The Dark Somnium - "I Received a Strange Package That I Didn't Order"

Episode Date: November 16, 2023

This Creepypasta Scary Story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Brandon Faitcloth, it is connected to a few other stories he has done, here is the full playlist: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3o9RgvGoFK2-SE7LncZz1ipIZg6sfUMGSpecial thanks to  @DusklightRadio   @RomNex   @SpiritVoices  and Autumn Ivy for joining me in this"I Received a Strange Package That I Didn't Order" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/cbn7uj/you_have_a_delivery_scheduled_part_one/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand like an angry wasp, and at first I thought it was the alarm to get up. I picked up the phone and blinked at it as I realized that it had stopped buzzing, and I was supposed to have another hour to sleep. Because it wasn't the alarm. It was a text notification. You have a delivery scheduled. I frowned at the phone as I looked at the sender. It was just a series of numbers, letters, and symbols that looked like someone had rolled their hand across the keyboard. Certainly not a phone number or an online store that I had ordered something from.

Super weird, which meant that it was probably a scam. A foreign prince was going to send me a diamond if I would only send money first. Sure thing. Still, there was always the possibility it was legit. I hadn't ordered anything out of the ordinary, but maybe somebody was sending me something as a surprise. My birthday was next month, after all. The chances seemed low, but the idea still got enough inertia that I hadn't deleted.

the message, the way I usually did with spam. Instead, I closed my phone and drifted back off to sleep. When I woke up to the alarm a bit later, I found myself checking for another message. I felt a bit disappointed that there was none, and that, in turn, made me feel a bit dumb. Shaking my head, I went back and deleted the first message. By the time I got out of the shower, I'd forgotten about it almost entirely. That afternoon, I was eating a sandwich at my desk when my phone jumped in my hand. I had been scrolling the internet, but now the top of my screen was filled with a new notification.

I tapped at it and slowly sat my sandwich down as I read the full message. You have a delivery scheduled. Delivery time will be 12.45 p.m. Please be prepared at that time. What the hell? Rereating the message, I pondered it. Who gives that specific of a time? And please be prepared for what? Hey, Becky. I knew she was over there.

Just like me. She never took a lunch break. Yeah. I stood up and leaned over the cubicle wall as I held out my phone. Have you ever gotten a delivery message like this? She took my phone and studied it for a moment before looking up at me. Her gray eyebrows arched. No, I don't think so.

Think it's a hacker or something? I shrugged. Who knows? Probably some kids sending people odd messages as a prank. Becky gave a little laugh and went back to looking at her computer as I sat back and stared at my own little screen. The sender name was different this time, right? Still a mix of stuff that made no sense, but with more letters than before. Frowning at my phone, I debated just deleting it again.

Still, something with the new message made me feel a bit excited, a little worried. No doubt it was just a mistake or an automated fishing scam, but for the moment it was making my day a bit more interesting. So, even though I knew it was a waste of time, and against my rules on responding to sketchy internet shit, I decided to text back. Who's this? What is being delivered? I didn't order anything. I chewed the rest of my sandwich robotically, as I played on my phone, trying to pretend like I wasn't just distracting myself while I waited for a response. I finished watching a video about an orphaned raccoon and something when I noticed the time. It was already getting close to

1.30. I needed to get back to work, and if something was delivered, I wouldn't be home until after six anyway. But my guess was I'd probably be looking at an empty porch when I got there. My phone buzzed about an hour later. It was my mom asking if I was still coming over this weekend. I was starting to type an answer when my phone shook again. It was a response from the mystery sender. You will see soon. Okay, so this is either someone being creepy or someone I know doing some kind of practical. A shrieking sound began tearing across the office, and for a moment I had the panic thought that this was what was coming, but this sound was some terrible thing screeching and wailing as it caught its way toward me. Then I heard Becky's voice over the noise and I looked up. What?

It's the fire alarm. Come on, we have to go down the stairs. Glancing back down at my phone, I caught a final glimpse of the last message before my screen went dim. I stuffed the phone in my pocket as I went with Becky and everyone else out of the office and down the stairs to the lobby of our building. It was a slow process, made slower, because I got in front of Becky in case she stumbled and went to fall. I knew she had trouble on stairs, and I didn't want her going so fast trying to keep up that she would wind up with a broken neck over what was probably a stupid, unannounced drill. But when we stepped out into the lobby, I could already see fire trucks pulling up through the front windows. Something was actually going on after all.

I heard anxious murmurs around me, as we were ushered by security through the doors and told to cross safely to the other side of the street until they could give us more information. We did as we were told, and within a couple of minutes, we were clustered on the far sidewalk, like penguins, huddled together on a lonely ice flow. There were probably 50 or 60 people out there, and I realized with some surprise that I didn't recognize most of them. I'd worked in the building for over five years, and I hardly knew anyone outside of the guards and people on my floor, and most of the ones I did know was only in passing.

It made me feel isolated and unfriendly. And in other circumstances, I would have encouraged myself to do better and be more social, but surrounded by so many people in such close quarters, all I could think was, my phone buzzed. Delivery completed. Checking my phone's clock, I saw that it was exactly 2.45 p.m. I went over to my email to see if there had been any delivery-related messages, but there was nothing. Looking up, I saw a cop approaching.

He looked tired and wary as he drew near the crowd. I could tell by his expression that something bad must have happened. All he told us was that there had been a fire and that it had been put out, but there was an ongoing investigation of the scene. Due to this, the office was going to be closed the rest of the day and possibly tomorrow. And we should call our supervisors in the morning for further updates. You know, they pulled a few people from the crowd a minute ago. I looked around and saw Becky looking at me.

What? Those cops. They pulled a few people out a few minutes ago. You were looking at your phone, but I think they got people from the tenth floor. I bet they're questioning them about something. I shrugged. I don't know. Laughing, I added, better them than me, right?

I'm heading out. Notting distractedly, as she looked after the retreating officer, Becky said, Don't forget your box. I stopped still and turned back to her. What box? She pointed behind me. That box? Didn't you bring it down with you?

It's got your name on it. You know I didn't have any. She was right. There was a small cardboard box sitting on the sidewalk right behind where I'd been standing. Where did that come from? Did you put that there? Becky let out a laugh. Did you see me with a box on the way down?

I scowled to her. Did you see me with a one? She frowned and shook her head. No, I guess not. I was paying attention to the stairs mainly, but I don't remember it. I just noticed it a minute ago. It has your name on it, so I figured I must have just overlooked it." Her eyes widened.

Think this is your mystery delivery? I, yeah, maybe so. I picked up the box gingerly. It wasn't heavy, but it definitely had something with weight to it inside. I wanted to open it then and there, but it was taped up, and people were already moving toward the nearby parking deck that our office validated. I went along with the herd, hurrying to the third floor. floor deck, where I hopped into my car and cut the tape with my house key.

The thought that this was a bomb, maybe some extension of some act of terrorism or vandalism in the building, fluttered across my mind. But I pushed it away. Why would someone target me, of all people? And it wasn't like I wasn't going to open it. I had to know what was in there, right? So I opened it. And it wasn't a bomb.

It was a camera. Small and black, the digital camcorder seemed expensive. and nice, though I hadn't used anything other than my phone to record video since I was in college, so I was no expert. But nice or not, it was a weird gift to send me. I wasn't some big recording guy, and even if I was, I wouldn't lug around a camera to do it. It was then that it struck me that the camera wasn't in a box or package of its own.

It was literally just stuck down in a plain cardboard box. So it was a used gift, or was there something on it already? I tilted the box back and forth, making sure that there was nothing else in there before reaching my hand in. The camera felt cold against my palm, and it took me a minute to find the tiny power button on the side of it. It had one of those tiny flip-out screens, and I figured that was the best way to see if it worked, and if there was already video on it.

There was. Just one video. 59 seconds long. It showed a woman going into what looked like a small computer or server room in an office that looked similar to my own. The door was pulled shut behind her by an unseen hand, and when the shot pulled back, it was clear something had been wedged to keep the door from opening again. If she'd had more time, the woman might have beaten on the door and yelled.

If she'd had more time, she might have called for help and said that someone was squirting something under the door because I was watching the tip of some black container being pushed against the bottom of the door and squeezed repeatedly. If she had more time, she might have begged for them to stop when she heard the door. the lighter being triggered or smelled the faint traces of copier paper set aflame, before being tossed down into the puddle, trailing out from the bottom of the server room door. But she only had 15 seconds to react to the door being shut and wedged, some accelerant being sprayed into the room, and the room being set alight.

After that, she screamed for help for a few more scattered, painful moments of life, but it was too late for help. Too late for anything. The fire was already eating her flesh, eating her word. It's eating her life. God, why would anyone do this? And why would they show it to me? My phone buzzed on the seat next to me, and I let out a startled yell.

I didn't want to pick it up, but I'd need to anyway. I had to call 911. I had to try to catch whoever did this. Swallowing, I saw it was another text notification, and I forced myself to tap it open. You have a delivery scheduled. 911, what's your emergency? I got this thing, this package. There was a fire or something at the building and I was... Sir, I need you slow down for me, okay? Do you feel safe where you are right now?

Yes, I don't know. I think so. I'm in my car. Okay, that's good. So take a breath for me and then try to tell me what's going on. I work at... It's the building on the 12th floor. A little while ago, the alarms went off and we had to go outside. and then we were told by the cops that the office was closed. There was some kind of investigation going on. Yes, I'm pulling up dispatch logs and seeing the call went out earlier. Sir, if that's the only reason you're calling, then rest assured that... No, listen, please. Just listen.

I started getting weird texts this morning saying I had a delivery coming. I hadn't ordered anything. They kept getting weirder, kind of creepy. Then we were all outside after the fire alarm. I find a package addressed to me. I open it up and there's a camera in there. There's video on it that looks like someone being trapped in a room and burned alive. It looks like it happened on one of the floors of my office building.

That sounds very upsetting, sir. You say that you watch this video? Yeah, it was terrible, but yes. And you think this might have happened in your building? I don't know, possibly. What floor do you think it might have happened on? You know, if it did happen? What?

How would I know? Look, I didn't have anything to do with this. I just got this video randomly and... So you think that someone just randomly picked you out to send a video of them murdering someone? How the hell should I know? Look, I'm just trying to help catch the sick freak that did this and... Sir, I need you to remain calm. No need to be defensive. I'm here to help. Where are you at right now? I... I'm in my car. The third floor on the parking deck we all use for work. It's the closest one to the building. Got it. Sending someone to you now. Just stay in your car with the doors locked for me, okay? And stay on the line. Yeah, um, okay. Oh, maybe the 10th floor. What about the 10th floor?

My friend Becky said she saw people from the 10th floor being pulled out of the crowd by the cops. So maybe if this video was from today, it happened on the 10th floor. But I mean, the cops should already know where it happened, right? Sure. But as you can imagine, it's been a busy day for all of us. Yeah, sure. Are they almost here? I'll be happy to give a statement and all, but I'm kind of freaked out and I want to be rid of this thing. Rid of what thing? What are you trying to get rid of? What? The camera. I don't want to be near that disgusting thing. Oh, I thought maybe you meant the bag under your seat. What? What the hell? This isn't mine?

What isn't yours, sir? I need you to talk to me. I... There's a bag under my seat with gloves in it. I opened it up. It's... Smells really bad. What is this? Did you plant this in my car? Sir, you're growing hysterical. Please remain calm. Nah, nah, you're in on this. You're trying to frame me or something. What are you talking about, sir? You said, you asked about the bag under my seat. How did you know there was a bag under my seat? Sir, I didn't say that. You must have misunderstood me. I know this is hard, but I can assure you,

no one is trying to frame you for anything. I don't know what's going on. I understand. I'm here to help. What was it you said you found again? A bag. There was a sandwich bag with rubber gloves in it. I open it up and it stinks.

Does it smell like carbon disulfide? What? How would I know that? Sorry. Does it smell like rotten eggs? Yeah, I guess. Look, I sealed it back up and put it on the seat next to me. I'll have my fingerprints on it,

but I swear I didn't put it there. I've never seen it before. I understand. Please remain calm and remain on the line with me. Someone is almost there. Okay, well, I just... Wait, my phone buzzed. Just a second.

It's another message, like the other ones. It says delivery completed. I think I need to go. I can drive to the police station or something. Sir, please remain where you are. It shouldn't be much. Someone's coming up now. Good. Stay on the line with me, please.

Oh, shit, it's not a cop. It's Becky. Can I get out and see what she wants? Please stay in the car, sir. But it's just my friend. What? What are you doing? What do you? No! What the hell? Sir? What's happening? Oh, God, no. What the fuck? Sir.

You've got to help her. Oh, God. She has to be dead. But you have to come and try to help her. Please. Becky. Oh, God. Sir, I need you to talk to me. Please tell me what's happening. Becky, my friend from work, she came up to my car and pulled out this black thing. It looked like the thing the killer used on the video. She squirted something on herself and set herself on fire. She's not moving anymore.

So you're saying your friend Becky from work just came up to your car and set herself on fire? Am I hearing you right, sir? Yeah. Why that? Yes, yes, she did. I understand. Do you see anyone else around? No, but I need to go somewhere. I can't stay here.

Sir, you're now at an active crime scene. Please do not move or leave the area. But I... Oh, no. What is it? I just got another message. It says, you have a delivery scheduled. God, why is this happening to me?

How about now, sir? What? How about now what? Do you feel safe now? Do you often find that you think that people are... I looked across the steel table at the man sent to evaluate me. He had been there less than five minutes, and I could tell he was already anxious to have this over. Not because he was afraid of me, I was handcuffed to the table, and I was bolted to the floor. No, he wanted to be gone because this was a waste of time.

I had a strong feeling he'd already made up his mind before he came into the room. The problem was, I didn't know what that meant. Was he going to say I was sane and turn me back over to the police? Or was he going to say I was crazy and keep me locked up in this place? Either way was bad, but I wasn't sure they weren't preferable options to being out there in the world. So I was honest. Um, no. Not until last week when I started getting those weird text messages.

The doctor pursed his lips as he glanced over his paperwork. Ah, yes. These delivery messages that you said you received both before and after the, uh, incident at your workplace. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. It wasn't an accident. Some poor woman was murdered on the 10th floor, and no, I didn't know her.

I worked on the 12th floor. And no, I didn't kill her. I was sitting in my office when it happened. The man raised his eyebrows slightly. No need to get angry, Mr. Jacobs. I am not your enemy. I'm merely here to evaluate you based on your behavior and comments to police.

when they apprehended you. That and, well, a series of events that appear to have unfolded around you. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before responding. Look, I know how this sounds, okay? A woman dies, gets killed in my building, and then my co-worker has found burned to death outside my car in the parking garage. I told the police what happened when they got there, but they still took me in,

checked my car and found the bag with the gloves in them that had whatever chemical was used to burn them, guess? I don't know. Carbon disulfide. That's what you told the police was on the gloves at the time of your arrest. Swallowing, I nodded. Yeah, yeah, but not because I knew that. It's because that's what the 911 operator told me it was. Or, well, at least they implied it. He cut his eyes back up at me from the notes. This 911 operator that wasn't a 911 operator. I don't know if they were a 911 operator or not, but they're in on it. They have to be. The things they were saying, the stuff they knew, they or somebody planted those gloves in my car. Sitting the notes back on his lap, the doctor looked up at the ceiling.

But you say you did call 911. Clenching my fists, I nodded. I did, but like I told the cops earlier, after Becky did what she did, I hung up on them. I was going to call someone else, try to find another number for the police or something, when I noticed that my phone was wrong. Your phone was wrong. I sighed. Look, my phone.

I've had it for over two years. It's a little banged up, but I've taken good care of it. Only thing is, a month ago, it fell out of my pocket when I was getting out of the car. I thought it was broken, but it was okay, except for a little place on the back where the plastic is rough now. It's hard to see, but it would always poke me when I held my phone a certain way. Bug the shit out of me. But when I was searching for another phone number to call, I was also thinking about how I could have gotten that crazy person instead of 911.

Had they messed with my phone? So I checked. That spot on the back was gone. That's when the police came up to my car and ordered me out. I tried to tell them that it wasn't my phone, that it had been swapped out for one they could control, but they wouldn't listen. I had started staring at the table as I spoke, and when I looked up, my stomach sank.

The doctor was smiling thinly at me. So, to be clear, according to the case, to you, you've been getting strange messages on your phone. A woman in your office, in your building, is murdered by arson. A few minutes later, you get a video of that murder. A few minutes after that, a woman you've worked with for years comes up to your car, douses herself with something similar to what was seen on the video, and lights herself on fire. And this occurs while you are talking to a mysterious person who is in on it after trying to call 911. When the police arrive, you are in a car with gloves potentially used in these crimes talking about how your phone is not your phone.

You are then arrested, and after being interviewed, you become irate. They give you a setter tip and send you here. Does that pretty much sum it up? I shook my head. I know how it all sounds, but check my phone. That phone. It should have at least some text messages on it, and you should be able to see that I was on the line with 911 for several minutes. The doctor frowned at me. The problem is that they have checked. There is no indication. that you've got any text messages like you described, and there is no record on your phone or otherwise of you making any calls to 911 or any other number that afternoon.

In fact, the only evidence we do have are things that point towards you being involved. There's no sign of any conspiracy, no proof that you are being framed, just you and the people dying around you. Picking at his pant legs, he went on. I'm not here to interrogate you, Mr. Jacobs. Only evaluate your mental stability.

The version of events you've described is, frankly, fantastic and unbelievable. What I have to determine is if this is a product of genuine mental health issues or simple malingering. He stood up. To that end, we're going to do a series of tests this morning, assuming that is still necessary after you are shown what has been found. Someone is here to see you. With that, he knocked on the door and stepped out. As he left, a frail-looking older woman stepped in.

Her eyes rimmed and shining as she looked at me. Mom? Wally, are they treating you okay? She looked so painfully old and thin as she moved over and sat down across from me. A small brown sack clutched in her left hand. I reached forward as much as I could, and she took my hands with a warm squeeze. Not being mean and fading you okay? I nodded and tears filling my eyes.

Yeah, my head hurts from where they drugged me, but otherwise I'm okay. But, Mom, you've got to help me. I didn't. My words died in my throat as she raised her hand. Her face was full of pain and sadness as she shook her head slightly. No, honey. Don't lie like that, not to me. She lifted the sack from her lap and sat on the table.

I've already seen the video you made. I felt my tongue going numb as I looked between her and the sack. I had no idea what she was talking about, but it was obviously very bad. Um, I... Mom? What video? She looked exhausted as she reached into her bag and pulled out a cell phone. She held out the phone with trembling hands.

They said I could show it to you. I said it might make you see that you're caught, that you can stop lying. I saw my own hands shaking as she passed the phone to me. You take it. I can't watch it again. A video was already queued up, and I could see from the pause still that it was me in my apartment. But I'd never taken a video like that. What the hell was this?

My heart thudding. I hit play. And I saw myself confessing. I just got this thing in me. I open it up and I'm sick. I want to see someone being trapped in a room and burned alive. I want to see Becky. That disgusting thing is set on fire.

I need to do this. Listen. Please, just listen. There's a bag under my seat, a video in my car. Catch me. Please. None of this made any sense. I don't remember saying any of this, yet it seemed oddly familiar at the same time.

I shifted my hands as I held the phone. Holding it like that was poking me, because on the back, wait, this was my real phone. I looked up to tell my mother, when motion drew my eye back to the small screen, my video self moved closer to the camera, and where he had looked tormented before, he was now smiling at me, as he said one last phrase. Delivery completed. I looked back up as my mother raked something across her throat, the wound sending out a stream of blood as she tumbled to the floor. I screamed and pulled at my handcuffs, but they wouldn't budge. And within a handful of seconds, she had grown still. Glittering next to her, I saw what she had used to kill herself, a set of keys.

I struggled to free myself to go to her until my arms and legs ached with the effort. And then I sat there, alone and weeping for what felt like hours. Finally, trying again, I stretched out my leg past its limits and began edging the keys toward me. That's when my phone buzzed on the table. Even without picking it up, I could see the text notification. You have a delivery scheduled. The keys were slippery with my mother's blood, and I almost dropped them as I contorted my fingers to unlock the handcuffs. My brain was largely numb by this point.

Too much horror and insanity had flowed over it in the last week, smoothing out the ridges and contours of order insanity that had been landmarks in my mind. All that was left was a base drive to survive. That and the quiet complaining whisper that it was too late. Everything was ruined, and it was better to just give up now. I ignored that voice. It was my father's voice, the way he sounded the last time I saw him in the hospital. I'd been young, but I'd known it was the last time I'd talked to him.

In some ways, I'd understood why he was ready to go, but it hadn't kept me from hating him a little, hating the weakness in him, and me. I stood up from the table on shaky legs and kept my eyes lifted as I stepped past my mother's body. Now wasn't the time to try and figure any of this out. I needed to escape if I could, and the next step was trying the second key. The door opened easily, and when I looked out, I saw that I was in some sort of trailer. The hall and central rooms were empty, and through a nearby window, I could see lush green trees and tall grass stretching up and over a hill.

None of it looked familiar, but my more immediate concerns were the three black cars parked out front. Why were they just sitting and... I stumbled as pain flared across my head and chest briefly, gone so quickly that I questioned if I'd felt it at all. Gritting my teeth, I made a decision. I was going to go out and confront them, make them give me answers or go ahead and kill me. Either way, I was done with this crazy bullshit.

I flung open the door and caught it as it bounced open, squinting against the sunlight. I braced for yelling or fists or gunshots. Instead, there was only the sound of car engines running and a distant animal cry that I didn't recognize. I jumped past the folding metal steps going down and headed toward the nearest vehicle, only slowing when the tinted window scrolled down and I saw the doctor who'd been questioning me in the driver's seat. You want the car over there, Mr. Jacobs. I stopped up short. What?

What the hell are you talking about? My mother just killed herself in front of me. What is this? What's going on? He took a sip from an aluminum can before waving it in a small circle. Yes, yes, it's all very. strange and confusing. You're the victim of forces you can't understand or control. Blah, blah, blah, blah. I'm sure this is all very interesting to you, but it isn't to me. To go get in that car and drive away.

Run while you can. I took a couple of steps forward, as I saw the man's drink had been replaced by a small pistol. Stopping again, I shook my head. Just tell me why. Why me? And how are you able to do all this? Control people. My own mom. The doctor shot me a sour look. You're making a mistake. You think all this weird shit means you're special, that you're entitled to answers, that you could demand satisfaction.

He coughed into his hand and studied it for a moment before looking up at me with fresh anger. They sent me over because they think you are a candidate. He held up his hand and I could see a reddish black stain on his palm. But the way we do it, it's not so easy on the body. And the longer I'm here, the worse it will get. So you need to decide. Are you going to get in the car and drive away,

or am I going to empty this gun into you right fucking now? I felt another flash of pain across my chest and stomach, doubling me down over with a gasp. I held up my hand as the pain passed, forcing the words out as I lurched toward the car he'd pointed out. I'm going, I'm going. The doctor smirked. Good call.

You've got a two-minute head start. Better make the most of it. I froze. Head start. Before what? The man gestured with his gun toward the third car. Before they come to kill you. Buckle up and drive fast. I was driving less than three minutes when I saw the other car approaching in my rearview mirror. I had found some kind of dirt access road, and I was driving on it as fast as I could and not wreck.

But they were catching up quickly. I looked around again for signs or some other indication of where I was or where I could go for help. So far, there had been nothing. No building. or other cars or people. But there was a paved road up ahead, and just before it, a small white road sign with an arrow pointing right. Glancing in the mirror, I saw that they were less than 50 yards back now. I looked again at the approaching sign. What language was that?

Russian maybe? And below that, it said, Pripyet. Five kilometers. What the hell? The steering wheel jumped in my hands as I was struck from behind. I gripped the wheel tighter and steered into the wheel. the blow as I pumped the gas and made a wide turn onto the paved road. Turning around to look, I saw that.

I shuddered as a wave of pain flashed through my left arm in both legs. I managed to stay on the road, but just barely, and the loss of speed cost me the little lead I'd gained. They were coming again, and they'd reach me before I got to whatever town this was up ahead. But dim hope stirred in my chest as I saw the first silhouettes of buildings in the distance. I could make it after all. I glanced back in time to see them barreling toward me, a man hanging out of the back window with a gun of some kind.

What the hell? Did they turn me loose just to try to kill me? Is this all just some sick joke to them? No, I needed to stay calm. Think slow and act fast. They wanted me angry and scared. They wanted me to run. I had to stop giving them what they wanted.

So I stopped. Slamming down on the brakes while popping the parking brakes sent the car skidding a little. But I held it straight enough that when they slammed into the back, they hit head on. The new pain flashed across my chest, but this time it was from the seatbelt cutting into me from the impact. It hurt, but looking in my side view mirror, I could see I hadn't gotten the worst of it. The gunman had been ejected and flung against some nearby tree like a ragdoll. And as I opened the door, I heard a wall of pain from somewhere in the car behind me. I had the vague worry that I might be shot or run over as I walked away from the accident.

But it was just the small, whispering voice again, telling me that it was over, that it was okay to quit. It was the same breathy, tired voice that had once told me that I was the man of the house now, that I had to take care of Mom and Rocket, that I had to be strong. I had to be strong while he gave up. Wiping at my face with the back of my hand, I limped forward. I kept hoping for a car or some people, but there was no one. It was strange.

Things weren't dirty and didn't look abandoned. Not exactly. But as I entered the town, I could tell that the buildings were old and hadn't been lived in for years. I had two more shivers of ghost pain, but they faded fast. And I found I was growing used to them. Strange as that seemed. I considered exploring the buildings, searching for a phone or something, but instead I kept

to the main road, followed it through the town and to the woods on the other side. The road was better maintained. and I had already seen signs that let me know where I was headed, Chernobyl Nuclear Plant. There would be someone there, even if it was just a guard to keep tourists at bay. My stomach lurched as I saw another black car rolling out from between the trees to my left. This would just never end, would it? I had died and gone to hell or something. That was the only thing that made sense.

This was all just endless, insane punishment for something that I had done that I couldn't remedy. My phone, my real phone. buzzed in my left pocket. I had forgotten I even had it until then. Cursing my own stupidity, I dug it out, intent on calling someone or anyone for help before they took me again. I froze when I saw I had a new text notification. Delivery complete.

I looked back up to see a young woman approaching me. She met my eyes without smiling and stuck out a small brown envelope. When I took it, she returned to the car and sat watching me. I wanted to throw it away. I refused to open it, but I was so tired and used up, too tired to fight or rebel any longer. I just needed answers or for it to end. So I tore open the envelope and found a small digital recorder inside. When I hit play, a deep voice crackled out from its small speaker.

Hello there. I know you've been through a lot, lost a lot, and no doubt you want answers. You want this over. You want your life back, right? After a pause, as though the recording expected a response, the voice continued. Well, the good news is that if you're hearing this, you are special. And because you are special, I'm willing to give you everything you want. Answers, peace, your happy, normal life back.

How does that sound? Another pause, and then... Crazy, right? I know, I know. But I assure you it's true as well. All you need to do is go with the nice lady in the car. She'll drive you to a place nearby that's, well, it's special too. You do what they tell you, when they tell you to, and you'll get sent to me.

The keys are doing what they say and being willing to do them. For our methods to work, you have to be willing, understand. And you may be asking yourself, what if I don't want to go with the strange lady? What if I want to run or fight? I say to you that those are fair and reasonable responses. Unfortunately, unlike the scenarios you've faced in the last few days, this one doesn't have branching paths or built-in chances for your continued survival. There are currently two snipers trained on your position.

If you do anything other than go and get into that car, your time in this little experiment, and your time on this planet will be at an end. As with all things, the choice is yours. Hope to see you soon. I had started looking around as I listened to the recording, trying to see if I saw a glint of glass or metal from a nearby shadow. But of course, I saw none. I didn't doubt what the voice said anyway. After all I had seen, a couple of marksmen ready to kill me seemed almost mundane.

Clutching the recorder, I walked to the car and got in. Do you know what the date is? Not really. July 22nd, maybe? I've been drugged and chased, and they put me in that thing, and, well, I don't know what I know anymore. The woman frowned at me. That's the point of these initial assessment questions. Travel via the bowl can lead to disorientation and disorientation. confusion, even dementia. We need to see how well you're able to function before starting any

orientation. I shrugged. Okay, July 22nd maybe. Very well. Mother's name? I felt anger flare in my chest. You know her name. You fucking murdered her or caused her to murder herself. I felt tears burning in my eyes. You know what you did, even if I don't. Sir, I had nothing to do with the death of your mother. Please tell me her name, if you remember. Teresa, okay? Teresa Jacobs. Good. And your father?

Freddie Calhoun. The woman raised her eyebrow. But you go by Jacobs. I nodded. My stepfather's name. He adopted me when I was ten. My dad was already dead by then. I see.

Name the first American president. John Hancock. A pause before nodding and holding up three fingers. Okay. Okay. How many fingers? Three. Look, I'm fine. Just tell me what... Sir, we're almost finished. Count backwards from ten, please.

10, 9, 8, 765, 4, 3,21. Hmm. Good. Have you had any strange mental lapses in the last few weeks or months? Mental lapses? Yes, blackouts, amnesia, an inability to recall how to do a particular task, or specific words, anything like that. I frowned. Um, no.

Wait, I thought this was just checking to see if I was okay from whatever that big bull thing was. This is an initial assessment of all relevant matters. Have you had any strange sensations in the past few weeks or months? Unexplained tingling or hallucinations or phantom pains? Leaning forward in my chair, I resisted the urge to grab. her. I was unrestrained for the moment, but the austere and vaguely medical feel of the plain room we were in gave me the impression that restraints were available if I decided to act out. Gripping my hands together tightly, I tried to sound calm. Yes, I've had weird, unexplainable pains. It started

yesterday before you people put me in the bowl. She nodded. I see. What is your name? I clenched my hands tighter. Lady, I'm not fucking crazy. I just want it. answers, or for this to stop. Something, not this bullshit." Her expression didn't change as she waited. My name is Wally. Wallace Thomas Jacobs or Wally Thomas Calhoun.

You pick. Making a final note on her chart, the woman stood and headed to the door. It was another hour before the door reopened, and a tall, solemn-looking man entered the room. He brought in a tray with cups and what looked like coffee and a plate piled with donuts. me a small smile, he sat them down on the nearby table. I'm sorry, I know you must be hungry. This is all I could scrounge up for the moment.

We'll have you a proper meal soon, though. I shrugged. That's fine. I'm not hungry. I just want to know what the hell is going on. I keep seeing this parade of people and no one's telling me anything. Then something struck me. Wait, you're the guy on the recording, aren't you?

The one that threatened to have my head blown off if I ran? The man's smile widened as he looked at me. Guilty as charged, but please don't hold it against me. I was just giving you a little push towards making the right choice, which you did. But rest assured, those theatrics aside, I'm very honest and easy to get along with. I think in time you'll find we have a lot to offer each other. I went to say something sarcastic, but the man had stepped closer and was holding out his hand. But I'm being rude, coming in and running my mouth without even introducing

I put out my hand uncertainly, and the man gripped it tightly, his skin cool and faintly greasy to the touch. You can call me Mr. Solomon. Do you watch much TV? I stared at the man warily. Mr. Solomon had only been in the room for a few moments, but I already felt a growing sense of unease and hatred being in his presence. Maybe it was just because he was the current face of all the madness and death I'd seen

in the last few days, but I wasn't sure. because I felt like I'd been trapped in a hurricane, a chaotic but mindless force without a will of its own. You could try to hate it, but what's the point? But this man, I wondered if he wasn't the one guiding the storm that destroyed my life. Glaring, I shrugged in response. I guess. Solomon nodded and smiled, seemingly unfazed by my state. Me too.

I love it. All kinds of shows, really. But my favorites are the ones that have a bit of the fence. Fantastic to them. Dramas with surprise twists, science fiction asking big questions, heroes and villains, life and death. You know what I mean. Yeah, smirking slightly, the man went on.

I understand your surliness, and I'm going to ignore it for now. Back to my point. The big problem with so many of these stories is that the heroes, and sometimes even the popular villains, aren't in any real danger. Oh, they pretend that they are, and the viewers go along with the joke, but in truth there's an unspoken pact between the creator and the audience that the people they really like just won't die." When I didn't respond, he went on.

In your world, they used the term plot armor. I raised an eyebrow. What the hell was he talking about? Was he in here to talk about TV shows? No, I don't think so. So the bull did bring me into another world. Solomon chuckled. Well, yes, of course.

I'm not going through that thing to talk to you. We don't even know how it really works, you see. We can stimulate it and direct where it leads, but from what we do know, there shouldn't be any side effects to travel if it's done right. And, well, we aren't doing it quite right yet. He rolled his eyes. And believe me, I'll hear bitching from Jeffries. I'm sorry, the man that questioned you yesterday.

in your world, that he had to go over and help collect you, assuming he makes it, of course. I felt a new fear running up my back. So he's sick from going through the bowl? Am I going to get sick, too? Solomon grinned. Most likely not. And that's a good segue back to what I wanted to talk about. Plot Armour. He settled back in his chair. Plot Armor is a pop culture term in this world that applies to the story phenomena I was just describing. If you're the main character, you're safe, not just because you're especially strong or smart or skilled. You understand.

You're just arbitrarily protected because you have to live for the story to continue. Whether it makes sense for the plot or the reality of the story is a secondary concern. What the hell is the point of any of this? His eyes narrowed. Don't be rude. I'm trying to give you an explanation you might understand to help you. So don't be rude and don't interrupt, or don't they have manners where you come from? Clenching my teeth, I quietly nodded.

Good. Now, as I was saying, Clod Armour can be a powerful thing in a story, and fortunately for you, you apparently have some yourself. What do you mean? This isn't some stupid story. This is you people ruining my fucking life, killing people I care about. Solomon waited until I finished and then went on. This is only partially true for several reasons.

I mean, no, it's not a story, but the principle is the same. He stood up and walked over to a small table with a computer monitor on it. When he turned it on, the image that flared to life on the screen was of me sleeping in the room. Except I was wearing different clothes, and I hadn't slept since I'd been there. What is this? More tricks? Like the confession video on my phone? The man laughed dryly. No, no, no.

The video confession was a simple deep fake. We actually pulled all the words you say in that video from your 911 call last week. Recut and modulated, of course, but simple enough. This, he gestured back to the monitor. This is something much more interesting. The image started moving, and I noticed that the same monitor was present in the video, playing some other movie while the man that looked like me slept. It was hard to tell from far away, but it seemed like that movie was of a woman in a bedroom.

You are now aware of the fact that there are multiple. worlds. What you may or may not have guessed is that there are infinite versions of this reality, or close enough to infinite as to make the distinction meaningless. This video was taken a few months ago, and the man in the video is named Thomas. I looked back from the video to Solomon. Thomas, like my middle name? He left the monitor playing and sat back down. No, Thomas as in you, or an alternate version of you. This world's version of you. A version that is very valuable to us. Sying, he folded his hands on his cross knee.

Shortly after this video was taken, Thomas left us. Well, let's call it what it was. He escaped. We tried to find him, but his trail died in a small town in Nevada. He swallowed, looking like he tasted something unpleasant. That made our benefactors. Well, they weren't happy. They left us to our own devices for a short time,

but seeing our failure recovering him, they... Well, they imparted new knowledge on some of our team in a very unpleasant fashion, a way of finding him and regaining what was lost. You see, there are alternate realities, but there are not infinite versions of everything in those realities. And with some things, and even some people, there are only ever a few versions. We call these things and people primes.

There are benefits to being a prime. They tend to be luckier than average and live long lives, but nothing that remarkable. Well, there are a few notable exceptions. But the point is that the universe just seems to protect them a bit better. Give them a bit of extra cushion, plot armor, if you will. And that plot armor gets stronger, the fewer versions of a particular prime that are left. That being said, there is a threshold. Don't ask me what it is, because it apparently involves so many variables that even our math guys can't really predict it.

Where, if there are a few of a particular person or thing, a particular prime, the balance shifts back the other way. Instead of the universe just protecting the versions of that prime, it starts simultaneously attacking them too, thinning them out, trying, as best we understand, to reach a singularity. He pointed at me. You and Thomas are alternate versions of a prime, and based on what we've been told recently, you are likely the last two. So far, your luck and his have held out, but it's only a matter of time. It's coming down to a tug of war between the two of you, and it's a contest you'll lose. I didn't believe any of this shit, but I couldn't help but ask the question.

Why? Why are you so sure I'd lose instead of this supposed alternate version who escaped? Solomon smiled thinly. Two reasons. The first is that, apparently, as things grow closer to their being only one prime, the remaining version begins to suffer symptoms. The version that is most likely to be the survivor, the singularity prime, tends to get blackouts or memory gaps.

They often have trouble with certain ideas or words. All the rest, the losers, they begin feeling the echoes of each other dying as the universe eats them one at a time. Those phantom pains you've been having more and more frequently? Those are the times that another version of you died. I felt a ball of ice beginning to form in my stomach. Okay? What's the second reason? The man looked more serious now.

Thomas has something inside him, something that is protecting him. He was already showing signs of being on track to be a singular prime before it was implanted. Memory loss, a special connection with another past valuable asset. But we were ignorant of what these symptoms actually meant until our recent education. But with his implanted ally, he has something making sure that he stays safe. And as I hope I've made clear, his safety means your doom. I stood up and began pacing. When I glanced back, I saw that Solomon had produced a small gun, but he only watched as I went back to walking.

So what is all this? Why am I here? What do you want from me? We believe that you can find your alternate self where we cannot. That the safeguards that hide him won't apply to you. So we want you to find him and bring him back here. This may sound like a daunting task, but we have it on good authority and that you have a significant likelihood of success. I stopped walking again and stared at him.

So what? You want me to go find this alternate Wally or Thomas or whatever and kidnap him? Bring him back to you, assholes? Solomon's face darkened slightly as he nodded. Precisely, if you do that, you'll be free. More than that, we can aid you in selecting one of the better versions of your life to set up shop in. They're all up for grabs, except for yours and Thomas's. He chuckled darkly.

And trust me, you don't want his. I frowned, because you're going to kill him, right? Or you're going to leave me alive and let the universe eat me anyway? Because from what you've said, there can only be one of us left before it stops. Solomon regarded me for a moment as he raised a finger and pointed it at me. That's a good point, and one you'll have to trust us on a bit. But I assure you, once we have extracted what we need from Thomas, you will find yourself safe and sound in a new and better life. And you'll never hear from us again.

Um, no, the man frowned. I understand this is a lot to wrap your head. No, I understand it fine. If I believe what you're saying, you destroyed my life, or at least gave the universe a helping him. hand, all to see if I was the best candidate to send after this guy, Thomas, who is, again, according to you, an alternate version of me, who you had locked up for some god-awful reason, I'm sure. Now you're trying to manipulate me into going and hunting him down, based on a promise that you will give me a new life that used to belong to yet another version of me that you

probably also had a hand in murdering. That about sum it up? Solomon shrugged. Well, that's largely accurate, but... Fuck you. That's my answer. Fuck you. I'm not hurting anybody. And I'm sure as hell I'm not helping you. You want him? Go and get him yourself. Solomon's face went pale with what looked like a combination of fear and anger. As I've already said, we've tried.

We failed. If we fail again, well, we can't fail again. I shrugged. I was brimming with anger, and I knew that I was likely about to die or get tortured, but I didn't care. It sounds like your bosses are just like you, giant assholes. The man stood up, his lips thin, and strut. Stretch tight.

I can see my attempts of being honest and civil or pointless. He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. Take him. A moment later, the door opened. Several large men in scrubs came in and took me to the floor, and while I struggled, it was no use. Within a matter of seconds they had injected me with something, and I felt my body growing heavy and numb.

I saw the room shift as I was put on what I guessed was a gurney of some kind and moved to the hallway. We traveled down several halls before coming to another room. When they wheeled me in, I saw it was already occupied. There was a monster inside. The thing was chained down and had wires and various prods covering the enormous worm-like length of its pale red flesh. And as we entered, I saw it turn what I suppose was its head towards me.

It moved tentacles studded with black rocks and oozing a gray liquid in a gesture that might be a threat, but seemed more like a plea for help. I had a feeling that whatever it was, it was a prisoner here too. I found myself overwhelmed with terror and despair, and my inability to move more than my head or even scream made it all worse somehow. Not that I thought I could escape or convince them to let me go. Any hope of that had already died. I just wanted to cry out at how wrong and unfair it all was.

One final protest before the end. As if reading my mind, Solomon appeared over me again. Oh, never fear, Wally. You're not about to die. Nothing so fortunate for you. My hope had been that you would be reasonable. Willing participants are always preferred in our line of work, but since you won't listen to common sense, we'll have to change your mind for you. He gestured in the direction of the monster, filling the far half of the room.

This big fellow was from Iceland. Well, not originally, I suppose. But that's where we got him. He looks pretty terrible, but even in his demean. Minish condition, he still has a very special gift. The man smiled at me coldly. He can destroy and create memories. It's not my preferred method for gaining your cooperation, but desperate times and all that.

I saw rather than felt him pat my shoulder. You just lay back and relax. Trust me. A few days with him, and you'll feel like a new man. Two version of written a medic summary narrative by Subject Wally. At the time of the summary, the Wally Project is progressing within predicted parameters. This narrative is classified and is not to be accessed by anyone other than members of the Thomas Project, its temporary Wally Project sub-branch, and living members of the kin.