyond them, the lights of the waiting area glowed with their usual pleasant dim light. Are you all right, sir? Sir. Ranjana pushed past them, stepping gingerly over the glass on the ground as she hurried,

to me. What the hell happened here? I didn't answer. Couldn't. My voice betraying me as I slumped into the nearest chair. Shine away from the probing lights of the torches. Dr. Sharma? Elias frowned. Are you injured? I managed to shake my head. And you're patient? I looked up as the torch flickered on his face. He did not look afraid. No. We were beyond. We were beyond. We were on that. He was numb, catonic, eyes as wide as they could go as he stared out into nothing, barely breathing, but he was alive. Elias hummed in approval. Well, well, I said slowly. What's your diagnosis, Dr. Trauma? Or did you forget what were you here for? I birded my face in my hands. After everything that just happened, that is your first question? Well, you look fine,

the woman said, crossing her arms. Of course. I took a shaky breath. I, there was, there's something inside of him. I can't, I can't solve this. It threatened me. It came out of his mouth and it threatened me. It knew me. It knew everything. It said he had sinned and he had to be a tone. It was God's. It was I looked up. No longer able to hide my vitroal. There's

a monster. A monster. That's my diagnosis, sir. Your patient, or is a monster. Ranjan's expression was openly terrified now. Even as she used her handkerchief

to wipe the perspiration from my brow as well as she could. A monster. Elias repeated. His expression neutral. A monster. I snapped. No longer caring. I didn't want the money. I wanted. I didn't even know what I wanted. This wasn't science or medicine. It was mythology. It was madness. I just wanted, needed to get out of out of there. Well, that makes sense. What? I jolted. Unable to keep my surprise for my voice. Elias sighed, flashing me another one of his easy smiles. In the light from his torch, he looked ghostly, foreboding. I'm afraid we haven't been entirely truthful with you, Dr. Sharma. Disappointment. It was more of a second opinion. We needed to be sure, absolutely sure, that it was. wasn't simply medical.

We needed you to make sure. You knew? You have had an experience with the pathology, yes, he said evasively, and now we know that the entity you saw is to blame, thanks to you. You put my life in danger without telling me anything, so you could make sure, I said, bile and anger rising together up my throat with every recollection of that small, smiling electromyalogram. Well, you are a smart man, Dr. Sharma.

Surely you didn't think we would be paying you that much simply to stick a camera in someone's nose. Elias chuckled. Besides, we were reasonably sure that it would not harm you. Not unless you kept pushing. You wisely did not. I opened my mouth and close it again. Well, our business here has concluded, Dr. Sharma,

and look at that. Elias pointed a finger at the clock in the lobby right on schedule. Eleven on the dot. The bastard knew. He knew when I went home. They had been watching me, scouting me. You, your wife, Elias interrupted. His grin growing a little sharper.

Would be distraught if you tarried any further, doctor, as would be your beautiful children. and there is little that causes more delay in getting home than asking the wrong questions. Some of those delays could even be permanent. I glared at him, but my mouth snapped shut. I believed them. Leave your office unlocked and the key on your desk. He resumed with his easygoing tone.

Our cleanup crew will be along shortly. Nothing leaves this room, doctor. not material and not words understood. I nodded. Then we have no quarrel. Elias bowed to me before turning to his soldiers. Pick our preacher up, will you? We're leaving.

As his men slid into motion, the lights flickered again and went out. For a second or two. We were in absolute darkness. When they came back on, the men were gone. As was my patient. It was as if we had been alone all this time, except for the mess they made of my clinic.

The only lingering sign of their existence was a non-descript black briefcase, placed deliberately on Ronjana's desk. Sir, she whispered, this close I could feel her shaking in fear. Go home, Ranjana, I breathed, struggling to my feet. the after effects of adrenaline making my breathing choppy. My heart thundered like a struggling petrol engine in my chest. I was getting old. Too old for this. I saw that now.

All at once. Sir, I go home. I repeated. Go home and go to sleep. Forget this ever happened. And for the God's sake, tell no one. Without waiting for her to comply, I stumbled over to the briefcase.

marshalling every ounce of willpower to prevent my legs from collapsing like jelly. The locks were keyed to zero zero zero. Unlocked. The clasps snapped open as soon as I touched them. Beneath the smooth lid were neatly tied bundles of rupee notes. 2,000 each stacked to fill the entire space inside. I could estimate at a glance. There was enough to fulfill the promise, maybe more.

On top of the pile, there was a business card. Blank, except for a phrase and neat handwriting. Do not pursue this. After that, it was all blur. The next thing I knew, I was closing my car door, walking up the stairs to my house. I dreamt up some answers for my wife somewhere along the way, though it was difficult to explain the briefcase in my white knuckled grip. Even now, I can see it.

In the corner. Waiting. Trust me. I'm going to use the money. I'm not that stupid. But as for the rest of it, I'm done. Done believing in the lies we stretch over the mouth of the world and call truth because it's convenient. Everything we think we know is a veil.

I understand that today. And what's on the other side? I don't care to know. I don't want to know. But I do know this. I'm going to burn every medical textbook I have tonight. Maybe have a little bonfire too while I'm at it. If you're a doctor, I encourage you to do the same.

Why? Because that thing I saw in the room is the truth, the only truth of our world. Everything else, lies. Elegant lies, well-dressed lies, authoritative lies, but lies. It's all lies. She thinks she's people. Written by Saturday.

Back in the summer of 2008, my buddy Jackson and I were 10 years old. While our parents worried about a looming recession, we were keeping busy with the hype of the new Batman movie. We were a couple of weeks away from another school year, and we were making the best of it. We spent most of our days outdoors. It felt better than sitting inside and enduring the endless drone of political debates or hearing our parents moan about making ends meet. Jackson and I both had a Nintendo DS, and we played them religiously. You could find us tucked away in every corner of downtown hilltop,

trading Pokemon, and turning in nickel cans for cheap gas station snacks. I think I learned the importance of washing my hands solely from trying to play games with sticky, slushy fingers. It was a good time. Sometimes we'd head down to the river to scare the Girl Scouts before they got back to their campground. We'd hide in the bushes and pretend to be wild animals. We were coming back from a visit to the campground.

There were no scouts there. So we just wandered around and checked out the equipment they left behind. We'd already checked the tool shed, but there wasn't anything fun to mess with. Instead, we marveled over a hairpin that we found. This small, pink, plastic thing with a blue sunflower on it. I bet this is melodies. Jackson mumbled. I think there's a blonde hair on it.

Nah, her hair's too short. It's probably linds. No, Linz is just curled. This one's straight. Want to bet? He thought about it and offered me a hand. If it's melodies, you can't use your Luxray anymore. If it's Linz, I can't use my gar chomp.

Deal. We shook on it. We'd probably forgot all about it in a couple of days, but it gave us something to do. And besides, that gar chomp had been kicking my ass all summer long. We followed the river. making her way back home.

We were about halfway there when we heard something of a head. There was this bright yipping noise, like puppies. Looking down the river, we could spot what looked like six coyotes crossing the stream up ahead.

One larger, five small. The larger one was pacing nervously, stepping back and forth, crying and howling at one of the smaller ones. They had all crossed the river, except for one.

One of them sat on a stone, staring straight ahead. It wasn't nervous, or crying, or anything. It just sat there. Jackson pointed at them and held his finger up, asked me to be quiet.

I nodded. We stepped a little closer. And despite our best intentions, we spooked them. The Lodger Coyote sped off with all the little ones bouncing after it under the underpillar. rush, but one of them was left behind, and it didn't seem to care.

You think it's sick, I whispered. Maybe it's dead. It's not moving. No, look, it's blinking. It was blinking. It sat there, looking straight ahead. It almost looked sleepy, like it didn't have a care in the world. We waited for a couple of minutes to see if the mother would come back, but she never did.

I was curious. We got close enough that we could poke it with a stick if we wanted to. But we didn't. It was a coyote pup looking right at us, and it wasn't moving. It looked fine, though. Bright eyes, steady breathing, healthy fur. It locked its yellow eyes on me, like it was trying to make sense of what kind of strange dog I was supposed to be.

Then it stood up. It balanced on its hind legs. Jesus, that's cute. Jackson beamed. Why is it standing up? Who cares? It's cute. But they don't do that. They don't stand up.

Jackson nodded, but couldn't stop smiling. Maybe she thinks she's people. He took the pink hairpin with the blue sunflower and removed his shoes. Step by step, he made his way into the river. He carefully reached out and attached the hairpin to the coyotes parked air. Look, Jackson smiled. She's the prettiest girl in the world. That made the coyote react.

She panted eagerly and dropped down on all fours, spinning in a circle and making little noises at us. We spent all day with that pup. At first, we were looking for her mother, but we realized she wasn't coming back. That and this little thing was following us around. We got her some snacks. talked to her, tried to make her do tricks, all of it.

Neither me nor Jackson had any pets of our own. So this was like finding a free dog. We both knew there'd be no way we could bring it home. Not only was it not a dog, but our parents were in a bad spot. I didn't know it at the time, but my mom had lost her job. And they were contemplating a move. Jackson's parents were trying to figure out how to keep their hardware store open. You couldn't bring a dog into that kind of environment.

We settled for the next best thing. We took all these snacks we'd saved up and gave her all of it. We thought about getting her some dog food, but she really seemed to enjoy people food. She followed us around all day, sometimes getting up on her hind legs, as if trying to copy us. It was so funny watching her trying to balance and watching that little tail bob as she tripped on her feet. Sometimes as we walked, we could hear a little, yip as she stumbled over something. Jackson decided to make it easy for her and carry her around.

She seemed to like that. She was small enough to sleep in the pouch of his hoodie. We found a spot for her behind a dumpster outside, the abandoned sporting goods store. We stuffed Jackson's hoodie in my backpack, making a little nest. Before we left for the day, I bent down and whispered, we'll be back first thing in the morning, all right? The coyote yelped in me until, It was held at its head.

I know, but we'll be right back. It yelped again. I paused. Looking into those yellow eyes. The coyote did nothing. I looked a little closer, speaking in a lower voice. Do you understand me? The coyote tilted its head.

It didn't respond, but bobbed its head and whacked its tail. Whether it understood me or not, it was clear this thing enjoyed our company. Jackson said his goodbyes and scratched her behind the ear. Who's the prettiest girl, he cooed. You are, yes, you are. The coyote almost danced around the backpack as it jumped and rolled, making little puppy noises. For the next few days, that coyote pup was our world.

We took her everywhere, and we didn't need a leash or anything. She would follow us around, shared our snacks, and cuddled up next to us as we played our games and talked the summer day away. Jackson wanted to call her Megan, as in Megan Fox, but I vetoed it. We ended up calling her Jessica. I had a bit of a crush on Jessica Bile back then, so if our pup was to be named after the prettiest girl I knew, well, that was it. It works for Jackson, too. He had a thing for Jessica Alba, so Jessica was.

Little Jesse Pup. We forgot all about the hairpin in our bet, but Jesse Pupp still had it bobbing from her ear. She didn't make the slightest attempt to remove it. She really was the little lady. She would bite down her nails until they were neat and tidy, and she would get all bitter and gloomy whenever he ruffled her fur the wrong way. She was at prima donna, and we spoiled her plenty. They say dogs and coyotes are cleverer than we give them credit for,

so I didn't know what to think of her. Jesse did a lot of things I didn't expect an animal to be able to do. She picked up tricks almost immediately, like spin or sit. It's like she understood the word rather than the action itself. We even tried to teach her to speak. Jackson was leaning against a chain-linked fence, dangling a piece of beef jerky at her. Go on, he said. Speak.

Jesse got up on her hind legs and looked up at the jerky. She was salivating and showing all her teeth. something she did whenever she saw a tasty treat. Then she turned her attention straight forward. To Jackson. Her tongue retracted into her mouth as her paws lowered. Her legs didn't shake anymore when she stood up. She was getting good at it.

Really good. When she finally made a noise, it was less of a bark and more like a hacking cough. At first I thought she was choking on something, but Jackson was still holding the treat. Instead, she repeated the sound a couple of times until it sounded to sound less like a cough and more like a groan. You hear that, Jackson said? She's just coughing. No, no, listen.

I leaned down to get her on eye level. Jesse pup turned to me. Her body never once wobbling despite balancing on her hind legs. She stared at me with those big yellow eyes. Go on, Jesse, I said. speak. She opened her mouth and turned a little, as if to align her throat at the right angle. Then she let out a breath and a huff, like she was cleaning her throat. And I swear to God, it sounded like, hello. Jackson was ecstatic about this development. He would try to get her to

say all kinds of things, like our names, or our town, or the name of the streets. Half the time, she could do it pretty well. You could kind of hear what she was saying if you really listened for it. But to a random bystander, it would have just sounded like phlegm and groaning. But to two 10-year-olds, it was magical.

Jesse, the magic pup. We got her a better place to sleep. We propped up a big old gym bag and remade a hub cap into a water dish. We made sure she was comfortable. And Jackson stole a decorative pillow from the couch in his living room. It was hard and embroidered, but Jesse loved it.

She was always at her best whenever we treated her like one in the gang, rather than a pet. But nothing made her happier than having Jackson Collar the prettiest girl in the world. That was, by far, her favorite thing. We noticed over the coming days that Jesse was getting a bit too adventurous. She would stray from her nest and almost walk into traffic, so we had to do something. something to keep her safe. She was growing fast. And with her new gym bag nest, we could move her around whenever there was too much noise or traffic. We ended up going back to the Girl Scout camp, so they packed up for the summer. There was that tool shed with a broken wood panel that you could

crawl under, so we could make it like Jesse's own little house. We would sneak out leftovers from our house. Jackson did this thing where he would say, I loved his mom's cooking so much, that he'd like to bring me some. It always worked. I would say the same to my mom. We did this every now and then so we could bring Jesse an extra portion. Jesse did this thing where she would slap her paw straight into the food and scoop it up like she was trying to use her paws to eat. She seemed frustrated when they didn't bend the way our hands did. She would yip and yelp until Jackson spoon fed her. She loved that. But I think Jackson was a bit too close to her to realized something wasn't right.

He didn't see the way she looked at him when his back was turned. He didn't see the confidence she had when she stood up straight on her hind legs, or when she combed back the fur on her head. It stopped looking like a trick, and it started to look surprisingly natural, less like a coyote and more like a little person in a very strange costume. One day when we came to see her, Jesse was sick. Her fur was maddened and coming off in fistfuls. She kept sleeping and her tongue was hanging out of the side of her mouth.

Jackson was beside himself, holding her clothes and stroking her ears. She would wake up in short bursts, poking her cold nose into the cavity behind his ear. He would sit out there with her all day just to make sure she was getting better. I wasn't so sure she was. I loved that pup, but there was something strange about it from the very beginning. Maybe it had been sick all along. There must have been a reason it was left behind. While I wandered off to get some snacks, I decided to stop by the river where we'd found her.

That one spot along the river is a bit eerie. It's the one place where the birds are silent and the dragonflies stay away. You can see the ants walking in circles. If you look into the water, you can see riverstones aligned in repeated patterns. Something had happened there. But there was nothing that really stood out. There was nothing sick, dead, or rotting. I didn't know what to make of it.

Not a clue. Not a single one. But no matter how much snacks we gave that pup or how much we comforted her, Jesse just didn't get better. She developed this swelling on her stomach, and soon enough, most of her fur along the tail was gone. And one day, when we went to see her,

she was gone. We could not find her. We tried to move on, but Jackson was taking it hard. He really, really wanted a dog. He'd wanted one for years. If it hadn't been for his sister being allergic, he probably would have had one by the dog.

then. We tried making the best out of summer without her. After about a week, there was this one morning where my mom called me over. She used my full name, so I knew it was something serious. I just got out of the shower when I found her in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed. She had this stern look on her face, like she was already scolding me without saying a word. Would you mind telling me what you've been doing, she asked. What do you mean? I mean, this mess, she said, tapping the bed. Don't tell me you don't know.

I'll make my bed, sheesh. No, no, don't do that. Don't dismiss this. She wagged her finger at me. Sied and pointed a flashlight under my bed. My heart skipped a beat. The underside of my bed was covered in empty snack bags, crumbs and fur, lots,

and lots of fur, handfuls of it. And at the very end of it, I could see my crumbled-up backpack, the one we'd used as Jesse's first nest. Did you bring roadkill into this house? Mom asked. What is this? How did you even... That's not...

I didn't do that, Mom. That's not mine. Oh, I'm sorry. My mom shrugged. I forgot that this isn't your room. And that this isn't your space to take care of. I'm so sorry. I forgot that you just drop by here sometimes.

She rolled her eyes and handed me the flashlight. I want it cleaned before you leave, and I need an explanation. I did my best to clean it up. Some of the fur got stuck in the carpet, as if something heavy had slept on it. Jesse had been missing for days. Had she been staying there? In my room all along?

How the hell did she get in without anyone noticing? We didn't have a doggy door or anything like that. And more than that, where was she now? I went through my entire room. My mom mistook it for thorough cleaning, but I was looking for clues. There were paw prints in my closet, dirt on the edges of my bedroom door. I could tell something had been in there, but I couldn't tell what it had been doing. It had to have been Jesse.

It just had to, but how? By the time I was done cleaning, it was in the middle of the afternoon. My mom gave me a break and let me run around to play with Jackson. I ran to his house as fast as I could, bringing the backpack along. Before I even got to his house, I saw him coming down the other street, running to meet me halfway. We hadn't planned this. It just happened. He noticed my backpack, but I stopped him before he could ask.

She's been in my room, I said. there's fur under my bed. I know he nodded. I saw her last night. He looked a little pale, maybe from running. He stroked his arm and kept looking around, like he was expecting to see something.

She looked real sick, he mumbled. Really, really sick. Like, what kind of sick? He shook his head and looked down, lowering his voice. She didn't have any fur left, he mumbled. And her face was, all weird.

Weird how? He didn't answer. He just kept his eyes on the ground and tucked his arms tighter. Weird how, Jackson, I repeated, but I couldn't get a straight answer. We decided we needed help. Hilltop is on the east side of the river, so there's plenty of ranchers around. Since there are ranchers, there are veterinarians. There was this one veterinarian named Mario, who worked out to

town. He mostly worked cattle and the occasional sheepdog, but he was good people. He had two kids of his own, and he always showed up for career day. When we got to Mario's office, he could tell something he was off. All year round, he was just to see middle-aged ranchers with baseball caps stumble in to complain about a cow, but now there were two quiet boys standing outside his reception. No wonder, he came to see us right away. Jackson broke down in tears when he was. He was a lot of tried to explain. So I tried my best to give Mario the full story. I told him about how we'd found a coyote pup and how we'd cared for it when his mother abandoned it. Jackson interrupted me. It's not just a pup, he cried. Her name's Jesse. I corrected myself as Mario sat him down.

I explained how Jesse was smart and funny and cute and how we'd given her snacks and somewhere to sleep, but when I started telling him about her getting sick, I could see something changed in his demeanor. Back then, I thought he was just worried about our coyote pup, but looking back at it, he must have thought she was carrying something bad, something like mange or rabies. So she lost all her fur, Mario said. She lost her fur, and she's somewhere around your house. That or in the shed, Jackson sniffled. We made her a nest by the campgrounds. And you think she's there now? there or at Jackson's place I said he saw it there last night

Mario turned to Jackson giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder Are you sure it was her? he asked There's lots of coyotes around here I'm sure Jackson mumbled I recognized her voice Mario didn't understand what he was saying but I could tell he was unnerved

He was about to say something but couldn't get the words right Instead, he excused himself and hurried to his phone. I'm going to need a little help, Mario admitted. This is not really my wheelhouse. While Jackson and I wanted some medicine to help our friend, Mario had something different in mind. To him, it sounded like a sick animal,

was developing an unhealthy obsession with two local kids. Yes, he had good intentions, but he was scared for our safety. We asked what kind of medicine he could get her. but he didn't answer. Instead, he called in a couple of favors from some of the locals. He called our parents too. My mom and Jackson's mom got there at the same time. By the time they arrived, I could see three trucks pulling up in the parking lot.

Two of the men had hunting rifles. Jackson was beside himself, trying to make them listen. I didn't know what to think. I couldn't get what Jackson had said out of my mind. What had her face looked like? What happened? We were stuck in the office for a couple of hours. Jackson's mom had to run off to help out with their store,

but my mom had nowhere to be. We sat around watching an old TV in the reception as Mario went with the hunting crew. We stayed there for well over two hours until my mom got a call as well. She had to go see a banger about something, and my dad was waiting for a signature. She had no choice but to drop us off at our house and have us prom. promise not to leave. Straight to your room.

Lock the door, open for no one, she said. Either of you leave that room and I'm cramming your video games down the garbage disposal. There was no point in arguing. I kept my mouth shut as Jackson and I were ushered back to my place

and heard it into my room. My mom closed the door and rushed off with their phone glued to her ear. Alone, we just sat there for a while. This was no one's fault, really. Jackson noticed the pile of fur in the trash can. He didn't seem all that surprised. I don't. They're going to find her. He whispered while thumbing through a comic book. Why not?

Because they're looking for coyotes, he continued. She don't look like no coyote no more. What she looked like then? He shook his head. Like, weird. By even, he even, evening, a bunch of trucks stopped outside our house. Some people were cheering and yelling. We could see they'd killed a bunch of coyotes and laid them out in the back of the truck. I could see it from the edge of my bedroom window. If you just leaned out a bit. Everyone seemed relaxed about it.

Chearing and smiling at one another. One of the older men were getting all kinds of attention, clearly showing he was the one who'd killed the most. You think they got her? I asked. She's not. in there, Jackson said. I can tell.

Should we say something? Do you want to say something? I didn't know. I wanted Jesse to be healthy again, but they weren't going to help her. That much was for sure. But if she was really sick, what could we do?

Jackson ended up staying in the night for a sleepover. We had hot dogs and french fries, and we got to stay up as long as we wanted playing on the computer. It was nice and all, but our hearts weren't in it. We were scared. If we told them about Jesse, they'd go kill her.

And if we didn't, she'd still be out there with God knows what. So we kept our mouths shut and played our games, hoping an answer would pop at us. As the clock crept past midnight, we called it a day. When I came back from brushing my teeth, Jackson was already in a sleeping bag on the floor. I crawled into my bed and put away a couple of comic books. As I said my prayers and closed my eyes, I heard rustling. Looking up, I could see Jackson sitting up, looking out the window. Without a word, I looked the same way and listened.

You hear that? he whispered. I heard something, but I couldn't put my finger on what? Not a coyote. That was for sure. Not a person either. not a bird What is that I asked It's talking

I got out of bed And tiptoed to the edge of the window Peering out at a steep angle There was someone standing in the yard Someone our size With long brown hair There's someone down there I gasped

Does it have a weird face? I looked back at Jackson Then out of Jackson then out the window. They were gone. There were scratches on the front door, like a dog trying to get in. I crawled down to Jackson and sat shoulder to shoulder, armed with nothing but a flashlight.

We tried to listen, but it was hard to hear anything over our panting. Another scratch at the front door. Then something sprinting down the gravel path of the west side of the house. Something creaking as a weight came down on the trellis in the garden. Then nothing for a while. The wind was picking up, so it was getting harder to separate the noises. Was that a tap from a branch or someone coming up the stairs? Jackson didn't take any chances.

He pulled up a chair and barred the door, just in case. Then he looked up. You guys have an attic? he asked. Yeah, I said. But we've checked there. No one's up there. But can you get in that way? I thought about it and bit my lip.

I shook my head. Not unless you climb up the roof or leap about, 10 feet from the tallest tree in the yard. Jackson's eyes went wide. What if she can do that, he asked. What? I said, what if she can do that? Can she get in? We listened closely and held our breaths.

There were too many sounds. Jackson hit under the bed as I moved the chair from the door. It banged against the edge of the desk, sending a bolt straight through me. It felt like I've been shot by sound. Suddenly, I heard something from upstairs. Something rhythmic. Footsteps? Maybe that's how she got in.

There might be a hatch in the attic in my closet. I wasn't going to investigate. Jackson was safe under the bed, and I had to get my parents. I hurried into the hallway and ran all the way to their bedroom. I knocked and tried to open the door, but they locked it. A couple of seconds later, my mom opened, her hair and a tussle. Dad was sleeping soundly.

I think there's someone in the attic, I whispered. What? Who? The coyote. I could see her face relaxed as her eyes rolled in a tired arc. Then something thumped. We both looked up. Was that a hatch being opened? Mom woke dad up, and he grabbed the baseball bat from their wardrobe.

He took point with mom right behind him. Dad stepped into my room with the bat ready to swing, but there was no one there. He went in to check the closet. It was open, and the hatch in the ceiling was too. Mom looked out the window. Then I heard a whimper. Jackson, I whispered, she's down here. We all turned to the bed, looking down.

She's down here with me. I stepped back and got down on one knee. I saw a long face with a canine grin stretching from ear to ear. Human skin with rough brown looking for hair. Big yellow eyes. It curled up next to Jackson, but now she was looking at me straight in the eye. She was showing her teeth and salivating, just like she always did before she bit into a tasty treat.

She opened her mouth wide and an awful sound rolled out of her, like the grumbling of an empty stomach. She burped out a couple of syllables at me. Prettyest girl. Maybe she was just happy to see me. I don't know. But something caused her to throw herself out from under that bed. She leapt out with such a force that she slammed into me,

knocking me out of the door. My dad got her by the hair and dragged her back as she snarled and yelped. Mom closed the door, screaming at him to hold her down. It was a full minute of her. of these awful noises and screams. Someone yelled in pain, barks and snarls,

glass breaking, and something heavy thudding into a thin body. At one point, I thought the door was about to buckle and break. As the sounds calmed, I put my hand on the door. I heard a cough on the other side. I turned the handle as I heard my mom from the other side.

She was calm, uncomfortably so. Don't come in. And she said, call the police. But mom, go downstairs and call the police. Tell them there's been an accident. So I did. The police came, then an ambulance.

They had to carry my dad out. Something had bit off two of his fingers and clawed out one of his eyes. They tried to save it in surgery, but he ended up losing it. Mom got a deep bite to cross the wrist, but nothing that a couple of stitches couldn't fix. I only saw the aftermath in passing, but my whole room had turned into a bloodbath. Jackson's mom came by later to take care of us.

They had to drag him out from another bed. I never dared to ask him what he saw, and he never had the stomach to tell me. He had stayed under there for the whole thing. The only thing he could say for sure was that Jesse got out. She went through the window. I tried to comfort him the best I could. Maybe it wasn't her, I said.

Maybe it was a robber. He shook his head. She still had the hairpin. Looking back at that night, it's been almost 20 years. Life moves on. But my dad still has his scars. Mom does too. But she hides them well.

they never understood what happened they've been telling themselves that it was a wild animal and that it was just too dark to make sense of it but it's impossible that they still believe that they must have seen her but we're just that kind of family who doesn't talk about that kind of thing

we talk about weddings, anniversaries, and birthday presents or if we're feeling chatty dad brings up whatever's going on with the Broncos he's originally from Denver We ended up moving there once the recession hit. Jackson and I have kept in touch over the years, but our occasional reunions would be delegated to yearly Facebook chats. That's why I'm writing this down.

Earlier this year, Jackson reached out to me. He doesn't do that a lot. He didn't really sending me a message. It was just a link to a picture. Last 4th of July, there was a bit of an event. in downtown hilltop. There were dozens of pictures of it, ranging from a chilly cook-off to a tractor pull, but one of those pictures stood out more than the others.

The second to last picture shows the local pastor and his wife, both holding up a prize ribbon. But if you look closely at the left-hand corner of the frame, you see a woman, A short, gorgeous woman with long brown hair and striking yellow eyes. And a pink hairpin with a blue sunflower. My papa had one rule. Don't acknowledge me ma. Written by Garden underscore Lad. Growing up in Appalachia, I heard all types of stories of spook

and scary things that go bump in the night. The old Coleman, the headless mule, and Miss Myra from a ways away. You know them stories. As tough little country kids, none of them scared us. At least they ain't scared us half as much as the pitch black dark on the summer's night. That is, none except me, ma. Papa never told us kids why. He just told us not to mention her.

us grandkids thought it was kindly strange because Meema was always part of her lives. He must have been married to the woman since God knows when. Meema put out our church clothes on Sundays. She made us grandkids breakfast every time we stayed over two and it was always our favorites. But none of us were allowed to acknowledge her. I remember cousin Patty one summer morning

came running from the quick clear across Pippa's front acre saying Meema needed help. Patty said she was hurt. hurt something awful and he begged, cried for people to help. Now, I remember climbing over a grassy hill to try and take a look. Sure enough, Mima was there, turned over on her side in her black dress, wailing while she clutched her stomach. Papa, she, Papa clasped his wrinkly palm across his mouth so fast it felt like a slap.

Shut your mouth now. Mary soon, leave it be. He told me as tears welled up in my eyes, grew and trickled down through the hairs on the back of his hand. Papa was a gentle man and surely hadn't treated me like that before. My heart was broken. I used Papa's office phone to call my mom. My mom would come and got me from Papa that day after I called her and I tried to tell her what happened. She gave Papa a look that could kill. I remember how ashamed Papa looked. It was a few years later that Papa died, like most fellows of his time and of that age.

His heart just gave out one sunshiny morning. His funeral was intense. Us grandbabies, all ten of us at the time, we sat together in a row on a wooden pew. We cried while folks gave speeches about our papa, speeches about how good of a man he was. We wailed like the dead. To some of my cousins, Papa was the only father figure they rightly had.

They lost the only good man they'd ever known in their whole lives and at such a young age. Their own dad's been lost to shine, the minds, and the typical recklessness men folk tend to get into. Meemaw sat with us at the end of her row. She was holding baby Christina in her lap. Christina was just two years old and she surely didn't understand what was going on. But she picked up on the sadness somehow. The finality. Baby Christina was just woeful the whole funeral long,

crying into Mima's bosom. Mima never spoke a word. While they put Papa on the ground, they left us grandbabies in a little wooden playpen sort of thing that they had in the wreck room of the church. Our moms and dads just left us there. The only one that didn't leave us was Mima. Most of the cousins knew what Papa had taught us.

Never to acknowledge Mima. Definitely we knew never to speak with her. The little ones like Christina didn't know so well. In a corner of the playpen, Mima crouched onto her knees. Her long, sheer black dress draped over her. Baby Christina sat. Looking up at her when I decided I had to do something.

Tina, baby, come here, baby. Cousin' Mary misses you. I wave my hands at her. Becaning sweetly to come and play. I reached in my dress pocket and pulled out some kind of knock-off dollar store Barbie I had with me. I've shown her the little blonde doll and waved that at her. Baby Christina's eyes lit up with wonder and she started wobbling her way across the rug to me. Meanwhile, I lifted her head which was covered in, well, looked like a wedding veil, only black-esque hole.

Her head angled to me and struck me with a cold sensation of fear like I had never felt before. Come play Barbie's Tina. I waggle the doll towards baby Christina once more. Come on. You can pick her pretty dress, baby. Something inside me told me I had to get baby Christina away from Mima in that moment. Baby Christina kept weebling and wobbling to and fro. Getting closer.

My older cousin, Samantha, and Jamie joined in. Come on, baby. We all shouted. We ushered her towards us by gesturing with her hands. It was then that Mima stood. Only she was much too tall. Her veiled head and neck were so high, they bent forward across the ceiling. She got so close, baby Christina, that is.

She'd had one hand on my knockoff Barbie doll when Mima peeled her back in. Baby Christina cried something mighty, like nothing I have ever heard before or since. Mima had her now, clutched in her long arms. Behind Mima's veil, her cold white dead eyes bore holes into me and i think into all my cousins mema turned with baby christina tucked under one arm and slid open a window with ease mima put one leg through and then the other and within moments she was gone when the police came they asked us all sorts of questions about what happened us grandbabies tried to tell them about mema taking our baby cousin away the only thing was

there was no mima. At least, there was no mima that any of our parents claimed to know. No one at our papa's funeral that day that fit her description. It wasn't until a few years ago that my mother admitted to me that she was adopted by Papa. All my aunts and uncles were. They say that Papa never married. At least, not that they knew of. They act like they never knew about our me-ma or any woman that cared for us grandbabies back at papa's house. All I know for sure is that some dark mountain woman took my baby cousin that day. I only wish Papa have been alive to stop her. And all right, guys, with that final story, that wraps up some unsettling horror stories from

Reddit. And to be honest, these are some of my favorite horror stories I have ever read, hands down. They were all so good. I mean, that last one is so creepy. but the first three were so good as well. These were just all such slow burn, good stories. I love them. They were creepy.

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