Snook - Unsettling True Reddit Stories

Episode Date: April 18, 2026

These are some of the scariest and most disturbing stories I have ever read... what was your favorite story? Make sure to comment your thoughts down below! Thank you all for watching, it means the world! And please rate the podcast 5 stars and follow the podcast! It helps a ton! Please do not attempt to contact anyone talked about in this video. Send a confession to be read! [e-mail] Join the Patreon! ⁠https://www.patreon.com/SnookYT⁠⁠ Follow me on instagram and Spotify! If your story or post was included in today's video and you wish for it to be taken down, please reach out to this email. [e-mail] And yes, I'm a human voice. NEXT SUB GOAL - 1,000,000 subscribers! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today we will be going over some unsettling true Reddit stories. We'll be getting into stories like that. And they're all true. And I mean, it is Reddit. So they could be not true and they lied to get into the guidelines. But from what I know, these stories are true. So I hope you enjoyed this video.

And true stories are some of my favorite because it's kind of more scary that they're true. So I hope you enjoy it. And thank you so much for watching. And before we get into it, please like the video. and subscribe to the channel. It's the channel's goal to be at 500,000 subscribers, so please subscribe. And all right, anyways, without further ado, let's get into some unsettling true Reddit stories. Pulled over by Weird Cop. So this was right back when 9-11 happened. I, female, 24 years old, was driving by myself across country to get to my son who was with my ex.

I had been out of state taking care of a sick family member. It was the middle of the middle of the of the night in New Mexico, and I saw police lights behind me. I was exhausted and annoyed because I hadn't been speeding or anything. There were not really any other cars on the road at the time, and I was close to the exit for the hotel. I had planned to stop at for the night. I pulled over, and the cop came over to the driver's side window, which in itself was weird because usually they came to the passenger window on busy roads, and this was a highway, so I gave him all my stuff, and he just stared at me for the longest time. He walked to his car and then returned almost immediately. He told me to step outside the car.

Okay, so I was worried at this point because I'd gotten tickets before, but being asked to step outside of the car was not the norm. I did as he said, and he asked if I had been drinking. I said I hadn't. And then I asked why he pulled me over. He said I was driving erratically, which was not true. He then asked me if I was a terrorist, which was absurd. I was a young American white woman just driving, so there was really no reason for this

question. It was weird and I was a veteran with an ID also. He gave me a walk, the line drunk, driving test, which I passed, and then said he needed to search my car to see if I had drugs. I thought about this for a minute because I knew my rights and all, but it was so late and I was so tired. I just didn't want to deal with all the BS of refusing, so I gave him the okay because I knew I didn't have anything in my car. So when he got to my truck, he opened up a small suitcase. I had that was my dancer's stripper stuff. He had. He had, about it and I told him I was a stripper. This really set him off and he started screaming at me about being a trash person. This pissed me off and I started looking around at my situation.

I was alone for the most part with this weird guy and every once in a while a car would pass by but for the most part the roads were empty. It was the middle of the night and I didn't have anything on myself to protect myself and he had a gun. He told me then I needed to walk back into the tree line that was next to the road. I stared at him and said no. I demanded he call for backup and other officers come he was thrown off by this i said i wanted a female officer and i would no longer comply with anything he said and then i started trying to wave down cars when they did pass by he told me to calm down rode out a speeding ticket and let me go i never paid the ticket and never heard a word about it this was 20 years ago at the time i was really shaken and just forgot about it

but looking back i don't think he was a real cop why i'm not a locksmith anymore Locksmithing has been in the trade of my family, for I don't even know how many generations. I've been working as once since I was a kid, helping my father and my grandfather. I learned all the secrets and methods of the job, studied how to install, break, assemble, and disassemble all kinds of locks. I could easily disassemble the lock of a bank vault if given the right tools, money, and a legal permit. I have unlocked hundreds of doors and cars, installed hundreds of new locks, fabricated thousands

of keys and take pride in saying I have never ever used my knowledge for criminal ends, as so many locksmiths in my region secretly do. I have successfully and financially sustained myself and my family with locksmithing for almost 30 years. And yet I'm closing my workshop tomorrow and already signing the documents to work with my wife in her bakery. The reason that made me quit locksmithing is simple. I can't do it anymore after my last job.

I tried. I really did. But after that fateful assignment six months ago, I realized that it's not for me anymore. Every time I open a stuck door, I have flashbacks. My heart starts racing and my eyes ache. I can once again see those cursed angles. Don't get me wrong. I love locksmithing.

It's the only thing I'm really good at. It's something that gives me great pride. I'd even started teaching my daughter on the basics and she enjoys it as much as I do. It'll be hard telling everyone I'm quitting, telling my wife, my daughter, my client, my friends, none of them will understand, and for their own sake, it must remain that way. I've already told my dad. He was incredulous when I said I'd be quitting the craft. He was not only my most important mentor, but my inspiration and role model. His body is not even a husk of what he once was, but his mind is still sharp. I knew from the start that this would be the hardest

conversation of all, so I decided it should be also the first. I approached him in his bed in our living room where it's easier for us to take care of him since he can't climb stairs or live alone anymore. And I told him about everything. Father went from disapproving to fully supporting me. But he also said something that I considered. No one but him must know. Ultimately, I decided not to follow his counsel for the first time since forever. We locksmiths know how to deal with stuff we are not supposed to see.

Our work is about locking places. Sometimes this is about key. keeping things in and sometimes about keeping things out. Locksmithing is almost synonymous with security and privacy, but it's hard to keep something so perspective changing to yourself. So I decided to write it down. One day, maybe I'll have enough courage to share it to my family or even the world. I don't know.

I've not even decided what fake story I will be using to explain my abandonment of the locksmithing business to all my former clients and acquaintances. Well, let's go back to the beginning. Six months ago, I was called by Greg Becker to unlock a locked door in his property. Now, Greg Becker has never been a popular or particularly well-respected man. He is in his late 70s, and since I was a child, I heard rumors about his weird Oculus practices. Obstantiated rumors, though, I thought. Until Greg called me urgently at 2 a.m., saying he needed help getting into his house.

I was already sleeping in the phone. woke me up. I tried to dissuade him, saying my prices in the graveyard hours were exorbitantly higher than the daytime hours, but the old man was adamant, claiming it was an emergency. I dressed up, packed my tools, apologized for my wife for leaving in the middle of the night like this, entered my pickup and drove to his property. Well, old Greg Becker had a pretty house, a big rustic. It was located at the edge of town, almost in the rural zone. I parked my vehicle there and exited it. Greg Becker was on his porch, carrying a lamp light, yet I could clearly see that the door of his house was open. I angrily questioned him why he didn't call me to tell me.

He had already found a way in, but he evasively replied that he actually needed me for something else. More often than not, that means trouble, so I was already going back to my car when he offered a thousand bucks. That was what I made an entire week of hard work, so I couldn't refuse. I followed Greg cautiously through the overgrown grass to a barn located a couple hundred yards behind his house. If the old man's house was rustic, then the bar was outright decrepit. The wooden structure seemed like it had been there for decades without any repairs or restorations. There was no paint, and the whole thing was falling apart. He pointed the lamp light at the entrance of the barn, and I immediately saw how it stood out from the rest of the building.

It looked more like the entrance to a bank vault than a quasi-abandoned barn. Hell, I had seen bank vaults that were easier to break into than that barn. I tried questioning him what it was, but Greg refused answering me. I said it would be easier to break the wall, which was already fallen apart, but he reminded me about the $1,000. Well, beggars can't be choosers. I asked if he could at least bring me something I could sit on, as this would take a while. This time he complied, and a few minutes later, I'd already set up my stuff on the ground and was working. It wasn't easy.

It was dark, and I was sleepy. I asked for a coffee and Greg simply left me there and disappeared into his house. At first I thought he was just making one for me. But after 40 minutes, I realized the jerk ass had probably gone to sleep. That door had 100 different locks. One fucking hundred different locks. That meant that the crazy old man had to carry 100 different keys. The more I thought about it, the lessons it all made.

The door was clearly new, impeccably clean, even if everything around. it was old and falling apart. After a handful of hours, the sun was rising, yet I had only unlocked five locks. Whoever built that door was either a perfectionist or a psychopath, or both. Greg Becker appeared wearing pajamas and carrying two cups of steamy coffee. I asked him where the fuck he was, and he just casually said he went for a nap. I was furious by that point, so I stood up and told him that. If you wanted someone to open that door, he needed to at least show some fuck.

fucking respect. The old man sneered to me and just said $5,000. I was starting to doubt him, so I demanded that he paid me half first. Greg went inside the house and came back with an envelope full of money. I started working back on the door right away. The worst part was not the unending locks, the disrespectful client, the mystery surrounding the entrance, or the scolding hot sun on the sky. It was the maddening boredom of it all. Becker refused to talk to me because he said the job demanded discretion. There was no sound whatsoever, and my phone had no signal. I didn't even know how he managed to call me there. I hadn't picked a signal ever since my car drove into that street. I didn't even have a watch, so the sole indicator of the time was the position of the sun.

Around two in the afternoon, I unlocked 17 locks. Greg Becker appeared to check on my progress, and I told him I was starving, that I needed to go home to rest of the billet. Greg wasn't happy, but he said that he needed me. So he just asked that I was back before midnight. I went home, my wife was pissed, but after I'd shown her the money, she reluctantly agreed to let me keep working on Becker's door. I didn't sleep well that afternoon.

I kept having these weird dreams about Becker, years younger, carrying lots of bloody plastic bags into the barn. In the end of the dream, I saw myself opening the door only for him to appear behind me and beat me to death with a baseball bat. The nightmares were unnerving, but I attributed them to stress. At 6 p.m. I was back on Greg Becker's property, but that time I brought 20 hours of downloaded podcast. Greg handed me a cup of coffee, his lamp light, and said he'd check up on me on the

morning. I started working again. On the first night, the experience was stressful, but that night it was somehow dreadful. I kept having this irrational instinct that made me check behind my back all the time. And considering his property was his house, his barn and a big, dark, endless open field of overgrown grass in nothingness, there wasn't even a moon that night. I kept working on the door, promising myself I wouldn't work here after the sunset. I unlocked another lock. That was number 21.

I heard the house door opening. Becker was coming towards me, carrying two cups of coffee. Something was wrong. The sun was already shining. I had unlocked 32 of the locks. Had my automatic mode fully taken over? I looked at my phone. I'd only listened to three hours. Something was very wrong. I felt like this barn was wrong. This door, it was evil somehow. Becker handed me a cup of copy, and I refused.

I had this feeling that he wasn't trustworthy. He simply smiled and went back into his house. I continued my work, but even more than, during the night, I was feeling watched. When I unlocked the 46th lock around two in the afternoon, I heard a loud scream coming from inside the barn. And I almost broke one of my tools due to the fright. Enough was enough. I went to Becker's house and knocked on the door. He came out, that smug smile on his face. I told him about the scream and asked what the hell was going on.

He told me that I should go home, eat something, and rest a little bit until tomorrow, as I had been working for more than ten hours. I went back home and locked my own door and then I was back on the barn. Greg was running towards me, carrying a baseball bat. I woke up screaming, covered in sweat. My wife asked me what was going on. What happened and I told her about my nightmare. What really freaked me out was not remembering when exactly I lay down to sleep.

She said that ever since I started this job for Greg Becker, I'd been acting strangely like something was bothering me. I replied that something was indeed bothering me, but I couldn't figure out what it was yet. She said that I should stop, that I should give the man his money back, and forget all about all this. And I agreed with her, but somehow I couldn't stop now. Even before the sun rose, I had already packed my stuff

and was driving to Greg's property. This time I promised myself things would be different. I would end the job, get my money, and never pick up a call from Becker again. I went towards the barn door and started working on it immediately, putting on my earphones and listening to my context I downloaded. It was only after Becker appeared, carrying two cups of coffee that I realized I'd left my phone in the car. And that meant that the

voices I was listening to were, I quickly removed my earphones and looked around, horrified. The door, the voices were coming from behind the door. Becker approached me and asked if I was okay. I tried to fake a smile and answer that I was, but my head was slowly shaking and my forehead was sweating so much that no matter what I said, he'd know the answer was a blatant no. He then chuckled and went back inside his home. I decided that I didn't care at all for him or his weird antics, but I needed to open that door.

I had already done 60 of the locks. Around three in the afternoon, he asked if I wanted something to eat. I didn't hear him coming, but I didn't care. I just shouted for him to leave me alone, and went back to my work. 71, I muttered. At 9 p.m., the sun had already set, and I was starving and thirsty,

and needed to go to the bathroom. But I couldn't stop. Not when I was this close, They agreed with me. Everyone was rooting for me to unlock the door. Becker once again appeared. He wasn't smiling this time and didn't have his usual smugness. He looked concerned and asked what was on my hands.

It was then that I noticed that my hands were covered in a thick black liquid, a liquid that was coming from all the locks. I screamed and asked with all my lungs, why the hell was he doing to me? Becker ran away towards the house, screaming he would call 911, and I started working again. 79.

And then I smashed his head with a baseball bat. 82. And then I started working again on the door. I needed to open that door. I needed to open that door. 85. The sun rose. Had eaten something.

Not sure what. Maybe there was something on the old man's kitchen. I didn't know. Still don't. 95. Midday. There was blood everywhere. Leaking from the door, I think.

Greg Becker brought me a cup of coffee. I think it was him at least. 98.99. 100. The door opened. Slowly. My eyes started bleeding and I saw something. It wasn't in the barn.

I saw a strange, nonsensical version of my house, my father, my wife, my kids. All of them made of weird. Strange angles. none of them living mere objects animated four-dimensional beings in fact none of the angles in anything made sense they were all were straight and curved at the same time and then i saw something on the sky a being of incomprehensible utmost darkness they whatever it was started talking my ear started bleeding and they told me about the world a world of false geometry of darkness death and suffering a world where extreme violence was the solution to all mathematical questions. They asked me for my eyes. I was about to gouge them out when I saw Greg Becker,

years younger, carrying a plastic bag, a plastic bag full of human organs. I looked around. I was dehydrated, hungry, covered in sweat, clearly having a heat stroke. My head was aching like hell. I fell to the floor, and when I picked myself up, I saw what was really behind the door. There were several bodies, all of them mutilated, the limbs broken or outright missing, and arranged in strange, are geometric shapes. One of them was that of Greg Becker. I closed the door, and immediately all the locks locked themselves again. I went back to my car and then I went home. Luckily, my wife wasn't home, and no one saw that I was covered in blood, so I burnt my clothes and took a very long shower. My family questioned me where the hell I had been. I was officially missing for days.

The police had even gone to Becker's property to look for me. As I told my wife I had gone there, before my disappearance. Greg Becker was found dead due to natural causes. He didn't have a barn in his property. And yet, if the barn wasn't real, why did Greg Becker give me $2,000? When the police arrived to his house, the door was unlocked. Moving to a nicer neighborhood turned into a nightmare. Last year, my fiance and my mom passed away, one right after the other. After they died, I obviously fell into a deep depression. Though I thought I was pulling off the whole I'm fine thing, my friends could clearly see through it. A close friend almost demanded I move in with her and get out of the apartment I shared with my fiancee for 10 years. She wanted me to get a fresh start, and while I didn't think

I was ready to move on, the idea of not living alone was appealing. Plus, her apartment is much nicer neighborhood than the one I was currently living in, so I agreed. Living with her has been fantastic. Our schedules are opposite. Me on days, her on night, so we both get alone time, but we also have at least one day a week off together so we can hang out. Moving has also allowed me to be able to walk to work as it's so close. I thought that would be a godsend until my 10-minute walk caused a two-month-long nightmare. I decided to sit in the park that's between my apartment and my job one evening after work. As I'm sitting there, a man approached me. I saw his face first. He was almost handsome, if not a little rough-looking.

Even though I live in an urban area with a high homeless population, it didn't occur to me this man was anything but a mildly handsome 40-something guy, so I smiled and looked back down at my phone expecting him to walk on by me. Nope. He asked me what time it was. When I looked up to tell him I noticed all the stuff he was carrying. It was so random, a kid's shockboard with nonsense all over it, a paper bag full of old magazines and paperwork,

in a steel shelf that at one point would have held CDs. I then noticed he wasn't wearing shoes and his hands were filthy. Needless to say, it finally dawned on me that this was not going to be a normal encounter. He started talking nonstop, some of it nonsense, but some coherent. All of it's fucking crazy. Of the parts I could follow, he told me he'd just been released from prison and he was looking for a tattoo shot because he wanted to get fuck the DOC, the Department of Corrections, and 34, the number of DOC violations he had while in prison, tattooed on him, and he wanted the DOC to pay for it.

He then noticed a button I had on my bag that had the logo for a local gay bar on it. He told me he had gone there one night and went home with a guy. Then he looked me up and down and said, but young ladies are my problem. I gathered my stuff and left immediately. Now, I love this apartment, but it has its drawbacks which become glaringly obvious after this encounter. The apartment is on the first floor. I love it because you can walk out the sliding glass doors, one in the living room, and one in the bedroom,

right onto an awesome gated patio that has tables and grills for barbecue, and so it's awesome in the summer. I now hate it because it's right on the street, and the fencing is clearly very easy to scale. And one very early morning, around 5 a.m., I hear a man scream, What the fuck are you doing? So loud and so close, it woke me up from a dead sleep, and I legitimately thought it was coming from in my bedroom. As it turned out, it was coming from outside. A neighbor had been leaving for work and discovered a man, the man from the park, sleeping against my sliding glass door. The dude got scared off, my neighbor checked on me, and once I calmed down, I chalked it up to a fucked up

coincidence. Two weeks later, I was sleeping, and at some point this man came on the patio and was now tapping on my sliding glass door. I honestly just laid there, frozen in fission. In fact, beer until he escalated to full-blown kicking the glass. I turned the light on to grab my phone and he took off. I called the police and then they came over to take the report and to look at the footage from the cameras in my building. The footage confirmed it was the man from the park and more disturbingly the footage from the hallway cameras showed that on more than one occasion he had slipped in the building behind a resident and sat in the lobby for several hours. At one point going down the hallway and trying my doorknob and my neighbor's doorknob to see if they were locked he even went so far as to

hide in the little mailbox room when he saw my roommate coming in from work the police think he either followed me from the park where i just happened to notice me at one point when i was on the patio it's been a few weeks and i haven't seen him and no one has reported seen him in or around the building my roommate brought me pepper spray and my kind of kooky outblee wheel meaning neighbor who has made it very clear he's retired military and a bit of a gun nut. He checks on me nightly, so I'm not as freaked out as I could be, but still, crazy fucking guy from the park, let's not meet again. I am never exploring ever again.

Now, this is something I really want to talk about to be sure that everyone is cautious and stays level-headed at all times. Now, for context, I lived in the middle of nowhere in Canada. It was an old town that had quite a lot of... a few abandoned buildings due to the absence of residents. Me and many friends were tired of the lack of entertainment options for us, so what we did was explore these abandoned buildings. Prior to the experience I am about to talk about, we never had anything too crazy happen to us. Occasionally, we would see a small bit of blood like liquid, and we did see a pentagram on the ground from someone

who went to a house previously, but nothing too bad, until the last time I had gone exploring abandoned buildings. Now, when I was younger, I used to go to a daycare that was part's mental hospital. Weird combination I know. It closed down to the lack of patients and lack of children at the daycare. I decided to go back there with my friends a few years ago. For context, I was 15 when this happened. Most of my friends were the same age. When we did get there, it was rather cliche. There was fog, but it was rather dark, and there was a light drizzle of rain. We went to the man gate, which was padlock shut. We decided to help each other hop over it and made a ton of noise. We were laughing and giggling the whole time, unsuspecting of what was to come.

We looked around the small playplay slash park with flashlights we hadn't on a person. Even with our somewhat powerful flashlights, our visibility was rather limited. We decided to enter the decaying building. Glass and dirt crunched under our feet as we stepped into the daycare section of the complex. There were still old Legos, woodchips from previous furniture, old torn dolls and toys strewn about. The further we walked around the daycare section, we naturally became more and more silent until all we could hear was the crunch of the dirt under our feet. I found some crayons in a plastic container in the corner of the room. I walked over to pick them up when all of a sudden we heard a loud crash coming from behind a metal door

leading to the psych ward part of the building. My friends and I all looked at each other. As a whole, we were a group of five. Most of them were very bold and cocky. We all looked at each other when my friend Brian suggested we go and look to see where the sound came from. Personally, I was not too fond of the idea. But with my group as friends, there was no way anyone was going to decline such a thing. We all stacked up on the door and opened it. It was rusted to the floor and we heaved to get it open. As we walked in, the Mitzhalk smells and Must became stronger,

with a hint of something else, which I couldn't put my finger on at that moment. We walked in. Our flashlights pointed in every direction with Brian leading the group. The hallways were tight into the left and right were the occasional metal doorway, some with doors open. I felt slight, claustrophobic, and it felt a little hard to breathe. As we continued, Brian shone his flashlight into a room and recoiled. We all stopped walking as Brian slowly entered the room. What is it? I asked him.

I thought I saw someone here. It seems all fine now. To be honest, I thought he was just messing with us to increase our anxiety, but looking back, I think he was. was completely honest. He walked back out of the room and we continued walking deeper into the psych ward when another friend swiftly told us to stop. We came to a halt and all listened. In the distance ahead of us, we heard the subtle pitter patter of footsteps echo through the hallway. We all looked at each other, fear in our eyes. Brian continued walking towards the sounds. We considered turning back for a second without Brian, wondering if some ghost or something was in the building, but we couldn't do that to him. The closer we got, the more I felt like I was being watched.

When finally, we entered a room, on the right, which had the smell of rotting meat. In front of us was a dead deer. Its innards were spilled all over the floor, staining the concrete. A friend of mine had a very weak stomach and vomited all over the floor. That's when we heard whispering from somewhere. Brian shown his flashlight to the corner of the room where a man with short hair was standing with his head down. He wore a bright green t-shirt stained with what I assume was blood and torn beige pants. He did not have any socks and his feet seemed damaged.

He was twitching sporadically and continued to mumble even after we saw him. We stared at him for a solid 30 seconds before he made his first true movement. He looked up at us with a haunting grin that sent shivers down our spine. You guys hear for a feast? He said each word with varying inflection and energy. This kicked us over the end. and we bolted out of the room all the way back to the daycare center. The door was still open and we decided to try and slam it shut,

but the rust and pure weight of the door almost kept it open. It took three of us pulling with all our strength to close it. And just before we did, I could see the silhouette of the man watching us, his white teeth being the only other human feature I could see. As we sat behind the metal door, catching our breath for a second, all looking at each other for confirmation that we all just saw the same thing, after a little bit of a labored breathing from each of us, we heard a light tapping on the door.

That's when he decided that it was time to leave. We booked it out of the vicinity completely and ran home. A year after we visited that spot, police went back to do a routine search of the area and found the man. It was stated that this guy used to go to the psych ward before it closed down. He escaped the facility he was transferred to and lived off the wildlife around the complex. When the cops brought him in,

he had a series of diseases and sick. from eating raw meat. His mental condition was much worse than before. There are future rumors that he did kill someone in the forest while searching for food, but nothing has ever been confirmed. In the end, guys, be careful, especially in dangerous areas such as abandoned buildings and creepy dude. Let's not meet. Lost dog signs keep appearing in my neighborhood, but the thing in the picture isn't a dog. I live in the middle of nowhere. Great. Plains, aka northwestern South Dakota. It's not the worst place to live, I guess, if you like corn, but as you can imagine, not a lot goes on up here. Not much changes in my static little world.

When something new emerges from the monotony, I take notice, as in the case of the sign I saw about three years ago. It was a Friday night in the late October. Now I was driving home from a party at around 10 p.m. I just reached the most isolated portion of my drive, a winding forest road that has more dear than cars using it on any given day. One of my headlights illuminated a flyer posted to the trunk of an elm tree. As I passed by, I saw the words lost dog, along with a photo, presumably of the animal in question. Now, the location of the flyer was already strange enough to give me a pause, but for my brief glimpse, the photo was even stranger. Maybe I was tired from a long day, or maybe the printer had messed up that particular flyer, but the picture hadn't looked like a dog.

at all. More so like a random assortment of shapes. Like I said, not much happens in my town, and the flyer was probably the most interesting thing that had seen all month. There was a turnout just after the elm, so I slowed down, pulled over, and stopped my car. I grabbed the flashlight I always kept in my console and got out to take a look. The flyer was even strange or up close. For one thing, there was no contact information, and the reward seemed exorbitant for another. The photo itself was also bizarre. Do you remember that AI-generated image shared on Twitter a couple years back with a caption, name one thing in this photo?

That's what the so-called dog reminded me of. A bunch of colors and shapes that looked like they should have been recognizable, but weren't. It had a short description of the dog beneath the photo. John, Shepard Mix, white coat, brown hood, blue eyes, $10,000. Weird name for a dog. I chalked it up to an art piece, which helped dispel some of the unease that had begun to build in me

upon staring at the photo. A part of me wanted to take the flyer, but I didn't want to be selfish with the artist's work, so I contended myself with the photo. Just as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, the sound of snapping twigs made me start. Maybe the deer want to look at the art too, I thought, shining my flashlight into the trees.

I waited for a moment, scanning the forest, with bated breath. But even though it sounded like there was an animal right behind me, I saw nothing. I returned to my car after that and continued home. The next day, I gave my buddy Erica call, hoping to catch him for drinks at our favorite brewery. Halfway through the call, I remember the photo I'd taken of the Lost Dog Flyer and opened my photo gallery so I could send it to him.

To my disappointment, the photograph I'd taken was completely black. Either I'd had my thumb over the lens or the photo had some. somehow gotten corrupted. It was a little strange, but I'd never been very tech savvy, so I dismissed it to a glitch and told Eric where to look if he was ever returning to town from that direction. As it turned out, I didn't have to wait until my next out-of-town drive to see that flyer again. The following evening, Eric and I were walking back to our cars from the brewery. Across the street, stapled to a telephone pole, I noticed a familiar flyer, and quickly pulled him over to point over the artwork. I was all smiles as I showed him, excited that.

that someone was using our town as a canvas for their project, and even more excited that I've been one of the first to notice it. The flyer was just as devoid of information as the first and featured the same abstract mess of shapes for its dog. Eric's always been more cultured than myself, more inclined to be interested in art history and that sort of thing, so I was interested to hear his take on the piece. When I turned to get his reaction, though,

he looked more unsettled than amused. What up? I asked him. Instead of answering, he just shook his head. No, man, you'll think I'm crazy. I tried passing him a little bit more. But when it became clear that he wasn't going to divulge the source of his apprehension, I let it go. Before I continued towards my car, I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of my shoes, which showed up in my photo gallery without issue. Then I pointed my phone at the flyer, aimed and pressed the capture button. And nothing. Again, the photo. graph was completely black.

When I got home that night, I went down a rabbit hole of anti-surveillance patterns, aka designs created for the express purpose of confusing cameras and facial recognition technology. Apparently, anti-surveillance fashion is already a big thing in some parts of the world. So it's likely that the Lost Dog artist used one of these patterns in their piece explaining why I can't get a good photo of the flyer. It didn't explain Eric's reaction, though. I fell asleep wondering if my friend was seen something that I wasn't. For the next few days, more lost dog signs continued to appear around town.

Never in high traffic areas or obvious places. I found one behind the bleachers at the community soccer field, and another tucked behind a different flyer on a public bolton board. Whoever this artist was, there were no bankruptcy. They seemed more keen to set up an Easter egg hunt than to make a bold public statement. On the following Saturday, while on a hike, I was surprised to find a found dog sign taped to a picnic table and a quiet clearing off on the main path. I was pleased at the site. I was starting to think that the art project was meant to encourage the residents of our town to better appreciate their surroundings,

and that my attention to detail was paying off as a result. Even more pleasing was the fact that the sign had a phone number to call on it. The sign had no picture, just the words found dog John, along with the number. Out of curiosity, I gave it a call. After three rings, someone picked up. I said nothing at first, wondering if I was about to speak to the artist themselves or simply hear some kind of pre-recorded message. After a moment, I heard a very strange voice.

Looking for a dog? It said. There was some kind of heavy filter on the voice. It was kind of static-y and guttural and seemed like it had been pitched down considerably. In a strange way, it reminded me of a large dog growling. Yeah, I'm looking for John. What's the word? Asked the voice.

The word, I thought, looking over paper in front of me and trying to remember the exact phrase of the lost dog flyer. Presumably, there was some kind of key phrase I had missed. Shepard, I guessed. And the person on the other end on the phone hung up. I tried calling back, but they didn't answer again. I put my phone away, disappointed, and took a seat up top the picnic bench. The sun was beginning to set in a cool breeze had begun. gun to sweep in from the north, whistling as it's wound its way through the trees. I lowered my

eyes from the pink and orange sky, staring into the tree line at the far end of the clearing. There was an animal peeking out through the brush. It was difficult to tell what exactly it was at such a distance, but it looked like a coyote, which my state has no shortage of. It was standing eerily still. I raised my hand slightly and waved at the creature as I joked to myself. And then the thing stood up on two legs. It wasn't an animal at all, I realized, but a person clad head to toe in black and wearing a dog mask over their face. The person turned their back to me and walked deeper into the trees. Needless to say, that was not comforting thing to witness. I left quickly after that, half jogging back to my car and glancing over my shoulder every few minutes. If I'd seen a person a dog mask trapezing through

the forest a week ago, I would have laughed. I would have assumed they were some kind of larp. per, rare as those might be in rural South Dakota. After my strange phone call, though, the sightings felt more ominous than funny. Was that person I'd just been on a call with? If so, had they seriously just been standing there waiting for someone to see if they're found dog flyer? The next day, as I visited my usual weekend haunts, I realized that the lost dog signs have been torn down. I guess that the art project had reached its end, even though it's seemed like a remarkably short run. I was disappointed that nothing more had come from it, and that I would have never gotten answers regarding who was behind the flyers, but I probably

would have moved on with my life and forgotten all about it if it weren't for the visitor I received that night. It was around midnight. I was at home playing video games and trying not to think about work in the morning when I got a text from Eric. Oddly enough, he asked if I would come over, and it was such an uncharacteristic request that I figured there was something wrong. I said yes and he showed up at my door 20 minutes later. He looked like a wreck. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were red and his whole demeanor was nervous and fidgety. When he walked up into my house, he held his phone in one hand and a rolled up piece of paper in the other. You're not going to believe me, man. You're going to think I'm crazy. He said after declining both my office for a glass of

water and for a seat on my couch, I assured him that he could trust me that I would take his word seriously. After a moment, he unrolled the piece of paper in his hands to reveal one of the lost dog flyers. This is me, he said. I was taken aback. What? You made the signs? No. He tapped on the picture in the center of the flyer. This is a photo of me. I looked back and forth between his face and the flyer. I squinted and I unfocused my eyes. I looked at the photo from different angles. No matter what I did, the dog in question didn't resemble a... human being in the slightest, much less the familiar face of my friend. I gave what was probably a very awkward laugh. Okay, okay, man, you got me. Very funny. Instead of breaking character and laughing

along with me, Eric unlocked his phone and opened Instagram. Once in the app, he navigated to his profile and clicked on his most recent post, which was a selfie from last year. He held up his phone next to the flyer. It's hard to tell, but I swear to God, if this is me. It's my last photo with a filter on it, to break it down into shapes. You see this white part, the circle and the rectangle under it. That's my face and neck. And these dots, the little blue ones here and here, those are my eyes. And the brown part up here is my hair.

I swear, I thought I was losing it, but everything lines up. I took the flyer and phoned from his hands and tried to line up the shapes. I might have been the power of suggestion, but the more I looked between them, the more I started to see the match. Also, he's continued. Since you showed me this flyer, I've been here and all. sorts of weird shit outside my house at night. I keep hearing these sounds like, I don't know, an animal or something. I thought a family of raccoons moved in, but it doesn't sound like raccoons.

Have you checked for tracks? Yeah, but, you know, we've got a grass lawn right up to the porch. I see indents, but it's not like I can see marks. Eric shook his head. Last night, I could have sworn I heard people talking. But I couldn't tell you a thing that was said. Maybe these flyers had me paranoid. I thought about the person I'd seen on my hike, whether or not it was really an altered photo of Eric and the Flyers. There was an undoubtedly something strange going on in our town. I was quickly starting to regret wishing for some more excitement. Tell you what, I said. I've got some extra trail cams. How about tomorrow morning, on my way to work, I stopped by you and set some up. I'd like to get to the bottom of this as well. Eric accepted my offer and left

to my house a little calmer than he'd entered it. Just for the hell of it, before I went to sleep, I tried giving the number on the found dog flyer one more call. This time, I got an intercept message telling me that the number had been disconnected or was no longer in service. The next morning I went to Eric's house's plan. I rang the doorbell and waited. When he didn't answer, I tried knocking instead. Still, no answer. I waited for a total of 10 minutes outside his front door knocking and sending him a few texts. I didn't immediately panic as my friend was notorious for sleeping in and showing up to late events. I left him a voicemail stating that I had to leave for work, but would check in on him in the evening.

It was only when I finished my workday and saw that my messages remained unread that I started to worry. I called his neighbor and asked her if she'd seen him, and when she said no, I asked her to do a wellness check of her own. Luckily, she had a spare key, and so I accompanied her to Eric's house. We didn't find Eric inside, nor did we find any signs of a struggle, but we found everything else. His keys, wallet, phone, even his shoes. It was that discovery that made me realize I had to get the authorities involved. Though I had never spoken to police before in all the years I'd lived here, I drove down to the station and reported my friend missing.

It's been three years since Eric disappeared. In all this time, I haven't received any word from him, nor have the police been able to make any breakthroughs. I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad. On one hand, I'm grateful for the ambiguity. Who knows, maybe Eric eloped to the Bahamas with a gorgeous woman and is happily living out his days by the shore as we speak. On the other hand, the events leading up to its disappearance seem to point to something more sinister.

Eric is a good friend of mine and a good man besides, and I pray that wherever he is now, he is all right. The years have gone by in a blink. This town has always been oppressively unexciting, even more so now than the one guy who could kick my ass in billards has dropped off the face of the earth. Not much changes in my static little world. but when something new emerges from the monotony, I take notice as in the case of this sign I saw last night. It was early in the morning, and I was taking the old forest road back into town from a friend's party.

Same emptiness, same stretch of road. It might have been the exact same elm, too. In any case, as I drove in silence, a lost dog sign caught my eye. Posted against a tree at the edge of the road, it read, John Shepherd Mix White coat brown hood

Brown eyes $10,000 Beneath the text was a photo Though abstract and blocky I couldn't help but note a striking similarity between it And the last photo of myself I posted online And all right guys

That wraps up unsettling true Reddit stories This video is kind of shorter than usual Because I just kind of want to get a good mix of super long videos and shorter-ish videos, just for people who don't have the time to watch a two-hour video, they'll have time to most likely watch a 40 or whatever minute video. So let me know what you think about the time of the videos. Would you like to see longer, shorter, really, really long, really, really short,

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