Snook - Unsettling Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: February 6, 2026

These were some Unsettling Reddit Horror Stories! These stories were spine-chilling! What was your favorite story? Mine was the first one "Not a," it was just so eerie and unnerving! 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! Saturdead - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1q2egxw/not_a/ somethinggoeshere2 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qiiicl/my_father_spent_thirty_years_running_from_a_small/ SnooSuggestions2081 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ifpg1i/when_i_was_11_years_old_my_family_was_in_a_car/ First-Difference-904 - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1lwu0j9/theres_a_reason_the_forest_behind_our_house_is/ Kasituseongi - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1is5dfi/i_regret_participating_in_a_deja_vu_study/ SunHeadPrime - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1lmazuc/during_my_last_robbery_i_found_something_i_wish_i/ 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/SnookYTAlso! 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 Reddit horror stories. And oh boy, these stories are some of the best Reddit stories I have ever read. So you're going to want to make sure to stick around. They're horrifying. They're creepy. And like the title says, they are unsettling. Make sure you like the video, subscribe to the channel and comment down below and let me know if you'd like to see more videos like this in the future. And all right, this video will be long enough already.

So without further ado, let's get into. some unsettling Reddit horror stories. Not A. By Saturday. I'm not a liar. Not a conspiracy theorist. Not a man known to exaggerate. No one's listening.

I'm throwing this message in a bottle online, hoping someone relevant picks it up. If you know me, you know. You have my number. Call me. Let me explain. I'll start from the beginning.

I'm a small. South Dakota boy came from a small community near the bend of the river by Crow Creek. Us East River folk live by a different tempo. We don't get a lot of big headlines, and we keep our dreams close enough to see them from our bedroom window. I wanted to be a cop like my dad. I followed in his footsteps, got my badge, and now I'm a cop too. Before this whole shit storm started, I've been doing this job for four years.

I was no stranger to death or disease, but it's from places you expect. Some guy OD outside a fast food joint, a diabetic running a stop sign into oncoming traffic. We see gruesome stuff. You can't avoid that. It comes with a job, but it was never intentional, you know? It was always a consequence of bad choices or random happenstance or plain bad luck. But one day, we got a call about something I've been dreading. A driver called about spotting something off the road west of Westington.

We didn't get a lot of details, but me and my partner were the closest to check it out. Apparently, they'd found a head. A human head. Out there. It's all flat, no hills, just the occasional tree blocking the horizon. We could see this guy parked by the side of the road long before we got there. There was a couple of other people there. an old man with a bloodhound, two teenage boys taking pictures with their phones,

and a man in overalls that reminded me of a walking blueberry with a sunflower patch on his chest. That was the driver, the guy who made the call. Russell and I parked and got out. Russell is my partner, had been for about nine months at that point. We worked well together, but we had no contact outside of work. It was better that way. The few times we'd get personal. we figured out we are nothing alike.

We had vastly different opinions and experiences. West of the river kind of folks, you know. We go up to this blueberry guy. He tells his cap and points at the end of a fence with the butt of a cigarette. Right there, he says. Shit's right there. He was trying to play it off as something casual,

but I could tell he was mortified. There were three cigarettes scattered around his feet, and at least two of them, weren't even half finished. He was shaking bad enough to drop them. The old guy with the bloodhound had to hold his dog back. Not that I was angry or something, but it seemed desperate to sniff the thing.

And from where I was standing, that's what it looked like. A thing. Not a head. Not a person. Just this pale blotch of skin lined up against a fence pole. I was stopping to talk to Chris when I saw it.

The driver continued. That's Chris. The old man raised a hand and snapped at his dog who finally calmed down. I stepped back and called you guys. I barely looked. Not a peep. Russell asked the mandatory questions. Establishing a time frame.

Asking about the witnesses, what he was doing, all that stuff. Meanwhile, I asked the teenagers to step back and explain to the old man that we had to keep the area clear. I was the first one to step up close and take a good look. Someone had to confirm that it was a human head. And it was. It was fresh. Young woman, maybe 20 to 25 years old. Mouth half open as if lighting out a long sigh.

Eyes closed. Without touching anything, I took some pictures. It's important to be able to show a crime scene the way you found it. You never know when the weather takes. takes a turn. I made a couple observations. She didn't have any makeup on, and there was not a large pool of blood. The head was sort of propped up against the fence, making me think someone left it there intentionally. This was not a accident. No way. It dawned on me that I was witnessing that might be my first murder scene. Well, not a murder scene. A murder display.

If anything. We called in the cavalry. As I mentioned, things like this don't happen where I grew up. Accidents, yes, but this was no accident. Couldn't be. We got a whole bunch of cars out there in less than an hour. We sectioned off a part of the farmlands to check for further body parts. We got the cadaver dogs.

We called to prep for an autopsy. And we had crime scene investigators on site by late afternoon. I'd never seen that kind of mobilization. Now, I'm sure they wanted to bring in some expert from Sioux Falls, but time was a factor. We needed an early call on whether this death was the result of an accident, animal, or tool. Yes, it all pointed to a murder. But we couldn't know for sure that wasn't our job. But for anything, we needed an initial statement.

We had a coroner and a medical examiner ready. Problem was, these were local guys. and they weren't prepared. Not in the least. Me and Russell were sent along to get them up to speed as a sort of go-between. We were the first to get there, after all. We got the pictures and the initial statements.

Also, we knew these people. That'd make things easier. Russell and I got there just before dinner time. The medical examiner had gotten there about 10 minutes ahead of us, but the coroner was already getting work done. The medical examiner was a lady named Corrine. early 40s, mother 4, no nonsense kind of woman with a bad but honest temper.

The coroner's name was Daly. Man ought to have retired by then, but he was still going at it. Almost seven years old, but as sharp as ever. When we stepped in, he was already turning the head over, making observations about the wound. Daly, Russell said as we entered, how you holding up? Just dandy, Daly said, making a note, I'm more worried about our friend here. Corrine pushes aside and made her way to the examiner's table.

Russell got a pretty good shove and rolled his eyes at her. Since you're still looking, I take you haven't come to a conclusion. Corrine's side, what's the verdict? It's easier to explain what it's not at this point, Daly said. The wounds are about halfway patterned, halfway something else, but it depends on the time they were inflicted. So what's the TOD? We talk days or weeks.

I haven't got the slightest clue. That made her pause. There were several inconsistencies that daily noted. For example, several of the usual markers that we see in corpses just weren't there. There were no flies or maggots, and many common shows of decomposition had either not manifested at all or manifested in an order that didn't make sense. For example, the inner lining of the mouth

showed signs of advanced decay around the soft tissue, but there were no signs of bacteria or strong active smells. Daly couldn't make any sense of it. Russell and I stood back and watched them work. We knew Daly had a habit of not answering his emails or checking his phone, so it was better to have some boots on the ground to keep tabs on their progress. We were all going to be on call for most of the night anyway.

So we figured we'd settle in for the long haul. I took a dinner break while Russell stayed behind. He'd brought leftovers that he forgot to eat for lunch. I got an hour to clear my head and fill my stomach while they kept working. I checked in with the guys still out in the field. They hadn't found anything else. No witnesses, no footprints, no track marks, no wheels, not a thing. They were checking traffic cameras again.

going in and out of the area, but the distances required, and the amount of cars passing through made the potential numbers go up in the hundreds. I could tell it was a dead end. Hell, I could tell that just by the tone of their voice. By the time I got back, Daly and Kareen were arguing. They were listing things on a whiteboard, going through them one by one and crossing things off. You could tell who'd written what. Daly had this old-fashioned cursive, while Corrine kept it simple and blocky. The smell of chemicals tickled the ranch-sprinkled taste buds

on the back of my tongue. Making me wish I was back outside. Russell gave me a pat on the shoulder and took a break. Leaving me alone with the arguing professionals. Corrine was in the middle of a monologue, pointing at one thing at a time on the whiteboard. Not a hacksaw.

Not a chainsaw. Not a... What do you say? Piano wire? Not a piano wire. Daly agreed. Not a knife. Not an axe.

And we got nothing certain. Kareen continued. Not a fragment. No nothing. Daly turned to me. You got any ideas? You saw anything out there? Anything?

Not a thing, I shrugged. Witness statement in the folder. This is shit. Kareen spat. Flipping the folder over. Not a single thing we can use. You don't think it was a wildlife, I ask? wolves or bears we have to find some kind of baseline before we start eliminating things it ain't koreen explained

we can't just start listing things it's not well it's better than standing here saying nothing daily argued hold on he flipped the whiteboard over uncorked his pen and started at the top it's not a wolf he said what else they went at it for hours not a wolf not a wolf not a air, not a coyote, not a bobcat, just a long list of things to exclude. They checked for fur, claw marks, teeth marks, anything. All the while, Russell and I went up and down the stairs, calling the chief to let him know there was nothing to report. By 8 p.m., we were running in circles.

We called it a night. Corrine packed up first. Then Russell and I got off the clock. Russell headed home immediately. But I noticed daily sticking around. a little longer. I pretended to look for my keys as I kept an eye on him. He was still talking, but not to me.

We're missing something, he mumbled. We're missing something big. Like what? I asked. He looked up at me, snapping out of whatever thought was running through his head. I'm just making conversation. Pay me no mind. All right, are you good to lock up?

Daily waved me off with a smile, and I didn't think much of it. The next morning we got a call about feds wanted to join in on the action. I tried to get a hold of daily, telling him to come in a little early, but the man really can't be reached by email or text. He was coming in whenever, and that was that. Corrine, on the other hand, was already there by the time Russell and I pulled into the parking lot. She was leaning against a streetlight, tapping a pen against a notebook. Not a big machine, she mumbled.

Not a small machine. not a tool, not a saw. Morning, Corrine, Russell yawned. Trying to get some work done before the feds get here? She ignored us. We'd gotten these spare keys to open. Daly got the other pair. Kreen wasn't usually the one we called for these kind of things.

Then again, we'd never had this kind of thing. Not really. The moment Russell clicked the lock open, Karene shoved her way past him, this time with even more force. It was enough to make Russell go, hey, but she had no visible reaction. She kept mulling over whatever list she'd made on her notebook. She was eager to get back to it.

We only had about an hour or so before reinforcements would come knocking on the door. Corrine wasn't wasting any time. She ran down the stairs, put on the bare minimum equipment, and rushed to pull the slabs out. We barely had the time to keep up with her, like she was racing against the clock. But when she pulled the slab out, there was a whole other problem. The head was gone. Russell stood there.

Mouth a gap. He snapped out of it the moment Corrine turned to us. Her eyes sunken and red. Something was off. She'd always been a bit short and snippy with us, but this was something else. I don't think Russell saw it, but I could tell she was up to something.

She looked from him to me and then at the door. Not a little girl, she mumbled. Not an old lady. Not a teenager? You all right there? Russell asked. You slept okay? I could tell she wasn't listening.

There was something about the white of her eye that bugged me. A sort of micro-twitch, like a nervous dog. When she suddenly burst into a sprint, I was ready. Russell wasn't. And I stepped in front of her, and she ran straight into me. She knocked herself to the ground, landing face first on the hard floor. I could hear the air pass from her lungs and a huff. I got a pretty nasty landing flat on my back, but nothing was broken.

A bad bruise, but I got lucky. Russell was on her back within seconds, putting her in handcuffs. Not a snake bite. Corrine mumbled. Not a hound. Not a house cat. Not a gunshot. What the hell?

Russell gasped. What's wrong with you? Not a thing wrong. Not a question answered. Not a long way to. go. Kareen, Russell yelled. You hear me? I was already calling for another squad car. Time was of the essence. We had a missing head and Daly wasn't around. I prayed to God, he'd just overslept, but I had this sinking feeling in my gut that he hadn't. There was something about the way he'd lingered the other

night that made me think he might have done something. He shouldn't. Another car was sent to check on daily, but he wasn't at his apartment. Another car went to check his office, but there was no one there either. We ended up combing through whatever contacts we thought might be useful. Russell and I had our coffees, making mental lists out loud. His ex-wife, I said, I know he got one of those. I don't think he made it to Florida overnight. His car is still in the driveway. So not an ex-wife, I said. Not an ex-wife, Russell agreed. Not a chance. That's not a... I turned to look at him as he tapered off.

He stared at the steering wheel. Coffee hanging limp in his hand. His eyes glanced over, and I could see a bubble of spit pooling in the corner of his mouth. He wasn't blinking. Russell? He blinked,

dropping his coffee straight into his lap. It wasn't that hot, but he was up and about within less than a second, cursing like a sailor. He kicked the cup down the street like an owed of money and got back in the car. Wiping the seat in his pants with a blanket from the glove box. You okay?

Not about to get sick. Not now. You sure? You seem out of it. You really think Staley stole the damn head? Russell said. Changing the subject. You think he'd do that?

I mean, he could have. I mean, it's possible. What's the odds of him and them both disappearing without him being involved? Not a snowball's chance in hell. Exactly. Not a chance. I gave Russell another look. He was clearly thinking about something,

but I couldn't put my finger on it. I tapped him on the shoulder and handed him my coffee. I think you need this more than I do. I'll take the wheel for a bit. We spent most of the early day driving around town, asking questions. We had a couple of vague leads, but it's like we were spinning tires, stuck in the mud.

Russell was getting frustrated, so the chief asked us to do something else for a bit. They were busy dealing with the feds anyway, and they had four different squad cars out looking for daily. We were sent to check on a roadside diner, old folks kind of place. It had been closed all day, and the waitress working the lunch shift was getting worried. The owner wasn't answering their phone, and there had been no notice ahead of time. There was just a note in the window saying closed. It wasn't a high priority call, but it gave us something to do.

that is i noticed something curious we went to check up on the place before we headed to the owner's register to dress for a house call but when i got a closer look at the sign i noticed it was written in a beautiful cursive i elbowed russell pointed you see that he nodded moving in to get a closer look not a common thing around here russell said owners got arthritis you don't think you wrote that not a no he coughed now that i think about it i think i've seen daily around here before you have when not a not a long russell trailed off falling silently and i gave him a couple of seconds this time i wasn't going to snap him out of it i wanted to see what was going on he stood there for a full minute i counted it was a full minute i counted it was a full minute Then he almost toppled over, tipping forward like a falling tree. That's when I rushed to catch him. If I hadn't, he'd have gotten a face full of gravel.

He immediately went on the defensive, straightening his back out. I'm okay, he insisted. I'm okay. You got to talk to me. I'm okay, whatever. I'm okay, Nata. Stop saying that. You keep saying that, and you zone out.

Saying what? I blinked. I didn't want to say it. There was something dangerous in it, like turning a key to a door you didn't want to open. I shook it out of my head and headed for the car. Before I got halfway, Russell was going around the back. He wasn't about to wait. He was heading inside, with or without me.

I had to stop whatever I was doing to catch up with him. I called out to him, but he was heading for the back door. Before I got to him, he'd cracked a window and shoved the door open. He was rushing inside with the same urgency that Corrine had, except I wasn't there to tackle him. Last thing I saw before he ran at the corner was him pulling out his gun. I called out for backup as I ran after him. I stopped dead in my tracks a couple steps inside the kitchen. The owner was on the floor, face down in a pool of blood.

You could smell death on him. Russell had stepped over him, heading straight for the, front of the diner. This wasn't like him. Russell was not a hothead, not a thrill seeker. If anything, he was the controlled one. Russell, I called out.

Got a step back. Backups on the way. There was no answer. Instead, he rushed straight to the front and stopped. I followed him rounding the corner. The blinders were shut, casting the whole serving area in a gray shade. A couple streaks of sunlight made their way through the shutters,

lined up the white spaces with spots of red. Daily had been busy. Without a whiteboard, he'd been riding on the furniture with whatever pen was closest. Turns out that pen was blood. The first few sentences seemed familiar. Not a cougar. Not a lion. Not a panther.

Not a gator. More animals, but the further in you got the text got smaller, more concentrated. In the sentences grew stranger. Not a lot, not a little, not a lord, not a queen. Then at the far end, there was something written on the table. Russell had already got there. Picking something up from it.

As I got closer, I saw the text while trying to keep an eye on my partner. The text was cleaner. underlined. Not a person. Not a person. Russell nodded. Yeah. That makes sense.

What's that you're holding? I asked. What are you doing? He dropped his handgun to the floor and cradled something between his hands. As I got closer, I saw what it was. The bottom jaw of the missing head. Torn loose. Not a person. Russell repeated.

not a threat. You ought to put that down. We got people coming any second. He looked up at me, elated. This immense sense of relief spreading over his face. It's not a person, he repeated. It's okay. Not a person.

Not a corpse. What's not a corpse? He held up the jaw, looking me in the eye, and without looking away, he put it up to his lips. and bit off a mouthful. It didn't make the sound I thought it would. Instead, there was a soft and mushy kind of noise, like someone biting a jelly-filled marshmallow.

He barely chewed it for a second before he got another chunk. She? He said. Mouthful. It's fine, not a person. I kept shaking my head, backing away. I didn't even notice I'd pulled my gun. He held the flesh out to me, looking like I'd say something hurtful.

try it he smiled try a little no way i said not a nada not a i had to stop myself i had to physically stop myself thinking about this sentence made my head spiral into a pattern of repetition over and over again like an allergic reaction in the back of my mind i slapped my hands over my mouth smacking my front teeth with the metal of my gun i didn't know what to do i couldn't shoot russell but i couldn't stay, and I turned away. I hadn't noticed the bathroom door opening, the one in the back, near the grill, and I hadn't noticed daily waddling out of it. Turns out, he'd had a meal of his own. He'd eaten most of its head. Hair was still hanging out the side of his mouth. His glasses were clinging to the tip of his nose, a single good shake from falling to the floor. In the dark,

his hands looked black rather than bloody, but he could tell from the smell. I ran straight into him, almost knocking him over. He fumbled his steps a little, leaned back against the rail, embrace himself. It's, it's okay, Daly burped.

It's not a person. Not a corpse. Russell added, not a soul. I could hear myself finishing the sentence. I was just a syllable or two away. I wanted to say it was not a person too. Not a problem.

Not a, not a, not a. Instead, I pushed past Daly. I rushed forward, leaping over the dead body, and threw myself out the back door. I got a good 10, 15 feet out past the door before I looked back. Daly and Russell were both standing by my door, looking at me. They weren't chasing me off or trying to talk me down. They just stood there, mumbling the same pattern, same rhythm.

They couldn't figure out what the hell this thing was, so they were just listing things it wasn't. Not of this, not of that. Then I heard something, a dragging sound, and I realized they were looking at me. They were looking at something behind me. Something cold and mucus covered wrapped around my eyes like wet seaweed.

I screamed, but that only served to open my mouth. Something cold got pushed in past my tongue, tickling my tonsils. and I swallowed. I choked at something bitter and meaty, swirled down my gullet. It felt like someone had thrown a sack of bricks off a tall bridge,

landing hard in the bottom of my stomach. I fell forward, gasping for air and scraping my knees. I was dry heaving to get that thing out of me. My eyes were covered in grease, and all I see is this figure. It emerged from behind me, moving past me. I barely saw the shape of it, but it had something,

like a big arm coming out of its side. It looked like a big corn cob, but instead of kernels, there were pieces. There was the shape of a foot, a hand, long hair from a scalp as it moved past me. Daly and Russell silently joined in. Before they disappeared down the northern field, I heard something snap and tumble to the ground. I got to my feet stumbling. I made it to the bathroom. I shoved fingers down my throat, but no matter what I did, nothing came of it. I was. something was stuck in the pit of my stomach and by the time backup arrived I was sobbing on my knees bent over a bloody toilet seat I was screaming into the porcelain begging for whatever was inside of me to leave but it didn't they had to drag me up by my arms it didn't get any of it

out not a piece not a little piece not a single little piece they didn't find daily or Russell. I ended up with a two-night stay at the hospital. Apparently, something similar happened to Corrine. She'd had a breakdown, and they were still trying to figure out the problem. Some signs pointed to a fungal infection, but they couldn't find the cause. The doctor determined that it was not a virus, not a bacterial infection, not a misfolded prion. They had to put her on an IV, and they couldn't get her to shut her mouth long enough to eat. They were still trying to figure me out when I got sent home. They said I wasn't as far gone.

Paid leave. Three weeks. Three weeks turned to six as the test results came back inconclusive over and over again. At one point, they thought I had some kind of contagion, but they couldn't say for sure. Someone mentioned narcotics, but it just turned into a long list of negative tests. I switched doctors three times as they kept tripping over their own diagnoses. One of them ended up taking their own sick leave after a while. I've been trying to figure out a way to get rid of this.

I sit up at night, staring at the wall, drawing on my cheap wallpaper with a black pen. I want to help them. I want to figure this out. I write what I know to be true over and over. It's not a threat, not a person, not a human, not a court. I had to give myself a reason to write again. I've been trying to resist it for so long. It's like whistling a song that you know you can't stop humming.

If you start, it'll be on your mind all day. But I'll just do it. I'll do it until I get it out of my system. I don't care if it takes days or weeks or months. I'll figure it out. I'll get it out. And once it's gone, I'll be, back here to figure this out.

Not a day. Not a week. Not a month. Not a year. Not a threat. Not a person. Not a killer. Not a beast.

Not a thing. Not a. Not a. My father spent 30 years running from a small town church. I just found out why. Written by something. goes here too. My father was a hardworking man. He worked 10 or 12 hours a day, six days a week. We barely talked. Some days I'd find him passed out on the living room couch, or at the kitchen

table with a beer, eyes on the newspaper, but not really seeing it. His eyes would be sad and distant, face flushed. A couple beers in, he'd get like this. He wasn't drunk, just tipsy. I wasn't neglected, not by any means, but I was never front and center in his mind. Or at least, that's what it felt like. That's just the kind of dad he was. But then he died. We buried him the summer I turned 16. He fell asleep at the wheel and went into a ditch on his drive home from work.

Mom was, of course, devastated. He had a whole storage unit of bits and pieces of his life, a storage unit that we couldn't afford anymore. Mom drove me out there one afternoon, a few weeks after the funeral, the stuff she wanted to save one into the trunk, boxes and boxes of stuff. We went through everything. The air was thick with dust mites. He painted in college.

My father, who would sit with a thousand yards stare at the dinner table after a brutal day at work, had been a pretty good artist back then. There were a couple of landscapes, a few porches of people I didn't recognize. but that my mom said were distant relatives and half a dozen paintings of the same building. A little black church. It was squat, square, and plain, in unassuming building. The kind of tiny county church that could fit no more than a couple of dozen people. I knew my father was from the boonies, way out in the country.

Mom, where is this church, I asked, tilting the painting up? She glanced over and squinted at the painting. That's from when your dad was a kid, a church near where he grew up. He went there? I guess so. He painted it enough. She turned back to the box she was sorting through. Your father didn't really talk about his childhood.

I met him at college. He'd already left all that behind by then. He wasn't close to his family. I stared at the building. Just a small, dark building in the middle of nowhere. We went to my mom's folks every year. I'd never met my dad's family. They had barely showed up at his funeral.

That's what makes all these paintings so strange, she paused, wiping these sweat from her forehead. He must have done them early in college before we met. After that, he never painted churches again. Just landscapes. Pretty sunsets, normal stuff. You ever, uh, you ever ask him about it? a few times.

She stood there quietly, staring at nothing. He'd just changed the subject. He was good at that. He was excellent at that. I couldn't throw them away. Someday they'd end up in someone else's trash pile. Forgotten. But not yet.

I hung them up in my bedroom, all six paintings, arranged on the wall above my desk, where I'd seen them while doing homework. Mom came in one night, stood in the doorway, looking at them. She didn't see anything for a long time. You really want those up? She finally asked.

Yeah. She nodded and left. We didn't talk about them again. Two years passed. The paintings stayed on my wall. I graduated, applied to colleges, got accepted. Mom wrapped each one in newspaper when I packed. Everything I owned went into the back.

of the car. She drove me three hours north and helped me carry the boxes up four flat to stairs to my dorm room. Mom hugged me at the door. Call me on Sundays. I will. She looked at me for a second, then left. I unpacked the paintings last, hung them on the wall above my desk and two rows of three. I called my mom most Sundays. How's school? She asked one Sunday in my junior year. Good. I'm graduating to May. Your father would be proud. She always said that. I never knew if it was true. Hey, something weird happened last week, she said. Some of your dad's family showed up at the house. What? Who? I don't know. A man and a woman. They said there were his cousins, wanted to go through his things, see if there was anything they could have after all these years. What did he tell them?

to leave. It felt wrong, Charlie. They weren't at his funeral. They never called, never sent a card. Now they want his stuff. I stared at the paintings on my wall. Did they say what they were looking for? No, just that they wanted something to remember him by. She paused. They asked about you too. Where you were going to school, while you were studying, I didn't like it. You didn't tell them anything, right? Of course not. I don't have stupid she sighed. It just bothered me. Why now? What changed?

I didn't have any answer for her. I packed up my dorm in May. Everything fit in the back of a borrowed pickup truck. The paintings came down last. I wrapped each one in newspaper. Careful with the frames. I was carrying the last one down the stairs when my phone rang. I shifted the painting to one hand and dug my phone out with the other.

My foot caught the edge of a step. The painting hit the landing before I did. The frame splintered. Shit. I crouched down and picked her the pieces. The canvas was fine, just some scratches. I pulled it free from the broken frame, and something fell out. A small piece of paper.

Yellowed and folded. It had been tucked behind the canvas, invisible until now. I unfolded it. My father's handwriting. And the note reads as follows. Honey, my death likely brought this letter to your hands. I should have burned these paintings years ago. My hands shook every time I reached for the lighter.

These canvases are proof of my past. I kept them to remind myself why I had to leave that place. I ran from the church because the alternative was losing my soul. Their beliefs in their actions were rot. I refused to raise a family in that shadow. I refused to let their influence. touch our lives. If they ever come looking for you,

you must run. Do not seek answers. Do not try to understand the nature of their hunger. Just go. Your safety and Charlie's life are the only things that matter now. My phone was still on the ground where I dropped it.

I picked it up and called my mom back. Mom, I said, tell me about dad's family again. The ones who came to the house. house? What? Why? Just tell me. They were strange. The women did most of the talking. She had this accent, a really thick southern one. She kept smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. The man just stood there and stared at me. What did they look like? Old, 50, 60 maybe, dressed like they were going to church. Very modest, very religious-looking, I guess. I looked down at the letter in my

hand. Charlie, what's going on? I don't know yet, I said, but I'm going to find out. I found a forum where people researched obscure religious movements. I posted a picture of one of the paintings and said I was looking for information about my father's childhood. Three days later, someone sent me an image, no message, just an attachment, a photograph of a handwritten list, names into columns, maybe 30 or 40 total. Some had lines drawn through them. My father's name was third from the top, crossed off. I searched the marked out names, found 17 matches.

All of them have been born in the same cluster of small towns. All of them had left and started new lives somewhere else. Then they vanished or died under suspicious circumstances. sometimes 20 years after they'd gone, sometimes 30. A sick feeling settled in my stomach. Maybe it hadn't been an accident. A letter arrived two weeks later. My name and my apartment address written in neat, careful script.

The postmark was from a town I didn't recognize. Somewhere in the south. I opened it standing in my kitchen. Dear Charlie, your mother probably mentioned, we stopped by to see her recently. We should have reached out sooner. We know it's been years since your father passed and we're sorry we weren't there for you

both during that time. We've been thinking about your dad a lot lately. He was family. Even if you didn't always see eye to eye when he was younger. We'd love to share some stories about him with you if you're interested. We have some old photographs we thought you might like to see.

We'll be passing through your area next month for a church retreat. If you'd like to meet for dinner, We'd enjoy getting to know you. No pressure at all. We understand if the timing doesn't work. God bless. Thomas and Sarah.

And there was a phone number at the bottom. I didn't call the number. I sat on my apartment floor with the letter in my hands. They knew where I lived. They knew where my mother lived. And they had a list with my father's name crossed off. I packed a bag. I told my mom I was taking a road trip, seeing the country before job hunting started.

She thought it was a good idea. Said I'd earned a break. I didn't tell her where I was going. Didn't tell her about the letter or the list or why I was really leaving. The drive took two days. I could have done it in one if I'd pushed, but I didn't want to drive exhausted. The landscape changed as I drove south. Flat farmland gave way to rolling hills.

then thick forests that pressed close to the highway. Small towns appeared and disappeared. Each one looking more tired than the last. I stopped for the night at a motel off the interstate. Sleep didn't come easy. The next morning I drove the last hundred miles. State highways, then country roads, then roads that barely had names. The trees got thicker, houses became sparse, set back from the road behind long gravel driveways. I passed. a hand painted sign, Welcome to God's Country. 20 minutes later, I found the town,

a gas station, a post office, a dollar general, and a diner that looked like it had been there since the 1950s. Everything else was houses and churches, lots of churches. I drove through slowly. People on the sidewalk stopped and watched my car pass. Strangers probably didn't come through here often. The motel was on the edge of town, A single story, L-shaped building with maybe a dozen rooms.

The sign out front said Travelon Motel, but the paint was peeling and half the letters were burned out. I sat in the car for a minute. If these people were as connected as I thought, they'd hear about a stranger in town. Probably already had. I'd register under my mother's maiden name. Pay cash. No paper trail. I checked in.

then took the key and went to find my room. Thin carpet. Floral bed spread that didn't match the curtains. A TV bolted to the dresser. The bathroom was small but clean. I dropped my bag on the bed and sat down. I was here. Now what?

I decided to get food first, figure things out on a full stomach. The diner was easy to find. Right on the main road. Half a dozen pickup trucks in the parking lot. I went inside. The conversations dropped when I went. walked in. People looked up, then went back to their meals. I sat at the counter. A waitress came over, an older woman with gray hair pulled back in a bun. Her name tag said, Linda. What can I get you,

honey? Coffee and a burger. Whatever's good. Everything's good here, she smiled. You just get it into town? Yeah, staying at the motel for a few days. Visiting family? Something like that, I said. She nodded and went back to put my order in. I sent my coffee and looked around. The walls were covered in old photographs, the town in different eras. My burger came. I ate it slowly, listening to the surrounding conversations. Mostly talk about work, weather, whose kid was doing what, normal small town stuff.

But there was an undercurrent I couldn't quite place. The way people's eyes would flicker toward me. Then away. The way conversation seemed to pause when I shifted in my seat. I paid my bill in cash and left, drove around for a while, getting my bearings, eventually found the church, about three miles outside town, set back from the road behind a chain link fence, just like in my father's paintings, small, square, black-painted wood, a gravel parking lot with weeds growing through the cracks,

a hand-painted sign read Church of the Narrow Gate. service son, 10 and 6. I didn't stop. Just drove past. Slow enough to take it all in, and I headed back to the motel. I woke up before the alarm, showered in the tiny bathroom, and put on the closest thing I had to church clothes. Dark jeans, buttoned down shirt, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like my father. Same jaw, same eyes, same way of standing with my shoulders, slightly hunched. If anyone they remembered him, them, they'd recognize me. If someone did recognize my face, I could claim distant relation. Say I was looking into family history, give myself room to back out if things felt wrong. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was something. I drove to the church at 9.30. Service started at 10. The parking lot had maybe a dozen cars in it. All older models, all clean, despite the dirt roads. I parked at the edge and sat there from me. minute. Hands on the wheel. This was stupid. I should turn around, drive home, forget about all of it.

The front door was propped open. I could hear singing inside. Voices raised in a hymn I didn't recognize. I walked up the three concrete steps and went in. The interior was plain. Wooden pews, maybe 15 rows, a simple pulpit at the front. No stained glass, no decorations except for a large, wooden cross on the wall behind the pulpit. Maybe 20 people scattered through the pews. Families mostly. A few older couples. Everyone dressed modestly.

I was underdressed. A few heads turned as I walked in. An older man near the back gestured to the empty space besides him. I nodded and sat down. The singing continued. I didn't know the words, so I just stood there while everyone around me sang. The hymn ended and everyone took a seat. A man at the front, middle-aged with thinning hair and a kind face, stepped up to the pulpit.

Let us pray. Everyone bowed their heads. I did the same. The prayer was long. Standard stuff about grace and mercy and walking in the light. Nothing that raised any red flags. When it ended, the preacher launched into a sermon about the Book of Revelation, the End Times, the Tribulation, how the faithfuls. would be saved and the wicked would face judgment. Halfway through, people started speaking in

tongues. Just a few at first, scattered through the congregation, nonsense syllables that rose and fell in rhythm with the preacher's words. Then more joined in. Within a minute, maybe half the room was doing it. I'd seen speaking in tongues before. It usually lasted a minute or two. Then people would quiet down. This didn't stop. It built. got louder. The voices started to synchronize, falling into the same rhythm in the same cadence.

It stopped sounding like random utterances and started sounding like a chant. The preacher kept talking, his voice rising to be heard above the congregation, but he wasn't trying to quiet them. He was encouraging it.

His word shifted. His English dissolved into a guttural thrum. He wailed in a dialect of alien consonants in syllabint hisses. The sound dropped into a register that felt like a physical weights pressing against my ribcage. This was a predatory cadence. It echoed the damp, dark earth hidden beneath the floorbirds. The air in the church felt thick. My head started to ache, a dull pressure behind my eyes. The woman in front of me was shaking. Her hands raised,

her head thrown back, her posture stiffened, her spine locking up against the wood. A sequence of rapid, glottal clicks began to pour from her throat. These were sharp, almost precursive sounds. They were the noise of dry husks grinding together in a wind or pebbles sliding down a mountain. The rest of the congregation joined in a unified, dissonant wall of sound. Their voices had a low, vibrating frequency that rattled the marital. in my bones. I wanted to leave, but getting up and walking out would draw attention, so I stayed in my seat and tried to breathe through it. The chanting reached a peak, then suddenly

stopped. Complete silence. The preacher lowered his head, placed both hands on the pulpit. When he looked up, he was smiling. The spirit is with us today, brothers and sisters. Let us give thanks. Everyone murmured in an agreement. The woman in a woman in front of me, bowed her head, calm now. The preacher stepped down from the pulpit. The service seemed to be ending. People started to talk quietly among themselves. Behind the pulpit, a door at the back of the church opened.

A man stepped through. He wore a white suit, immaculate, spotless. He also wore a pale mask that covered his entire face. No features, just plain white with two holes for eyes. eyes. The congregation went quiet again. The silence changed into something reverent, expectant. The man in the mask walked slowly to the pulpit. His gaze swept across the pews row by row. When his eyes passed over me, I felt a weight, like something pressing against my skull. Brothers and sisters, he said. His voice was deep, Southern accent, thick and smooth. We gather here,

in the shadow of the Almighty. We stand at the edge of eternity. The great work continues, and we are blessed to be a part of it. He raised one hand. Let us give thanks for what has been provided. Let us prepare for what is to come. The congregation responded in unison. It wasn't exactly words, more like a low hum that vibrated through the building. I felt it in my chest, in my teeth. The man in the mask began to speak. It wasn't English or tongues. It wasn't English, or tongues. something stranger. The sounds were incomprehensible, syllables that didn't fit together, rhymes that made my head pound harder. Images flashed in my mind, a pale mass shifted in the darkness. This shape was vast and wet and ancient. I felt a heavy undulation in the deep.

A slick muscle began rising toward the surface of my thoughts. This presence radiated a cold, absolute hunger. I closed my eyes, tried to block it out, but closing my eyes only made it worse. The vision was clearer in the dark. The chanting ended abruptly,

and I opened my eyes. The man in the mask was looking directly at me. For several seconds, neither of us moved. Then he lowered his hand and stepped back from the pulpit. He turned and walked through the door behind him. It closed with a soft,

Click. The congregation started moving again. People stood, gathered their things, headed for the exits. Like nothing unusual had happened. The man beside me stood and offered his hand. Welcome. I don't think we've met. I shook his hand.

Charlie, just visiting. He nodded slowly. You look familiar. You got family around here? Distant relatives, I think. I'm trying to track down some family history. Thought I'd start by. visiting local churches.

Well, you can't do the right place. Lots of old families around here. He smiled. I'm Tom. You should come back for evening service, 6 o'clock, more informal. Good chance to meet people. Ask about your folks.

I'll think about it. You do that. Tom patted my shoulder and walked away. I stood there for another minute. Waiting for my head to clear. The pressure was fading, but slowly. The vision was reluctant to let go. I walked out into the parking.

and the sun felt like it was too bright. I squinted against it and got into my car. Hand shaking. I gripped the steering wheel until they studied. I'd seen something. Or felt something. I didn't know which, but it had been real. There was something in that church,

something that responded when they called to it, and they all acted like it was normal. I drove back to the motel and sat on the bed, staring at the wall. Evening service was at six. I had a few hours. I wasn't going back for evening service. I'd seen enough. Now I needed to see what they didn't want visitors to see.

I needed to come back at night. I spent the afternoon at the diner. Coffee and pie I didn't touch. Linda refilled my cup. A few locals nodded at me. They'd probably seen me at the morning service. By the time I got back to the motel, it was almost dark. I sat in my room and waited.

Watch the clock tick past six, past seven. past eight, evening service would be over by now. I changed into dark clothes, jeans, black t-shirt, hoodie, put my phone in my pocket, made sure it was on silent. The drive to the church only took ten minutes. I killed my headlights a quarter mile out and coasted the rest of the way, parking on the shoulder behind a stand of trees. The church sat dark against the night sky, no cars in the parking lot, no lights in the windows. I watched for five minutes. Nothing moved.

I circled around the building. The back had a small window, the kind that tilted out for ventilation. It was lashed, but the latch looked old. I found a rock in the gravel and used it to tap at the frame until the wood splintered enough for me to work the latch free.

The window swung open. I pulled myself up and through, landing hard on the floor inside. I was in a storage room, shelves lined the walls stacked with hymnals and boxes of candles a door on the far side led into the main sanctuary i pulled down my phone and turned on the flashlight the sanctuary looked different at night the cross on the wall behind the pulpit seemed larger somehow i walked down the center aisle the door behind the pulpit that's where the man in the mask had come from i walked up the steps to the platform

and tried the handle. Unlocked. Behind it, a dim hallway. My phone's flashlight seemed muted, as though the darkness was pressing back against it. I could see another door at the far end, but nothing else. The hallway smelled like damp earth.

The door at the end was unlocked as well, and opened to a stairwell. Concrete steps leading down into the darkness. The smell was stronger there. I covered my nose with my sleeve and started down. The stairs went deeper than they should have. One flight, then another, then another. The temperature dropped.

The walls changed from concrete to rough stone. Water seeped through the cracks, making everything slick. At the bottom, a tunnel, carved through the rock, shored up in places with old timber beams, looking like an old-time gold mine. electric lights hung from the ceiling every 20 feet or so. Bare bulbs that cast weak yellow lights. Someone had been down here recently.

The lights were on. The tunnel opened into a chamber. It was large, maybe the size of a gymnasium. The ceiling was high and disappeared into shadow. The floor sloped gently down toward the center, where the room opened into a vast pit. Around the pit, symbols have been carved into the stone. Geometric patterns I couldn't quite understand, my eyes kept sliding off them.

And at the edge of the pit, there were people. I quickly ducked behind a support timber. I counted maybe a dozen figures in white robes, standing in a circle at the edge. They were chanting, the same inhuman noise I'd heard during the service. It resonated through the chamber, through my bones. In the center of the circle stood the man in the white suit in the pale mask. Nealing in front of him, hands bound, was a young woman in white shorts and a t-shirt. She was blindfolded.

She was crying, trying to pull away from the hands holding her. But the people in robes didn't let go. The man in the mask raised his arms. The chanting grew louder. Something in the pit answered, rising slowly. A pale shape in the darkness, glistening, wet. My eyes tried to follow the edges of it. find where one part ended and another began, but the edges kept moving, reorganizing,

a surface that might have been skin split open and folded back on itself, something that looked like a milky and unfocused eye rolled to the surface before sinking back down into the mass, a cluster of what might have been tentacles emerging from a different section, flexing and curling before they were absorbed back into the hole. It was massive. What I could see peeking over the edge was just, just a fraction of it. The rest extended down into the pit, into depths I couldn't understand. Pain spiked behind my eyes. I pressed my palms against my temples. The pressure didn't help.

My vision blurred at the edges. I blinked hard. The thing was still there, still rising. My teeth ached. My jaw was clenched so tight I thought something might crack. I tried to relax muscles, but couldn't. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, under it, a sound like static, or wet things moving against each other. I started shaking. I felt like I was outside my body looking in. They pulled the blindfold off the woman. She saw the abomination and began screaming,

snapping me back to awareness. The robe figures lifted her and carried her to the edge of the pit. She fought, but there were too many of them. They held her over the edge, suspended above the thing below, then they threw her down. The thing began to descend back into the pit, taking her with it. Her screams faded as it pulled her down,

down into the darkness, down until I couldn't hear her screams anymore. The robed figures lowered their heads. The man in the mask stepped back from the edge, and every head turned towards me. I must have made a sound. Or maybe they'd known I was there the whole time. The robed figures moved calmly and deliberately towards me. I staggered backward, away from the outcropping. My legs felt like they weren't working right.

I tried to run, but my body wasn't responding. Static ran through my nerves. I made a few steps before my legs gave out. Hands grabbed me, pulled me upright. I didn't fight. What was the point? They dragged me back towards the pit. I thought they were going to throw me in, feed me to that thing waiting below.

But they didn't. They pulled me past the pit. Toward another tunnel I hadn't noticed. Deeper into the earth. The man in the mask walked alongside. He didn't say anything. Just watched as they carried me away. The last thing I remember before the darkness took me was a white rag, reeking faintly of something chemical, covering my mouth.

Then nothing. Whatever they had used to drug me was wearing off, but my mind still felt thick. My awareness slowly floated up out of the pit of black velvet it had been stewing in. I was hanging by my arms from overhead. I looked up. Thick chains bound my wrists and dug into my skin. A gag filled my mouth that tasted. faintly of rubber. I tried to swallow but couldn't. A single naked light bulb hung above me,

casting deep shadows around the rest of the room. I had completely fucked up. I knew what rooms like this were used for. I knew what was coming. The metal door creaked open and the male with the pale mask and the crisp white suit from the ceremony walked in. He cocked his head to the side and smiled a joyless smile. I'm going to break you boy and there's nothing you can do about it. almost sounded ridiculous in his deep southern accent. Like I was being threatened by Colonel Sanders, but there was absolutely nothing funny about the quiet malice in his voice. He circled around me, dragging something long and thin

that I couldn't quite make out across the bare floor. The anticipation made my guts feel cold and twisted. I heard the first strike whip through the air before it landed. Across my shoulders, a line of burning pain. I jerked and twisted against the chains as my back exploded into, fire, a cane, a bamboo cane, shit. You came here thinking you'd be the one, didn't you? He kept circling, the one to expose us, the one to save everyone. His voice seemed to jump around, sometimes close to my ear, sometimes behind me. Another strike lower this time. I strained

against the chains biting into my flesh. You're what? 21, 22, you've been alive long enough that you think you understand how the world works. You have no fucking clue. Three vicious strikes, one right after the other. My screams were muffled by the thick gag. I tried to focus, but between the pain and the drugs, my mind felt soft. You were careful. Or at least you thought you were.

Thought you'd be covered your tracks. His voice stayed level almost bored. You thought you were smarter than the people who'd been doing this for 30 fucking years. He stopped, and I heard him take a deep breath. The arrogance of youth. You can't help it. The end of the cane tapped against my skull. Once, twice.

You still think you're special. Nobody's coming for you, and nobody knows where you are. He was in front of me now, crouching down. Through the pain in the tears, the mask was just a blur of white. And in a week, nobody will remember they should be looking. He stood, started circling again. You'll understand eventually. If there's enough of you left to understand anything,

Time stopped meeting much after a while. They took my clothes and gave me an oversized pair of joggers and a t-shirt to wear. They'd move me from the room with the chains to a cell. Brick walls, no windows, a metal door with a slot for food. Then back to the room with the chains. The colt leader would come. The cane would come out. I'd scream until my voice gave out.

Then scream some more. Sometimes it was the cult leader. Sometimes it was others. Men in robes who didn't speak, just did what they were told. They gave me water and enough food to keep me alive, but that was it. The horror wasn't in the pain, but in the mechanical, tireless way they went about their work. They moved with the efficiency of a machine designed to harvest rather than to punish. I lost track of how many times they dragged me back to that room.

The days bled together, but I'm sure at. had been at least a week or more. One night, or maybe it was day, the lock clicked quietly. I braced myself for what was to come, but instead, the door eased open a few inches, and I caught a flash of a light blue eye and a face that looked familiar. Then footsteps faded down the corridor. I stared at it a while. This had to be a trick, a test.

They were watching to see if I'd try to run so they could punish me worse, but I was already broken. What more could they do? I pulled myself to my feet using the wall. Every movement set fire through my back. I stepped into the hallway. The tunnel branched. I took the path that sloped upward.

Figured up was good. Up meant service. Up meant out. I heard two voices ahead. One of them was the cult leader. I'd know that smooth southern drawl anywhere. The other voice was unfamiliar. Pleading.

I followed the sound. The tunnel opened into the chamber with the pit, the same place I'd watch them feed the woman to that thing. Only two people this time. Just the man in the white suit standing by the edge of the pit, and another man on his knees in front of him. The kneeling man was older, maybe 50, with my father's eyes, my father's face. I knew it without being told. This was the person who'd sent me the list. This was family.

The cult leader had a gun. He was talking. His voice calm and measured. Explaining something to the man on the ground. I couldn't make out the words. Then he raised the gun and fired. The sound echoed through the chamber. My distant relative fell forward, clutching his chest.

I ran at him. My legs barely working. I stumbled once, caught myself, kept going. The cold leader heard me at the last second and started to turn. I tackled him with all these strength. I could manage. My shoulder drove into his ribs and he went over the edge. For a split second I thought I was going

down with him. My momentum carried me forward. My feet skittling on the damp cavern floor. Then I caught my balance before I went off too. He fell, the pale mask coming loose and drifting away from his face. Just an old man. White hair,

deep wrinkles, eyes wide with terror. His white suit bright against the darkness below. He didn't scream, or if he did. I couldn't hear it over the sound of the cycloplane shifting of weight within the gloom. A rhythmic wet grinding of cartilage and bone rising to meet him. I staggered over to the man laying on the ground. He looked so much like my father, it hurt. He was still breathing. Shallow and wet sounding breaths. Blood spread across his shirt. Go, he whispered. His eyes found mine.

Same shape as my father's, but lighter. Go now. I can't leave you. You have to. He coughed. More blood at the corner of his mouth. Tell people. Tell them what happens here.

Sounds rose from the pit, screams in wet, ripping noises, then nothing. He fumbled at his pocket, pulling out keys and press them into my palm. My car, blue forward, parking lot, close, wallet, phone.

Everything you came here with is in the trunk. Come with me. Can't. His breathing was getting worse. I'm sorry about... I'm sorry about your father. About all of it. I should have...

I should have done this years ago. What's your name? He smiled. Blood staining his teeth. Daniel. I'm Charlie. I know. His eyes started to close.

Run. Charlie. I ran. back through the tunnels, up the stairs. I burst through the door behind the pulpit. Into the church sanctuary. Early morning light came through the windows. The front doors were locked from the inside.

I flipped the bolt and ran outside. The parking lot was empty except for a few cars. A blue Ford. 20 years old. Rusted around the edges. I got my stuff out of the trunk and started driving. I didn't know where I was going at first, just away. But after an hour, I realized I was heading.

north toward home, toward my mother. I needed to warn her. I had to tell her everything, but more importantly, to make sure she was safe. I drove for hours. I stopped once at a gas station and used the bathroom to watch the worst of the blood off. The clerk stared at me but didn't say anything. Once I was back on the road, I tried to call my mother three times. No answer. She was fine. She had to be fine. I crossed the state line. Two more hours to go home. My phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer. Hello? Is this Charlie? A man's voice. Official sounding. My stomach dropped. Yes? This is Detective Garrett with the County Sheriff's Department. I'm calling about your mother, Sandra. There's been a incident at her residence. We need you to come. What happened?

Sir, I think it's better if we discuss this in person. Are you in the area? What happened to my mother? Silence on the other end. Then... There was a fire. I'm very sorry. The rest of the conversation was white noise. I don't remember what he said or what I said back. I remember pulling over the side of the highway, sitting there with my hands on the wheel,

staring at nothing. Then I was driving again. I pulled on to my mother street just after nine. The house was dark. The roof was gone. The walls were blackened shells. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front yard. A single patrol car sat at the curb, but no fire trucks.

No ambulances. They had already taken her away. I parked and got out. Walked toward the house like I was in a dream. The patrol officer got out of his car when he saw me approaching the tape. Sir, this is an active of investigation. That's my house, I said. My mother.

Hold on. He pulled out his phone made a call. Spoke quietly for a minute, then hung up. Detective Garrett is on his way. Should be about 20 minutes. You want to wait in your car? I shook my head. The officer went back to his car, but kept watching me.

I sat down on the curb across the street. The smell of burned wood hung in the air. Wet ash. Chemicals from whatever the firefighters had used. A neighbor's porch light came on. Mrs. Patterson from two doors down. She came out on her bathrobe. Saw me.

and started crying before she even made it across your yard. She sat next to me on the curb, said she'd seen my mother just yesterday morning. They talked about the garden. Then last night, around seven. She'd smell smoke. Call 911 by the time the trucks got there. The whole house was engulfed.

Detective Garrett arrived 15 minutes later, got out of an unmarked sedan, walked over to where I was sitting, structure fire, arson investigator, my mother's body. I'm so sorry for your loss. I asked when it happened. He checked his notes yesterday evening. They had already won.

Before I even pushed their leader into the pit, they'd already taken what mattered. I sat there and stared at the ruins of the house where I'd grown up. Nothing was left. The detective asked if I knew of anyone who would want to hurt my mother. Any threats? unusual contact in recent weeks. What could I say? That a cult in the middle of nowhere

fed people to a monster underground and they killed my mother to tie up loose ends? He'd think I was crazy. Or in shock. Or both. So I said no. Said I couldn't think of anyone. Said my mother was a good person

who didn't have enemies. He gave me his card, told me to call if I remembered anything. anything and said they'd be in touch. I sat on the curb until the police left too, until it was just me in the burned house. My father had run from that church to protect his family. He'd spent 30 years keeping his distance, never looking back, never mentioning it. I'd undone all of it in a few weeks because I found a letter and thought I deserved answers.

And my mother. have paid the price i regret participating in a deja vu study written by costi use ongi and i'm sorry for me to pronounce that but let's get into it i don't really want to get into why but i lost my job and needed some quick cash i've done various research studies and medical trials for cash before so i thought it would be an easy way to get something to help hold me off until i could find another gig. I came across an ad for a medical study that paid surprisingly well, so I signed up without thinking too much of it. The building was huge, and I got turned around. The long, identical, white hallways all meshed together as one in my head as I tried to find room 312. I arrived late,

but the staff was kind and understanding. I was told that this study was on deja vu, and that full participation in this study required the insertion of a microchip in to the brain. Look, I really didn't want a chip implanted in my head, but this study paid really well, and I needed the money. They told me that deja vu was like a glitch in a particular area of the brain, which they had been able to isolate. Upon insertion, the chip would cause a constant, minor stress of that area of the brain, making deja vu more likely to occur. All I had to do was record the details of what happened leading up to the same. an episode of deja vu that I experienced. That way, they could identify patterns and specific

triggers, which they could then use to trigger an episode of deja vu on me inside the lab. There, they could record and monitor the episode for their research. I signed the consent forms and the procedures was done right then and there. It was a bit nerve-wracking to be awake while something went into my skull, but overall, it was relatively quick and painless. I did, however, experience a dull ache at the insertion site afterwards, which was one of the side effects they had listed. The other possible side effects included nausea and insomnia, as well as phantom odors, minor confusion,

and increased heart rate during an episode. So I expected to have some side effects. I expected to have some minor confusion, but what I have experienced since then has gone so far beyond that that I no longer know what to do. I'll start with my first episode, which was so tame in comparison to the others, but at the time, really unsettled me.

It was about a week after the insertion. I made my morning coffee the same way I do every single morning. I started up a pot of coffee, took the cream out of the fridge, and grabbed a mug, all while the coffee was brewing. The coffee finished brewing, so I picked up the pot and began to pour the coffee into my cup. That's when I felt it.

It came on like a rush, as if I had ridden a wave backwards in time and was reliving a recording of the moment that had passed only seconds ago. I know I poured my coffee this same exact way every morning, but this was different. I hadn't just poured my coffee like this before. I had lived this very moment. The rush were off, and I was left any kind of days. Unlike any time I'd experienced deja vu in the past. My vision was fuzzy, and I was on autopilot as I poured the last bit of coffee into my mug. I picked up the mug, and I took a sip.

It wasn't coffee. The unfamiliar taste caused me to snap out of my days. The mug was filled with pure cream. Puzzled, I stared at it for some time as I tried to figure out what on earth had just happened. I know I wasn't painful attention, but I so vividly remember picking up the pot of coffee, and pouring it into my mug. But when I looked back, the coffee pot was full and untouched. The cap to the cream sat on the counter, and the container of cream was half empty.

They said minor confusion was a side effect that went along with an episode of deja vu. But I started to pour my coffee before the deja vu set in, so it just didn't make sense. It was so unsettling. But I eventually accepted it. attempted to transfer the cream from my mug back into the container and poured an actual cup of coffee. I convinced myself that it wasn't that big of a deal, which is something I now regret. The second time I felt deja vu was three days later. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth.

Nothing out of the ordinary. It was just as is when I would brush my teeth before bed. I didn't really think too much of it when I was doing. My mind was wandering here and there in a feeling. few different directions, never fully focused on the actual act of brushing my teeth, but I was still conscious and aware. Of course, I've brushed my teeth in this same spot before, but when the rush of deja vu hit me, I was certain that I had rewound time and was now reliving this exact experience of brushing my teeth. The way I looked up at myself in the mirror, the exact movements of the

bristles sweeping across my teeth, side to side, up and down, the rush to side. The rush faded as I continued to brush. But my mouth tasted absolutely foul, bitter. It burned. It burned so badly and I couldn't breathe, I stood over my kitchen sink, my heart beating violently as I desperately gasped for air, simultaneously spinning out a gritty white foamy substance out of my mouth. I spat and spat, but it was still there. I released the death grip I hadn't even realized I had on my own toothbrush and frantically reached for the faucet. I yanked the water on and shoved my head underneath. The water splashing both inside my mouth and all over my face.

A powdery substance remains stuck to the insides of my molars, and I switched the water around aggressively in my mouth in an attempt to get rid of it fully. After several minutes of rinsing and swishing, I turned off the faucet and paused. Everything was quiet, aside from the occasional ping of the water, dripping off of my face and into the metal sink. My mouth burned, and the foul taste lingered. But I was okay. My panic was subsiding, and I knew I was okay.

The toothbrush I had previously had a death grip on was sitting next to the kitchen sink. It wasn't the toothbrush I'd used to brush my teeth with regularly, but I recognized it. It was the toothbrush I kept underneath my sink to clean with, and for that, I used Comet. the powdered cleaner. This was more than just the unsettling feeling I experienced after the coffee and cream incident. This was chilling. My mouth was still burning,

and I couldn't imagine what would have happened if I'd swallowed accidentally. I threw up not too long after that, and that night I hardly slept at all. I planned to call the research clinic as soon as they opened the following morning and have them removed the chip. But of course, the following morning when I called,

the clinic was closed. Being unemployed can make you forget what day of the week it is. And that day, I found out. Was Saturday. I didn't want to stay home, but I was too scared to leave. On that day, I watched TV. I didn't eat or even brush my teeth. On that day, I did not experience deja vu.

The following day, I couldn't bear to stay home. I was so afraid that I'd be alone and something terrible would happen. these mundane tasks. I didn't want to do them. I didn't want to leave, but I forced myself to. I packed my things and went to the gym. I thought that maybe it would be harder to do something stupid while surrounded by so many people.

My stomach growled on the drive there, but my mouth still burned. Parts, especially near my back molars, were completely raw. I packed my toothbrush just in case, but I was too scared to brush my teeth again. I probably looked awful, but I didn't care. hair. I hit inside of my baggy hoodie and baseball cap. Despite being hungry and in pain, the workout actually boosted my spirits quite a bit. I felt much safe for being around people. And despite

feeling terrified that the deja vu would hit me again, for some reason, I felt that I'd rather it hit here. I worked my arms until they refused to move anymore. And then I went to the stairmaster. I don't know how long I'd been climbing the stairmaster for before the rush hit me, but somehow it hit even stronger than it had the previous times. I felt with all my power that I had stepped on this machine in this exact way, precisely, at this exact same time. I had reround my own timeline and was watching it play out. My vision blurred completely, but I continued to climb.

I climbed up and up and up. The rush were off and I was left in a similar weird days, but still I kept climbing. up and up and up Only now the sound of my feet hitting the stairs sounded different With every step I took A metallic clang rang out

It was slippery It was raining I slipped and lost my balance I was jolted out of my days And instinctively grabbed out the metal post Which connected the platform I was on To the handrail My hands gripped the wet

Slippery metal post With what little strength I had left While my legs dangled in the air about a hundred feet up. I was hanging off the side of a fire escape in the rain, trying desperately not to fall to my death. My fingers turned white as they gripped around the post, but they were sliding off. I was going to fall. I had the most intense boost of adrenaline I've ever had in my life and somehow managed to pull myself up. My fingers slipped off the pole just as I had pulled myself up. Then I scrambled forward frankly and clung on to the side of the building.

I sat crouched in that position for quite some time. I don't know how long I never calmed down, but I eventually gained enough courage to begin to climb down. This building looked old and possibly abandoned, and I had no idea how I had gotten there. It sat on the stairs, slowly and carefully, lowering myself down one step out of time. I cried when my feet hit the pavement,

and I saw my car parked on the street. I didn't know where I was, but it felt unsafe. There were several abandoned-looking warehouse buildings, bits of trash were being carried up by the wind, and then beaten down by the rain, which was now coming down much more heavily than before. My phone was sitting on the passenger seat,

although I didn't know how it got there. Never in my right mind would I leave it there, especially in an area like this. But I picked it up, typed in directions, and drove straight home, shaking and crying the entire time. I don't know how, but I managed to sleep.

I woke up early the next morning and stared at my phone until the second it hit 8, which was the time the research clinic opened. My desperation poured through into my voice as I begged the receptionist to let me come in today and get the chip removed. I explained that I was having very severe side effects and needed it removed immediately.

She was hesitant but scheduled me for a 3 p.m. appointment. I drove there straight after the phone call and waited in my car for hours. I wasn't going to take any chances. I went in at 2.30. I was sick of waiting. I broke down as soon as I walked into the waiting room. I felt so relieved to be here and finally get this thing removed.

One of the nurses put her arm around me and guided me back to one of the patient rooms. She took my vitals and waited with me until the main clinician arrived. I remember feeling so grateful that she waited with me. I didn't want to be alone. I explained everything to the clinician. He had the audacity to try to convince him. me to keep the chip in, but I wasn't going to budge. Not after what happened. He explained that confusion was a common side effect, but I told him I didn't care. I told him his research wasn't

as important as my life, and he reluctantly agreed to remove the chip. They prepared everything for the procedure, and I was placed in the exact same chair I sat in before. When they made the insertion just last week, I sat there in that chair as the clinician spoke to me. He guided, me through what he was doing. He told me he was going to make the incision, then said he was going to insert the metal rod used to remove the microchip. I sat as still as I could as the rod was slowly inserted into my head. I knew I had sat in that same chair before. I knew I had that same rod inserted into my head. But now, I felt certain that this familiar feeling wasn't from the insertion. It was from right then. I had already experienced the removal of the chip. I had already

and now I was reliving it. I screamed so loud that it made my own ears hurt, and then I went into a daze. Something painful struck my head. It struck again, this time more intense than before. The pain became unbearable as it pounded into my head, over and over again, again and again in the same spot. My vision was completely blurred,

and the smell of blood filled my nose. I snapped out of my days and nearly veiled. vomited due to the pain. My eyes darted from side to side. I was afraid to move, but when I looked around, there was no one there. There were no lab assistance, no monitors, equipment, or tools. I was in a large, dark room. The walls had been torn apart, and water leaked through the cracks in the ceiling. It was dark, damp, and smelled of mold. My head ache terribly, and I instinctively dropped what was in my hand to cover my head, which was bleeding all down my shirt. The clank of metal hit the concrete floor, and I looked down to see a long metal screwdriver covered in blood next to me. I was sitting in this

old rundown warehouse with blood pouring from my head and a screwdriver next to me. No one else was here. I had done this. I hardly remember leaving the warehouse. I had felt so parallel. I felt so parallel. inside of there, but I eventually made it outside. My car was parked on the side of the road. It was parked in the same place as yesterday when I had climbed the fire escape of the building that I now realized it was the same building I'd just been in. Again, my phone was on the passenger seat. I was bleeding profusely and not thinking clearly. I called an ambulance, but they never came. I called the clinic, but they didn't pick up. I called an ambulance again, but again, they never came. I sat in my chair for what felt like hours before giving up and driving home.

I'm sitting in my bed now on my phone. I was scrolling for hours and finally decided to write this post. Maybe tomorrow I'll try to go to the hospital, but I'm just not sure of anything right now. I really don't know if I trust anyone to remove the chip, considering what just happened. But I realize now one thing feels certain. as I type this out, it feels so clear. I've typed this very sentence before. Just now.

This too. I went back and now I'm here again. This story, these words. I just wrote this. I just wrote this before and now, just now I'm writing this again. I'm certain these words. I'm certain I've written them before.

During my last robbery, I found something I wish I hadn't, written by Sunhead Prime. At the outset, I should tell you I'm a thief. Not a classless, smash and grab, guy, or a lowly pickpocket. Those require no planning or strategy beyond move quickly and be ready to run. I'm a fourth-generation cat burglar. I'm very good at my job. If everything goes right, you don't notice I've been there for weeks, if ever. I understand most people find this kind of work deplorable.

I'm okay with that. I could go on and on about how the system steals from us all all the time and how the rich used their ill gun gains to subjugate us and give you the whole I'm really a Robin Hood type figure. But I will spare you all that rationally. I'm a thief because I'm good at it and was raised in a culture that values it. There are other reasons, but it's not worth getting into them. To be a cat burglar isn't just about breaking into a house and cleaning out a safe. That's part of the job, sure, but

like an iceberg, most of it remains hidden from view. My father used to tell me, being a thief is being prepared to be bored out of your mind. He wasn't wrong about that anyway. Wrong about a lot of other things. But I digress. Once I narrow in on the address, I have to sit. That sounds easy, but it's not. It's boring. Clean the garage boring. Waiting in the line of the DMV boring, but it has to be done.

Veg before ice cream, boy. Veg before ice cream. That again. He told me this while housing a sleeve of fig Newton's before dinner. Much to my chagrin, he was right. Again. Outside of watching a house for hours on end, there are so many dozens of other things to keep track of. Has anybody seen you while your case in the place?

What hours do the servants work? What's the best way onto the property? How do I get in and out of the house with little chance of being caught? Each question needs to be answered beforehand. Finally, the big question. What's the security situation? A lot of these McMansions come pre-built with high-tech security features in place for the first year. That's when the lower cost prices disappear.

Most people, even millionaires, will cut off. services at that point. They keep the signs, sure, but not the actual equipment. That's gone like disco and ain't never coming back. Why? There are two major reasons. First, the rich live in a bubble and don't believe anyone can get to them. Money enables hubris. Second, rich people are the cheapest people in the world. Why pay for the real thing when a cheap lookalike will do? Capitalism's beating heart is to make the most money by spending the least amount of it. The illusion of security is cheaper than actual security. The night of the robbery, I felt good. Prepared, I'd watched, noted everyone's daily schedule, marked my entrance and exits, knew where the primary

bedroom was located. I even wore my lucky shirt. I waited until I saw the Uber leave and then started my half-hour timer. It's been my experience that the help empties out, not long after the boss leaves. Cats away and all that. As if on cue, the servants bolted as soon as the Uber was out of sight. I still waited the 30 minutes. Like a shitty magic spell, stragglers can transform into witnesses. Seeing none, I made my way onto the property.

The most tense moment of any heist is when you're about to break in. Even in all black, even in the dark, there's still a chance someone could see you. A nosy neighbor, a dog walker, a panhandler, anyone. Time works against you. Too slow, you draw attention. Too fast, you make mistakes. A steady hand and a calm demeanor are key here. I have those in spades.

This is also the moment that you can't plan for. Did you miss bars on the window? Are there more than one lock on the door? Did someone stay home? Is the alarm system on? Are there cameras rolling? It's a gamble that can cost you your freedom, your life. It's also a rush.

I've discovered that. Most of the time, upper floor windows in McMansions are unlocked. The thinking goes, well, we have several layers of security before anyone could get to that point. Why bother? I get it. It's a mistake, but one most people would make. Hanging on the outside downspout, I sighed in relief.

The window was unlocked. I pushed it open the window and climbed in. My moccas didn't softly touch the floor, making no noise. They're not the most durable in the wild, but inside, they are worth their weight in gold. No tread to ID, no noise on carpets, comfortable is all hell. The room was dark, and I had no desire to change that. I keep a tiny penlight in my pocket for that reason. I've become so accustomed to seeing the world in the tiny circle of light that my eyes quickly attuned to the dark,

a cat in every sense. I assume the truly valuable things, wills, bank account information, holy grails would be in a safe. I don't crack safes, well, not in people's homes anyway. Too complicated, too messy. I was after jewels.

Thanks to my extensive history, I knew where to find them. Even in the dark, you can tell how obscenely large the walking closet was. It wasn't even fair to call it a walk-in closet, more like a studio apartment for clothes.

Three of the walls were lined with suits and dresses that may have been worn once, maybe twice. Some still had tags on them. The last wall was dedicated to shoes, red bottom, louis batons, and rare Jordans as far as the eye or penlight could see. But what caught my eye was the makeup vanity carved into the wall like Petra and these Sherrill Mountains. More specifically, the three jewelry boxes sitting there. I moved to them like a zealot to the temple. This was what I came for. My hall would keep me in the black for a while,

unless it was costume jewelry. The cocktees of stones, that would say. I pride open the first lid and smiled. Dozens of bejewed broaches shimmered before me, like the hundreds of eyes of some mythological monster. All shapes and sizes, most ugly but authentic, the genuine article has a certain touch to them. They heft.

These were legit. I plucked a few from the bottom of the box and placed them into my bag. My fingers found something that had an odd shape. I pulled it out to get a closer look. A triangle inside a pentagon. It was on the small side but was full of diamonds. Valuable, very. But something felt wrong about it.

I dropped it back in. The longer you do this job, the more adept you get at picking the right things to steal. The secret is you only take two or three pieces at a time. Of the few you take, ensure they're plain looking. Nothing memorable. Unique pieces are hard to fence. If they end up in a pawn shop or a cop finds them, it's only a hop, skipping a jump until it's traced back to you.

Iron handcuffs, jail time, hard pass on my end. As I put the piece in my bag, my light started flickering. I gently tapped it against the vanity. As I did, I glanced up into the vanity. to the mirror. My heart seized. There was a figure standing near the open window. Out of instinct, I snapped around,

ready to rumble, but the figure was gone. I flipped off my lights and pocketed it. I turned back to the mirror and my breath caught. It was standing in the closet doorway now. I bawled my fist. I wasn't going to jail. I'd go down swinging. But when I spun to me to them eye to eye,

the figure was gone. Again, I was confused. I know I saw someone. I couldn't tell you the details, but there was a person standing there. Watching. Watching like, well, like they weren't surprised to see me in there. The sound of footsteps running from the primary bedroom down the hall echoed through the empty house. After a beat, I heard a door slam somewhere on the floor.

My legs wobbled underneath me. My mouth was dry. I'd experienced plenty of odd shit on the job, but a ghost? Never. Unless it wasn't a ghost, if it wasn't I was truly up Shits Creek without a paddle. A person could be worse, but would be worse. A ghost can't call the cops. If you like fucking cardboard tubes or lubed up dudes, jails the bees' knees, Brian, dad again.

I was eight when he shared this pearl of wisdom with me. What can I say? It stuck with me. It had become my guiding principle, make smart decisions, or learn to squeeze the shaman. My eyes caught the billowing curtains. It snapped me out of my days. Exit, yes, but maybe not. Curiosity urged me to go down the hall and see what had been watching me.

The thought germinated and bloomed before my rational mind ripped it out of its roots. Get out now, idiot. I started for the window, but stop myself. Clean up, uh, and then go. As I turned to shut the boxes, I heard the familiar slam of a window. Someone had shut my egg. exit route. Fuck. I turned in. Naturally, there wasn't anyone there except the sound of footsteps running back down the hall. Another door slammed. Holy hell, I said. My tongue felt fat in my mouth.

I swiftly cleaned up and made my way to the window. As I got there, I heard something every thief dreads. The front door opened. I knew it wasn't the one I'd heard before, because I heard the loud, boorish homeowner come barging in. you're up there. I saw it on camera. My fingers gripped the window and I tried to yank it up. It wouldn't budge. Felt like invisible hands held it down. Panic spiked my blood. My fingertips prickled with fear. I had to hide now. I retreated into the closet. As I did, I heard the door down the hall open up again and footsteps raced to the stairs. They stopped at the landing, turned and ran back to the room, slamming the door as they did. This seemed to agitate the owner.

increases rate, racing up the stairs two at a time. He bellowed, you better pray to God I don't catch you. I'm going to take my time making you bleed. So much so that your final ascension will feel like a relief. I didn't know what any of that meant and didn't want to find out. The diversion, though, gave me enough time to find a spot to hide. There was only one that would work, behind the racks of clothes. It wasn't ideal, but I was out of options. I split the close like I was Moses part in the Red Sea and slid into the gap behind them. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. Another sound, a cell phone ringing joined them there.

God damn it, the voice spat. You're lucky, you little bitch. Run now, but you can't hide from me. I'm everywhere. After another ring, he picked up. Pete, buddy, what's going on? His tone had changed entirely. My heart was zooming.

It felt like a booger sugar addict running wind sprints. I've been close to being. hot before had to slip the fuzz once or twice but never found myself in a situation like this. I tried to keep my cool, but my body didn't give the message. I trembled. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Fat droplets rolled down my face. I took a deep breath to try to re-center myself.

It didn't work. Trust me, Pete. I get it. I know how many strings you have to pull to get me involved. The man was now in a primary bedroom. I prayed he'd avoid this closet. but when the overhead light popped on, I knew I was as good as fucked.

He was coming in here. I leaned back against the wall, as if it would eventually absorb me. I kept my hands bald into fist in case I had to come out swinging. Loathe as I was about to admit it, I was trapped. A thief's worst nightmare.

No way out without announcing myself. Worse, I had a limited line of sight. Even if there were a chance to leave, I'd have a hard. Hard time seeing it. A man dressed in an expensive tuxedo, speedwalked into the closet. He was older, perhaps in his mid-50s, but didn't look it. Not at first blush.

Good skin, finely trimmed mustache, and a head full of slicked back black hair. He looked like a cartoon drawing of a crooked politician to come to life. I did my due diligence. No family connections, no internet profile, no warrants, nothing, and nobody. Perfect for the gathering. He paced as he spoke. When he came by where I was hiding, through these suit jackets, I could get a better look at him. Upon closer inspection, the man's actual age shone through.

His face bore telltale signs of plastic surgery, plastic, uncanny valley look. While most of his hair was jet black, he had the budding growth of silver, poly-wallnut-style wings around his temple. The corners of his eyes and mouth had the faintest of cracks. Yes. He was that close to me. The man pressed the phone against his ear and held it in a place where his shoulder as he shimmed out his suit jacket. He flung the expensive jacket onto the ground as if it were covered in ants.

The phone never left his ear. Pete, Peter, seriously, I know. I get the scope, okay? Yes, I know. It's why I double back. I'm changing. I know they're very particular. Only get one shot at a first impression. He stopped directly in front of me.

and shook his head. Would I get a first impression? His conversation engrossed him. That thrilled me. If he had even been the tiniest bit bored, he might have noticed a face staring back at him from the Armani wing of his closet. Just then, the lights in the closet flickered.

The man looked up at the blinking bulbs and shook his head. As he did, I spotted something hidden away across the closet. Standing half in the shadows was the figure I'd seen earlier. It wasn't a person. I wanted to scream. I wanted to turn and run away as fast as my jello legs would take me, but I couldn't do anything, but shut my eyes and wish it away. So that's what I did. Christ, the man said. No, not you. The fucking closet light is on the fritz again. I know I should have hired your guy, but Mary was so big on the asshole, built this out. What could I do? Happy wife, happy life, right? Pete said something, and the man, Guffaud.

Should I say happy second wife? Happy life? Nothing would have pleads that first bitch. As the two men laughed, I felt a presence appear next to me behind the clothes. A feeling in the animal part of my brain. A predator was near. Flee. Run for the safety of the bush, little rabbit.

But I couldn't. Not even when I felt the hot breath on my neck. This got me to wrench open my eyes. I turned and expected to find some biblical ghoul waiting to devour my soul, waiting to devour my soul. Instead, the man's hand reached for a suit jacket beside me, a $300,000 watch on his wrist, the salt and pepper arm hair escaping his starched white shirt,

money to burn. What I didn't see or feel was the ghoul. It was gone. The light flickering also stopped. The creature's absence took away some of the tension but didn't set my mind at ease. I was still trapped. If this guy stumbled or moved his hand three inches, he'd hit me square in the face.

I held my breath, afraid my faint breathing might alert him. He yanked the jacket off the hangar. The hangar swung back and hit me square in the right eye. I slammed my lid closed and squeezed hard, praying that would take away the pain, but knowing it wouldn't. I wanted to rub it. I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump up and down in pain, but all I could do was trap the pain in my body and wait for him to leave.

The light above started to strobe again. That, coupled with my wounded eye, made it damn near impossible to see anything clearly. But my ears worked just fine. Over the man's tasteless jabbering, I heard floorboards outside the closet creek. Pete, let me tell you, I'm so excited to join up with the organization. I think you guys are going to love the tasty, little, the light shut off. So did the man's mouth. I used the darkness to scratch on my eye like in 1980s DJ. I've blinked once, twice, three times. It stayed open. It hurt like hell, but I could

see again. Or I would be able to if the light hadn't just shut off. Jesus Christ, I hate this goddamn closet. No, just let me let you go. I got to check something out before I leave again. I know, I won't be late. He hung up his phone. but fuzzled with it, trying to turn on the flashlight. The screen's weak light lit up the edges of his face. He looked otherworldly. A hideous goon god had not intended to replicate. His fumbling fingers finally found the flashlight.

As soon as he flipped it on, his phone died. God damn it, Chinese crap. How does this bullshit cost $1,000? The only light now poured in from the open closet door, right near where I'd heard the creaking. My cat burglar trained eyes had adjusted to the low light. I strained my neck trying to get a peek at the door, but the man's body had come between me and the exit.

Mumbling to himself, he strode toward it. Before he could leave, though, something quickly ran into the bedroom and slammed the closet door shut. I heard the turn of a lock before the sprinting of feet as they ran down the hallway. The man screamed and slammed into the door. The walls rattled, but the door held firm. He shouldered it again as hard as he could. It was a dumb mistake.

He crumpled to the floor, moaning in pain and grabbing at his shoulder. Fucking hell, he said, rubbing his wound. He kicked the bottom of the door twice. Not in any attempt to open it, but out of frustration. I'm going to beat someone's ass. He kicked the bottom of the door a third time for good measure. He pushed himself back up, muttering curses under his breath, and made his way to the vanity.

He felt along the side of the counter, until he found a latch and pulled it. With a click, the vanity revealed itself to be a door into a hidden room. An eerie white light emanated from the room, and I realized it was the glow of dozens of TV screens. A panic room. I couldn't move to get a closer look, but it was clear he was searching for screens for something,

or more likely, someone. He walked deeper into the panic room, and I took that moment to shuffle. Ever so quietly, a little, closer to where he was. I fucking knew it, the man yelled. The hate and menace in his voice made me wince. Seconds later, he came storming out of the panic room with something in his hands.

I couldn't make it out at first, but when he swung it against the door, I realized it was an engineer's hammer. Wump, wump, wum, kaching! The handle snapped off after several swings. Light from the outside room poured through the hole. The man pressed his face against the opening and scanned the primary bedroom. He put his mouth to it and yelled, I know you're out. When I find you, you're going to wish you were dead.

For dramatic flourish, he booted the closet door. It violently swung open, slamming into the doorstop and vibrating like a tuning fork. He walked through, clutching the hammer hard in his hand. He had a murder on his mind. I was just glad he wasn't coming after me. The now familiar sound of footsteps running down the hall, called prompted the man to sprint after them. I heard a door slam across the house.

The rhythmic pounding of the hammer on the door handle soon followed, creating the worst-sounding drum and bass track of all time. Last man at the bar fucks the ugliest broad. Dad from my memories. Confirming what my gut already knew. It was time to split. I pushed through the clothes and crept toward the closet door. I had a clean path through the window.

The man was preoccupied with his side. hammer. I didn't want to imagine where the ghoul was. I was 15 feet from freedom. So why couldn't I convince myself to leave? I knew I should. Self-preservance screamed at me to fling open the window, shimmy-shake down the drain pipe and sprint to my car. I felt my dad pushing me from behind the grave. Move, you idiot. The fuzz will be here soon. But something was holding me back. If this guy killed someone and I didn't stop it, I'd never forgive myself. I'd have. I had never forgive myself. I I'd have that person's blood on my hands. I couldn't carry that weight.

I'm a crook, not a bastard. Signed, I changed course and headed for the panic room door. I needed to see what was happening. I also needed to find out where the cameras were located in the house, so I wouldn't inadvertently show up on one. It might also show me another pathway to escape if the need arose. My mouth hit the floor as I walked into the panic room. A bank of monitors displayed nearly every inch

of the house inside and out. I had spotted the outside cameras while I cased the place and found a dead zone between them. That was not true inside. There was a camera pointed directly at the window I had climbed through. There was one looking at me right now. Fuck. The man wailing on the handle caught my eye. While it only took a few direct hits to dislodge the first handle, this one was not cooperating with him. I watched him take six massive swings, nothing. It held firm. firm. Top quality handle. Adamianium-esque. I looked around for anything else I could use for a weapon and came up empty. Maybe there would be something I could use in the bedroom. With the man focused on trying to break down the door, I eased my way out of the closet and into the room. The place was spotless.

Nothing dangerous in here, but unearthed wealth and few scruples. There wasn't anything I could use to counteract a hammer swing. Damn it, I muttered. Who are you? came a voice from under the bed. I screamed in fright, but a quick slap of my hand over my mouth stopped it from escaping into the wider world. I glanced down to the floor under the bed. Were all my worst childhood fears coming true at the same time? Despite every horror story advised me not to,

I got down on the floor and looked under the bed. A scared woman in her early 20s was staring back at me. Her eyes were wide and I could see her trembling. She was filthy, but I'm not sure if she had to be. entered the house that way. A sour stent surrounded her, and I realized she'd been here for a while. She had broken and bloody

fingernails, as if she'd been trying to pry open a stuck door. On the back of her hand, I saw raised pink hillocks of fleshly branded skin, a shape that I instantly recognized, a triangle inside a Pentagon.

Who are you? She asked again. Her voice was a vapor. Might as well be honest. A thief, I said, who the hell are you? He kidnapped me. He's been holding me for two, three weeks the woman said, her voice breaking. He was gonna say, her voice caught again. He's, he's a monster.

Suddenly the phone conversations the man had with Pete made more sense. It chilled me. Whatever he had planned for this woman would not be pleasant. What's your name? Yanez, she said. Brian, I said. He's busy, Yanez. Let's get out of here.

I can't. What? Why? Not yet. He's chasing shadows, I said. My voice transforming from a whisper to a yell. Now's the chance. I promised him I'd help him finish his job.

You promised the monster? No, Annes said. At once, all the lights in the house flicker and shut off. With every electrical machine off, the house felt still. Abnormally quiet. I could feel my heartbeat. It vibrated through my whole body. Wait.

No. This wasn't my heart. The entire house was vibrating. I promised the demon I conjured. Who the fuck is in my bedroom? The man yelled from down the hall. She's my prize, you hear? Tell Pete to find his own goddamn lamb.

Get under here, Brian, and as yelled. I wasn't going to argue. I dropped to the floor and army crawled under the bed. As soon as my legs were safely under, the entire house shuttered again, rolling like an earthquake. My stomach flipped, and I chewed back the vomit that had charged the gates.

As fast as it came, it left, both my bile in the house. It was still again. The only noise I heard was the chain of the fan gently tapping against the dome light. Whatever you do, Annes whispered, don't look at it. I shut my eyes. A concussive explosion blew out the door down the hall. I heard the man cry out before I heard his body thumped against the wall. A sickening crack of bones snapping on impact echoed down the hall.

What the fuck? Two thunderous, house rattling stomps followed. The man was whimpering in pain and fear, and God knows what else. I heard him stand, but before he could flee, the air shattered with the sounds of dozens of different people's agonizing screams and a low, rumbling growl. Oh my God, the man yelled. The panic in his voice palpable.

His brain's terror messages finally connected with his legs. The next thing we heard was the thump thing we heard was the thump to footsteps rushing towards us. Why not leave, I thought. The stairs of the exit were right there. Then it dawned on me. He was trying to get to his panic room. The place where he believed his money had bought him security,

his sanctuary, his safe place. What he didn't understand was that there would be no protection there. He wasn't going to find a shelter to shield him from the bomb. He was going to find his tomb. As soon as he crossed the threshold of his door, an invisible force shoved him in the back. Ragdoll-like, he flew through the air, crashing into the window. It shattered. Glass fell around him like those shimmering jewels I'd seen on the brooch. The man landed with a thud next to the bed. Despite Yanez's warnings, I opened up my eyes as his body crashed near us. I saw the man. He saw me. Blood leaked out from dozens of slices across his arms and face. There was a burn mark on his back, and his skin sizzled. You could smell the stink of cooked meat. I think about what went through his brain at that moment. I think about what went through his brain to that moment. An unholy monster was chasing him, threatening him, his life was on the line,

he's just suffered traumatic injuries, then he sees a strange man hiding under his bed with the woman he planned to use for some ungodly horrific ritual. Before the chaos of the moment returned, he had to think, what the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you? The man attempted to stand but a scaled, covered hand seized him in an iron grip. He struggled. yelled, pleaded, but he couldn't break free. The creature let out another choir's worth of screaming voices and dragged the man toward the closet by his hair. The man screamed at us to help, but we didn't move an inch.

Have mercy, please. Have a family. This isn't right, please. I glanced at Yanez. She was stoic. I wondered if the man had felt the same indifference when he abducted and beat her. Each time the demon's clove and hoof hit the carpet, it ignited the fabric. Little fires everywhere. The man screamed as the closet door slammed closed behind him. The next sounds we heard were the snapping of bones and the dying screams of a condemned man. Let's go, Yanez said.

Shimmying out from under the bed. Don't have to tell me twice. Several of the smaller fires had coalesced into a larger blaze. The house was a goner. The flames blocked the doorway to the stairs. Yanez held up her hand to shield herself from the heat, but it was in vain. She turned to me, eyes pleading.

What do we do? I got this, I said. I dashed the window and knocked out the remaining broken glass. Smoke poured out into the night air. Come on, I yelled. Climbed down the drain pipe. I have a car nearby. Yanez nodded and nearly leapt out the window.

She moved down the drain pipe so quickly, I lost sight of her almost instantly. I climbed out the window and stopped to look back in. The black smoke filling up the room made scene, anything impossible. I felt my tool bag strapped to me. I reached in and found the broaches I stole. Holding them up to my face, I could see dozens of little fires reflecting off their surfaces. Without giving in a second thought, I tossed everything I took into the house. I don't need a curse following me. Hurry, please. The firemen are coming, Yanez said. She was right. Fire and police.

Probably. I don't want to be here when they arrived. I can't imagine Yanez had any desire to stick around any longer as well. Once I was on the ground, I helped her climb the outer fence and clambered over after her. As we hit the ground, I saw dozens of neighbors coming over to watch the show. None of them seemed to clock us. I grabbed Yanez's hand and led her into the darkness away from any potential witnesses. We walked the three blocks to where I had stashed my car. The neighborhood was alive with the approaching sirens and burning mansion.

Yonez sat down on the curb, put her head in her hands, and sobbed. I wanted to comfort her, but wasn't sure if I should. Are you okay I finally offered? No, she said. But when is life ever okay? I laughed. Got me there. She spat towards the mansion.

I hope his soul rots in hell. I'd say he got what he deserved. I had so many questions for her. But didn't feel like now was the best time for him. Well, there was time for one. Even if I wanted to avoid asking. My mouth just went for. it. How did you do that? The demon? I nodded. I prayed for it. But you're praying to God,

right? I said, confused. I prayed for revenge, she said, standing, and something finally heard me. Did you promise it to anything? Do you owe it your soul or something? She gave me a weak smile and wiped away her tears. I would never get that answer. She softly touched my shoulder. nodded her head in thanks and started walking down the street. I wanted to call out to offer her a ride somewhere, to ask her those hundred questions, to offer her help. She didn't want it, didn't need it.

She operated on a level that was higher than I could even conceive, dabbled in things I couldn't imagine, dark things, things I didn't want to imagine ever again. Despite my curiosity, I didn't follow her. She needed peace. Solitude.

A thought came to me in that moment. When you've got what you came to get, you'll leave. That was dad again. He was talking about breaking and entering. But I couldn't help but feel like it worked now too. We both got our freedom back. A second chance we thought we'd never get. When you got what you came to get, you leave.

Thanks, Dad. There's a reason the forest behind her house is fenced off. I wish I'd listened. Written by First Difference, 904. When my wife Sarah and I bought the house, it felt like a dream come true. Quiet neighborhood, plenty of trees, in a big backyard with a rusted, overgrown fence running along the far edge. The realtor said the forest behind it was undeveloped,

land, no trails, no utilities, no trespassing. She mentioned the fence was probably an old property divider. But it wasn't just a fence. It was nearly eight feet tall, made of rusted iron with twisted sharp points along the top, like it was built to keep something in, not out. Right in the center, hidden behind vines and moss was a gate, welded shut with thick seams of metal and rust. On the inside of that gate, our side, someone had carved a single word into the metal. Stay. At first we thought it was some strange leftover from the previous owners. Maybe they were paranoid.

Maybe they had kids and wanted to scare them from wandering into the woods. Now I think they were trying to warn us. The dog noticed it first. Bear is usually friendly. Dumb as a rock, but loyal. After we moved in, he refused to go near the fence, wouldn't even step into the backyard. He'd stand at the sliding door, growling softly, tail low, ears pinned. Then the dream started.

Sarah said she kept dreaming about the woods, dense, black trees, packed tighter than they should be. She said she heard things walking just out of sight, shapes moving between the trunks. I shrugged it off, told her it was stress, new house, new environment, normal adjustment stuff. Then I started having the same dreams. And then it got worse. One night last week, I woke up at exactly 3.17 a.m. Not from the noise. Not from a nightmare.

I just knew I had to wake up. The house was silent. Even Bear wasn't snoring. I got up and looked out the back window. There, standing inside the fence, on the other side of the welded gate, I couldn't see much, just a tall silhouette, pale, almost white, barely human-shaped. It didn't move, didn't run when I turned on the porch light. It just raised a long, thin arm, and pointed at me.

I blinked. It was gone. The next morning I found bare footprints in the dew. Human-looking, but wrong. Toes too long, arches too low. They led from the gate, across the backyard, and stopped right beneath our bedroom window. That night, Sarah said I was talking to my sleep,

not mumbling, whispering. She said I kept repeating the same phrase over and over again. Let me back in. I remember now. Let me back in. I don't remember any of it, but she swear she saw me get up around 2 a.m. Unlock the back door and stand by the fence. Just staring.

She said I whispered something to the gate and something whispered back. Last night was the worst. I woke to Sarah shaking me, tears in her eyes. The gate, she said, listen. I held my breath. In the silence, I heard it. metal groaning a slow dragging shrieking noise rusted hinges straining we ran to the window the gate was open bent inward like something had forced its way through the wells i grabbed a flashlight and went out barefoot heart pounding the air near the gate was colder still like the woods themselves were watching and that's when i saw it the word on the gate stay was gone scratched over with deep jagged gouges.

Now it said, welcome home. I don't know what I did. I don't know what's calling to me from those woods, but something is, something that remembers me. And I think I'm starting to remember it too. When I was 11 years old, my family was in a car accident,

written by Snoo Suggestions, 281. We were coming home, from my sister's soccer game. We kept asking Dad to stop at McDonald's. He gave us the typical we have food at home and money doesn't grow on trees.

Talk. I think we were wearing him down. He looked at my mother, whispered something, and started to change lanes. We were getting excited in the back seat. Our house was only a mile or so down the road and my dad was taken in an unexpected turn. We knew not to keep asking at this point.

Dad loved little surprise. little deceptions, like when he told me we need to stop at the bank after school, and instead he brought me some ice cream. Or the time he woke us up early on a Saturday for a doctor's appointment, only to bring us mini-golfing into the arcade. Mom secretly loved when he did this. She loved how far he would go to surprise us, even if it was just a happy meal. The arrow turned green, and dad started driving again. I was too busy thinking about what toy would come with my meal. I didn't see anything. I heard that shout,

Oh my God! Then everything went black. I woke up seconds later. At least, I felt like it was only seconds later. I wasn't in the car anymore. My vision was fuzzy. The lights were so bright. It felt like I was staring at the sun.

I just wanted to wipe the sleep from my eyes, but my body felt like it was a thousand pounds. I started to feel panicked. I heard a voice say, buddy it's okay easy now i looked into the direction of the voice it was a lady she was purple my vision was slowly coming back to me things around me were starting to take shape no she's not purple it's her shirt in her pants it's a it's a nurse did that really bring us to the doctor's office instead of mcdonalds i know that can't be true but nothing makes sense right now i feel the panic inside of me

growing. It's okay. It's okay. Try to calm down. You've been through a lot. Your parents will be so happy to know that you're awake. The nurse had a calming voice. I don't know why I'm here, but she makes me feel safe. I have so many questions. I don't know where to start. What happened? Where's my mom? How did I get here? My brain was racing. I tried to speak, but all I could say was What? The nurse told me that my family was in a car accident. Someone sped through a red light while my dad was turning and crashed into us. She said that we must have had an angel looking out for us

because everyone in our car survived and she couldn't say the same for the other car. Apparently, I took the most damage. She says I've been in a coma for five days. At first, they didn't believe I was going to make it, but I started showing signs of improvement after the third day. She sat with me another minute or so, then told me she was going to get my parents. They must have been worried sick.

Mom was probably biting her nails to the bone. She always bites her nails when she gets stressed out. I'm sure Dad is blaming himself, even if it wasn't his fault. Jenny must be so scared. She's always been the nervous type. She still comes into my room every time there's a thunderstorm. I'd hate to see how she was

when she thought her big brother was going to die. But the nice nurse lady did say that my family survived, and now I'm awake. That means that everything is going to be okay. Or at least that's what I thought until the door at the hospital opened again. When the nurse walked back into the room, there were two people behind her, a man and a woman. They had bandages on their faces, and the man had a cast on his arm. Oh, thank God, the woman said as she walked up to my bedside, she had tears in her eyes. The man stayed back a step with a hand on the woman's shoulder.

He said, I told you as a fighter. I knew you'd pull through. This isn't right. Maybe my eyes were still adjusting. No, no, he can't be. That doesn't sound like them either. The woman leans in to hug me and I flinch. There must be a mistake.

I don't know these people. Where are my parents? Don't be silly, the woman says while wiping the tears away from her face. It's me, baby. It's mom. Now I'm 100% certain these people are my parents. My mom would never call me baby. She hates pet names. She won't even call me Matt. It's always Matthew. I can feel the panic lump in my throat again. I begin speaking louder, almost shouting, you're not my mom. I don't know you. Where's my mom? Where's my dad? And where's Jenny? The woman slowly backs away, turning her head. looks over to the nurse. Is he okay? Her voice is trembling. He, he, he, he doesn't recognize me. The nurse steps forward. After severe trauma, sometimes people can suffer short-term memory loss. He may be disoriented and need some time to get his bearings. I started shouting louder, almost screaming now. I know who my parents are. They are not my parents. I pointed directly

at the pair to emphasize my point. And where's my sister? Where's Jenny? Sweetie, who's Jenny? You don't have a sister. The woman said in hysterics. Nurse, you have to do something. There must be some kind of brain damage. Sweetie, again, my mother would scoff if she heard someone call me sweetie. My fighter flight senses are kicking in.

My panic turns to rage. I start thrashing in my bed, trying to find these strength to stand up and leave this nightmare. I'm connected to too many wires and machines. I don't even know where to begin. The man is holding on to the woman. in the corner. She's still crying, but I can't be bothered by it. The nurse rushes over to my bed. She's trying to calm me down, but it's no use. She hits a button in the side of the bed. In seconds, the man and woman are pushed out of the way by a group of nurses trying to restrain

me. They're holding on to me and trying to keep me from hurting myself. Once they realized that I wouldn't calm down on my own, the nice nurse lady said, we're going to have to sedate him. One of the other nurses rushes out and back with a small bottle and a syringe. They held down my leg and stuck me, injecting the fluid into me. It was warm. My arms started feeling heavy again. I was lacking the ability to speak, to fight back. Before I lost consciousness, I looked to my side and saw the man and woman again. They were standing in the doorway. The last thing I remembered seen before everything went black was the woman's face. She was staring at me. She said nothing, but her mouth was wide open.

She was smiling. And all right, guys, that wraps up some unsettling Reddit horror stories. I hope you enjoyed today's video. If you did, please like the video, subscribe to the channel, and comment down below if you'd like to see more videos like this in the future. This was a long video, two hours and 13, 14 minutes. So, yeah, my voice is cooked. These were some good stories, though. I really enjoyed these.

I mean, what were your thoughts? What was your favorite story? I really enjoyed the first one, not A. I mean, it just had a very unique vibe to it and a very unique story. I just really love that one. And if you liked that one as well, please comment down below. Or if you had another favorite, comment that. I read every single comment.

So please comment down below your thoughts. And yeah, if you enjoyed this video, I'm sure you'll enjoy some other videos on the channel. So check out those. And make sure you follow my Instagram and follow me on Spotify. And I just want to say thank you so much for watching the video. I mean, your support means so much. And I love this community. This community is the best on YouTube.

And yeah, that's it. So this is Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.