The NoSleep Podcast - S18: NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 12

Episode Date: January 22, 2023

We're sleeplessly decomposing during January's dark nights. Enjoy Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 12“Drama Kills” written by Darrell Winfrey (Story starts around 00:04:05)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson“The Paper Mache Man” written by Jesse Pullins (Story starts around 00:28:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Emily – Jessica McEvoy, Officer Regan – Erin Lillis, Officer Henry – Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:Vessi - Vessi's the only shoes you need because of how versatile they are. Vessis are my go-to shoes by my door. Check them out at vessi.com/nosleep for a pair of your Vessi shoes.HelloFresh - With HelloFresh, you get fresh, pre-measured ingredients and mouthwatering seasonal recipes delivered right to your door. Skip trips to the grocery store and count on HelloFresh to make home cooking easy, fun, and affordable ñ and that's why it's America's #1 meal kit!. Go to HelloFresh.com/nosleep21 and use code nosleep21 for up to 21 free meals plus free shipping.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Darrell WinfreyExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullAudio program ©2023 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

It's January, and that means cold, wet days and dark nights. Perfect for some sleepless decomposing. We have volume 12 coming right up. But first, do you know I live near Niagara Falls? It's true. I dropped by the falls not too long ago, and you know what I learned about the falls in January? The combination of the snow and mist makes that place a swampy mess for your feet.

At least it would if I weren't wearing my vesey waterproof shoes. Why is Vessi Cloudburst the best shoe to have in the winter? All the features of a rubber winter boot built into a sneaker. 100% waterproof, not just water-resistant. Waterproof and warm, yet lighter and more comfortable than boots. They have a lugged rubber outsole that gives you extra grip in wet conditions, perfect to keep me from slipping over the edge into the watery abyss of the mighty Niagara. And the best part?

They slip on and off so it's quick and easy to get outside. Now, I hear you asking, how do Vessies work? Well, they're made from Dimetex, a super soft knit material that keeps your feet warm in the cold, but cool in the warmer months. It doesn't feel like it should be waterproof, but it is. These shoes keep my big, dopy feet warm, dry, and super comfortable. Being comfy outside in the wet winter without bulky boots, that's why I love my Vessies. And I'm certain you'll love them too.

So listen, Vessies are my go-to shoes. by my door. Check them out by going to vesey.com slash no sleep for a pair of your Vessi shoes. Make your feet invincible this winter by going to V-E-S-S-I dot com slash no sleep for a pair of your vesee shoes. And now that your feet are warm and dry, let's send a chill down your spine with some sleepless decompositions. Sleepless listeners, and welcome to Sleepless Decompositions,

Volume 12. I'm your host, David Cummings. If you're like me, perhaps you have a love-hate relationship with the internet. For starters, there wouldn't be podcasts without the internet. That means no, no sleep. So, ha-zah for the internet, which allows us to creep into your ears with horror. The internet can show us the world, help us connect with people, and keep us entertained and informed. But let's face it, the internet means we can be exposed to some awful, things. And no, I'm not talking about those photos of me from the dark web. I mean things like awful people who spread hate and misinformation and just generally make the world a more miserable place. So, like I said, love, hate. You take the good with the bad. And since this is the

No Sleep podcast, we have two tales that feature the wonderful, lovely puppies and kiddies aspects of the internet. No, no, no, of course not. Our stories are from the dark side, just the way you you like them. And so, log in, turn on, and let the sinister cyber slime slide inside you. Our tales are well suited for our rather bizarre series we call sleepless decompositions, tales which take things a little farther outside your comfort zone, tales for which you need to be fully braced. Now let's wait no further.

The horror awaits. In our first tale, we meet an online content creator, And trust me when I say that online content creators have to deal with a lot of feedback and comments, which serve no purpose other than spreading anger and hate. But in this tale, shared with us by author Daryl Winfrey, we discover that this creator is not so much the victim of harassment, rather, as he confesses, he's someone who went a little too far against another creator. Performing this tale is Atticus Jackson.

So remember, try to be kind. Even if you think you're not going too far, you have to understand that drama kills. You might call this a confession, but it's not. Not really. Because I've no intention of identifying myself or leaving a trail that some overzealous investigator can follow to me. It's also possible that you're reading this because I'm no longer among the living.

Who knows? Who cares? Getting to the point. I'm a YouTuber. Some would consider me a veteran YouTuber. I'm among the few thousand YouTubers who earn enough money for the IRS to pay attention. I can't complain. I suppose you'll complain if I make this post entirely about how much money I make.

What it's really about is how I managed to cause the death of a fellow YouTuber. If you are a fan of this person, you definitely know about her death. It didn't make front page news, so most regular people aren't even aware of it. She was streaming live right before it happened. Instead of using her channel name or real name, I'll refer to her as Scarlet. The first thing you're probably saying is that this is a load of bullshit. If somebody was murdered on a live feed, it would have made a video. international news.

I never said she was murdered while the stream was live. It happened after, and her death was not ruled a homicide. If they eventually find out about my involvement, they will also find out that I may have had accomplices, possibly thousands. In the early days of YouTube, it paid to be edgy, literally. It still does now, but it's small. more a double-edged sword. I must admit that I partook in such activities, but I didn't see

my subscribers grow, in number, not wait, until I started collaborating with larger channels. Scarlett launched her channel around the time I started mine. I never had the opportunity to collaborate with her, but I did find myself using her methods as a guide. Something about her drew people in, and it translated to her online presence quite well. It was this quality that also attracted haters to her like flies on shit. To the amazement of most, she didn't appear to be phased by them. As a matter of fact, it was almost like Scarlett thrived on the hate. She became good at responding to comments with an occasional zinger that would go viral.

The hater would eventually end up thanking her and becoming friends because of the resulting traffic to their channel. Throw that lemon at them and see if they'd be able to be able to. can turn it into, whatever. As the drama channel started becoming more popular, it turned into a competition to see which one could get Scarlett worked up enough to flame them. Sometimes this tactic would backfire. Every now and then, a drama channel would take things a little too far, forgetting that she had an army of ravenous fans.

The onslaught was sometimes painful to watch. Eventually, Scarlett would step in. We assumed the hater had begged her for mercy, at which time she'd admonish her fans for doing the very thing they had criticized. She had total control of her mob, except for that one time. Scarlett committed the cardinal sin of defending the rights of some of her haters to say things, even if they were highly offensive.

She followed this up, by reminding people of the things she would say during her edgier phase. All of her old videos were still available on an archive channel. Some existed as captured vines that loyal fans posted after the fall of the platform. It was at this time that some of her more vocal followers turned against her. Many were former haters turned friends turned haters again. It wasn't that there were a lot of them. It was how frequently they posted memes and videos against her.

Her legacy enemies used this as an opportunity to pile on. It effectively painted a scarlet letter on her forehead. While a majority of her fans remained on her side, there weren't enough of them willing to face the title wave on her behalf. Sadly, I became a part of that title wave. As a matter of fact, it was at this time that I gained the bulk of the fans that would help sustain my channel. I even created the Patreon account.

It didn't occur to me what I was really profiting off of. True to form, Scarlett took the online hate, as well as the physical hatred, like a champ. Yes, some idiots vandalized her house. Their license plate was visible on several cameras in her neighborhood. She started live streaming a lot more around this time. I have to admit, it was entertaining to see her take down trolls in real time. They could only salivate when she told them she said, she'd be attending VidCon that year to promote her new book.

She rarely made public appearances, so the announcement alone further boosted her brand. She promised that she would address the controversy at the event. This would ensure attendance by some of the worst of her haters. The room would contain the most volatile mixture in all of VidCon. I wasn't going to miss it. When the time came, I drove there with a few friends. One of them was a fellow YouTuber with a smaller following than mine who I encouraged to come along. When we arrived, I noticed it wasn't much different from the only other VidCon I had attended a couple years prior.

Being one of the older YouTubers, I wasn't starstruck like so many of the Gen Ziers who could barely contain themselves. I felt almost out of place, despite meeting many creators who were older than me. While getting ready for Scarlett's event, my heart was pounding. You would think that I was the one going to be speaking. My friend and I arrived early with our special passes. Partners with over 250,000 subscribers could sit in a reserve section away from the lowly fans. Security was very tight, since this was only a year after Christina Grimmie was killed. And she rest in peace.

The energy in that room was something otherworldly. Everyone knew Scarlett had people there who hated her, or at least claimed to hate her, but there was no way to tell by looking at the crowd. I felt almost embarrassed for being just as excited as the rest of the audience. Although I'm pretty sure everyone knew the tension building was orchestrated, it didn't take away from the excitement. The room was a convention hall,

but the roar could have matched a sports arena when she entered that stage. I'm not going to lie. I screamed along with everyone else. Once the noise died down, Scarlett went right into it. When I say right into it, I mean, she didn't ride the high note of her entry into exciting, crowd-pleasing rhetoric. She went directly into addressing the controversial remarks. No one was sure how to react. I hate this cliche, but you literally could have heard a pin drop.

Somebody in the center of the room coughed one too many times and drew glares from half the crowd. It was at this moment that I understood why Scarlett was as famous as she was. There's something some people notice when they meet certain YouTube creators face to face. They come off as less exciting than they appear in their videos. That's because they use jump cuts to create this rapid-fire dialogue. People will meet them in person expect the same energy before realizing they sound like any other person when they talk. Scarlett didn't use jump cuts in any of her videos. For viewers, it was like they were watching unedited live feeds,

filled with the mistakes, the ramblings, and the pauses when she was thinking of the right thing to say. They also got the offensive comments when not much thought went into what she was saying. Her stage performance could have been filmed and posted directly to her channel. It sounded like she always sounded. un-rehearsed, uncut. It's like she was having a one-on-one conversation with a friend who happened to be you. Her fans ate it up. I can't call it an apology because it wasn't.

Not even close. Her dressing down of the controversy only lasted about 20 minutes, but it was masterful. By the time she finished, I was 100% short. She won over every hater and former fan in that room. Without her saying it directly, everyone realized that at some point in their lives, they had been guilty of transgressions similar to what they accused her of. The difference is, most people don't speak to an audience of millions every week. The question is, what do you do when you're called on your shit?

Do you continue creating more? Do you make a change? Do you remove yourself from the public eye? Forever? After that first 20 minutes, it was like somebody cut a taut bungee cord. We sat for the next hour mesmerized by Scarlett's channel in real life. She engaged with the audience, and they engaged with her in a way that her online crowd never could.

At the end, she did a book signing. The line was extra long, but my friend and I got in it. What passed the time was that Scarlett's fans had a chance to stand in line with some of their own other favorite creators. I'm not big enough to be recognized in the real world, but here, I felt like a mini star. I also got a few glares from some of Scarlett's fans who probably didn't like my critiques of her. When I finally got to the table, my palms were completely clammy. I kept them in my pockets and didn't even shake her hand. I told her that I was one of her critics but still wanted to meet her.

She said she didn't recognize me at all. But she invited me to attend a roundtable with some YouTube executives later that evening. I could have fainted. Her manager set me up with a single pass with my name etched on it. I would have to attend alone. At this point, things got a little weird. It's not for the reasons, you might think. My friend dropped me off at the hotel where the meeting would take place.

I found myself in the lobby with 11 other YouTubers. I recognized most of them as creators with 10 million or more subscribers. Why was I invited? I barely had 300,000. This time, my heart was pounding for a different reason. I was convinced I was being set up, But slinking away from an invite alongside people with a combined audience of over a hundred million was probably not a good idea. They mostly talked among each other.

I didn't have much to say, but a few of them were kind enough to pull me into the conversation. After a while, someone came downstairs to confirm that we all had passes. We were taken up to a conference room on the sixth floor where Scarlett and three executives were already sitting. Actually, I wouldn't call them executives. They were more like mid-level marketing managers and a public relations type person. The discussion was pretty boring, but I sensed that I was sitting in on something that I wasn't meant to witness. It was like I was some kind of imposter, but everyone in the room knew exactly who and what I was. Needless to say, I didn't contribute much to the conversation.

When the meeting was over, Scarlett invited us to dinner. Although nervous, I said, tell yeah. Scarlett kept checking on me to make sure I was okay. I was starting to have my doubts about her not recognizing me. It wasn't an arrogance thing. Thousands of her fans knew who I was from the one video I had that went viral. Something was up. We got to the restaurant, and they already had tables joined together for us in the back.

Scarlet ended up sitting next to me. I was such a wreck. I couldn't eat. I just kept taking sips of water every few seconds. My mouth was still dry, with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was just waiting for the barrage of accusations and insults. That never came. Everyone was so nice and welcoming to me.

My paranoia switched to thinking everyone was putting on a show to influence me to post about my wonderful time with Scarlet. Damn influencers. A few of them even took picks of us together. I started getting some weird religious vibes of 12 disciples with me as the Judas. It was refreshing to see the off-screen personalities of these creations. I kept looking for the off-screen version of Scarlett, but I never saw it. It wasn't there. Even I had never been able to pull that off.

And I'm considered one of the real ones. She was such a larger-than-life person that I forgot that she was still a regular human like all of us. She never brought up anything about haters or the drama. It was like once she had finished talking about it on stage, she was done and had moved on. As we talked more and more, the conversation shifted toward ghost stories and paranormal experiences.

Several people told us stories that didn't seem all that scary to me. Mind you, I have a dark personality, and I have an obsession with the occult, so it would take a lot to do that. Scarlett managed to creep me out more than all of the others combined. She told a story that I won't recite in its intentions.

tiredy here for the very reason why her story creep me out. Scarlett was convinced that some kind of presence had been following her around for the previous month. She started waking up in the middle of the night, feeling like something was in the room with her. There were a few jokes and nervous laughs around the table. But when she told us that she was now seeing things, silence fell across everyone. It's something when a person you admire starts sounding crazy. Scarlett told us about an incident that scared her a few nights prior. She was driving back from an event on a two-lane road with a very steep embankment and no railing. The radio was off, and her phone was dead.

She heard a distinct whisper over her shoulder. When she looked in her rearview mirror, she saw the shape of someone sitting behind her. The face was hidden in shadows. She sharply swerved the car as she looked over her shoulder. Thankfully, she slammed on her brakes just at the right time. She was within inches of sending her Tesla down a 60-foot drop. She told us that she felt the presence of something in that car. She got out and checked the back seat to make sure no one was pranking her.

No one was there. I wished I could read the thoughts of everyone at that very quiet table. As much as she shared on her channel, she hadn't mentioned anything about this. She was clearly unnerved and truly believed something was in that car. Instead of getting back in, she flagged somebody down to call a friend to pick her up. Was she having a psychotic breakdown? One other person and I rode back to the hotel with Scarlett. She told us that she wouldn't mind if we shared her story.

The only stipulation was that she was that she was that she was that she was that she was that. that we didn't use her name or channel name. That was an odd request, but I am honoring it in this post. Two days later, Scarlett was dead. Those who know about her death are also aware of the infamous live stream. During the stream, the shadow of someone could be seen behind her, but it didn't quite look like a shadow.

It looked like a ghost. It gradually made its appearance. a few seconds before the end of the stream. Most viewers just figured someone was in the room with her. Almost an hour later, her boyfriend found her dead, sitting in the chair where she was streaming. He called 911 immediately before trying to perform CPR on her. Although her live stream had ended,

the camera was still recording until the paramedics arrived. As far as he knew, no one else had been in the house. The investigators made a copy of her recording. Scarlett's boyfriend reluctantly shared it with her YouTube friends what attended that dinner with me. He made them swear not to post a copy online for obvious reasons. On the video, something shows up far more clearly than it did during the live stream.

An apparition is standing behind her while she's tidying up her desk. Then she begins staring off into space, about two minutes before struggling to breathe. Her hands go to her throat like she's trying to remove something. I didn't want anything to do with the video, but one of the people from the dinner sent me a copy and told me I had to watch it. He gave me the settings to adjust my screen when the apparition appeared. I did as instructed.

It showed up crystal clear. The thing standing behind her when she died. at a face that I recognized. The face was my face. I just knew the FBI would be calling me any day. When I called Scarlet's friend back, he asked me what I saw. I was very hesitant, just in case I was being implicated in something. He told me that he unquestionably saw his own face.

Apparently several people who had seen it saw themselves, while others only saw vague, blurry features. We didn't know what to make of it. At some point, we're going to post the video. We'll exclude the part where she dies out of respect for her family. No one knows what that thing was or why it started following her. But we have our ideas. The local police ruled her cause of death,

unknown, but were leaning towards natural causes. Her family never released a cause, and people outside of her fan base scarcely heard about her passing. She was only YouTube famous. As sad and solemn as this should be, there are plenty of hateful people expressing sentiments like rotten peace, or that she choked on her own toxic personality. Although I still disagree with some things she has said over the years. I never hated her. I could never express glee for her passing.

Whatever was in her room that night frightened her to death. It also frightens me. Gotta say, I'm not a fan of being frightened to death. That kind of fear makes me anxious and hungry. Hungry? Well, gosh darn it, good thing we've got, Hello Fresh. With Hello Fresh, you get Farm Fresh, pre-portioned ingredients and seasonal recipes delivered right to your doorstep. Skip trips to the grocery store and count on Hello Fresh to make home cooking easy, fun, and affordable.

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Treat friends and fans to delicious barbecue babyback ribs, chocolate chip brownies, and everything in between. Better food, easy to prep, and no visits to the store, that's why I say hello fresh, and you should too. Go to Hellofresh.com slash no sleep 21 and use code no sleep 21 for 21 free meals plus free shipping. That's hellofresh.com slash no sleep 21 and use code no sleep 21 for 21 free meals plus free shipping. Hello fresh, it's America's number one meal kit. And now let's get back to our internet nightmares. This one is even scary on paper. In our final tale, we meet a pair of roommates.

One is looking for a distraction after a bad breakup, and the other wants to help. Being smart and discerning people, they turn to horror for their entertainment. But in this tale, shared with us by author Jesse Pullins, the woman starts delving into the deep, dark corners of the internet, looking for more and more bizarre and twisted horror. And yes, there is plenty to be found. Performing this tale are Dan Zepula, Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, and Graham Rowett. So the next time you want a distraction, consider trying something like crafting.

Just make sure you don't encounter the paper mache man. Emily wanted to be scared. At first, I shared her enthusiasm, setting up movie nights twice a week and chewing through an ever-growing list of the scariest films we could find. I was a pretty big movie buff myself, so I contributed my own favorites to the list. It started innocently enough. Emily had just gone through a bad breakup and was trying to take her mind off the hurt. As her roommate, I was happy to lend a helping hand.

It had nothing to do with the fact that I was infatuated with her. I knew she didn't see me that way. It was something I had to stomach and forget about. Sometimes someone just needs a friend. We started with the classics. Michael, Jason, Freddy, Pinhead, Leatherface, bowls of popcorn, cans of light beer. Some nights we ordered Chinese takeout, laughing and pointing with chopsticks, as unfortunate individuals screamed and met their demise.

It was really fun and experiencing the thrills once more built up a sense of camaraderie. It felt like it was more. than a trip down memory lane. I thought the excitement wouldn't last for long, but it became a ritual of ours. On the days we didn't work, we would go sit on a little bench by the lake and burn, excitedly scribbling more titles in a little red notebook to the list as we passed a joint back and forth. She would always wear this oversized co-heed and Cambria hoodie that she bought online,

two sizes big from a shipping error. It was adorable, watching it. her jot things down, hood pulled up like she was hiding. I hooked up an old PC rig I wasn't using to the living room TV, and we would use it to either stream or play DVDs we picked up from the bargain bins at the store. We would plot out the week's movies, twice a week, sometimes a third. We would always watch two movies back to back, often staying up too late discussing cheesy on-screen kills or chilling scenes.

As we crossed names off the list, we had the pleasure of revisiting old favorites. I always thought it would fizzle out when she found another boyfriend, but she would always come back with more for next time. As the weeks passed, we relished in one iconic scene after another. Leslie Nielsen's stone-cold killer and creep show, the terrible Achilles tendon cut in Pet Cemetery, Angela's unforgettable face in Sleepaway Camp. As the film slowly haunted my dreams with childlike nightmares and noticed a strange theme with our movie binges, none of it seemed to scare Emily.

Soon, she started to dig deeper. She started checking forums, going through list after list of top chilling horror movies, the ones that stuck with you for days. Soon, the movie nights felt less like a fun hangout and more like a trial. I know it was lingering grief from the breakup or a crisis of some sort. Everyone goes through the phase of gritty soulless movies, but it was starting to feel like

punishment. I wanted to be there for her, but I started having to brace myself for each session. The uncomfortable silence in Calvert, the way too long seen and irreversible. I was rapidly approaching my limit, but Emily didn't even wince. Her eyes were glued to the screen, the awful imagery reflected in her gaze. As I fought the urge to look away, she was looking for something, looking for more. That night she opted for a third movie, and with that, a bottle of liquor. We usually didn't party like that, aside from the toaks on the lake and the light beer.

Despite my reluctance, I agreed. We poured some roughly measured shots and sat in for the late at the late at the last showing we had done yet. It was a movie I hadn't seen, but it heard rumors about. A Serbian film. I couldn't finish it. I was completely repulsed. It was nothing like the other movies we had watched. It was disturbing for the sake of disturbing. This wasn't what our movie night was supposed to be about. I was a little drunk and the night ended in an argument. The movie nights were over. Whatever Her magic it held evaporated as I walked to my room to go to bed. She finished the movie on her own, her eyes devouring the screen alone and the TV's glow.

She just sat on the couch, her hood pulled up. I felt guilty for leaving her, but her search for terror had driven a wedge between us. We didn't speak for a couple of days after that. We went about our separate ways, avoiding unnecessary contact before and after work. I wished we could go back to the fun stage instead of walking on eggshells in our own home. Emily spent a lot of time in her room on her computer. I could see the light still on under the door, the faint sound of music playing into the late hours of the night. I just let her have her space.

Have you heard of the paper machine, man? I was about to leave for work, and she caught me as I was about to walk out the door. It was like the sour end to our movie night had never. happened. I told her I didn't, but I was curious. She elaborated that she had spent the last couple of days surfing the web in search of something actually scary. This had taken her down a rabbit hole in the shadiest parts of the internet, where she had seen a bunch of clips and photos that surpassed the horror of the last film I had bailed on. Straight up snuff films, live decapitations, work site accidents. This went way to.

way beyond ten harrowing images taken before disaster. Just the thought of the videos she mentioned made me uncomfortable. I asked if she was all right and she shrugged me off. She looked tired and I could tell she had been drinking. Whether she started early or was still going from the night before, I didn't know. She wasn't wearing her hoodie anymore, just a tank top and pajama pants. She looked flustered like she was burning up. And deep down I was really concerned, but I didn't want to drive the wedge forming between

us further. All right, who is he? She went through the reel of pictures on her phone and held it out to me. It was a picture of a dining room, with a table and chairs in the middle. The table was set and filled with food almost as if people had been there and just vanished. Behind the table was a dark doorway, like it was leading to a kitchen, but you couldn't quite see. I tried to make sense of the picture, but I felt like it was going over my head, like I wasn't let in on the joke. I don't get it. You're kidding, right? Look at it. She pointed to the

screen. The phone was shaking in her hand. Yeah, I see it, but I don't get it. You went to the dark web and found this scary? Anyone could have staged this photo. She looked at the screen again and looked at me like I was crazy. With her thumb and finger, she zoomed in on the photo to one of the chairs at the table. She made me look again. It was just an empty chair. I don't get it. It's just a chair.

There was a flicker in her eyes like I had insulted her. Oh, I see. So you're just going to fucking gaslight me? I thought I deserved better than that. Her eyes began tearing up. up. What are you talking about? Where is all this coming from? I didn't know why she was getting so defensive. The chairs, the paper mache, look at them. They're all there. It's horrible. You see their faces? And he's right there. There. She pointed to every empty chair,

then to the dark doorway. There was nothing new, just the same scene. Who? The paper mache man. I found a threat about him on one of those sites. But it's barely a whisper online. They say he's behind a bunch of disappearances around the world. Like, eventually he finds you and sends a warning. That means he's coming for you.

Then he turns you into paper mache. It sounds creepy, but it also sounds ridiculous. Then he adds you to his collection or something like that. I've been trying to get information on it all night. Every time he gets mentioned, whatever threat it's on gets removed quickly. Pictures too. Not long after you see a comment or see a picture with him in it, content just ceases to exist.

I managed to download this one and made some backup so I could show you. Except I didn't see whatever she was pointing out. What she described was something you could find online, but simply in a different representation. Internet legends carefully crafted online spooks with people going through the trouble to keep the bit alive. Anybody could meticulously monitor and toy with posts if they had enough time on their hands and alt accounts. Between her tired, distraught eyes and the undeniable smell of alcohol, one would say she was just sleep-deprived and reaching.

I made the mistake of being that one. I looked at the picture again and rubbed my eyes. Emily was nervously biting her nails, eyes wide and impatient as she waited for my response. It was still just a dark, empty dining room. Look, Emily, I sighed, wishing I could just go along with it. Someone is probably just baiting you and you're eating it up. There's no such thing as a cyberspace ghost. Curst images are made in Photoshop.

Behind every scary creepypasta is someone hoping people will believe it's real, if only for a second. You need to get some sleep, take a break from the scary shit, and maybe take it easy on the drinking a little bit. I braced myself for the backlash. It came immediately. Oh, fuck you. If I wanted to talk to my mother, I could have just called her. You're just going to pretend you don't say. see it? This shit is real. It's fucking scary. And I'm going to show you. And when you see it, who is going to be the asshole here? You. She stormed off, leaving me there alone, feeling quite

like the asshole. Emily, come on. But she was already gone. Seconds later, I heard her bedroom door slam in the volume of cranked music echoing from the hall, leaving me to go to work in frustration. I didn't understand the sudden consuming obsession. I thought of the paper-machet man and the things she said about him. I thought of the dining room photo and the general lack of fright it provided. The scene itself was creepy, with the set dinner table and the empty chairs. But it was something I could have made in ten minutes. I thought of looking into it on my phone, but I was still pretty salty over the whole thing.

In the end, I just decided to live. let it go and hope maybe it would pass and she would get over the whole thing. The next couple of days passed in awkward silence. I only saw Emily a couple of times by chance on the ins and outs for work. She still looked as haggard as before. She no longer styled her hair and her makeup was the bare minimum. Her outfits thrown together and wrinkled. Our conversations were minimal if we talked at all. I would only know if she was home if lights were on under her door. the soft tune of music emanating from within. After a couple of days of radio silence, I texted her a few times,

most of which she barely replied to, or simply left on read. Looking at the gloomy apartment, I found myself thinking of the fun we used to have. The back and forth with the films, bullshitting about life, and the chill vibe we shared at the lake. I thought of the dwindling friendship and wondered if there was any way to try and sell. I ordered Chinese food and sent Emily a text, one I hoped to use as a life raft. Have you learned anything else about the paper mache man? Shortly after the food arrived, I heard the music in her room stop, and she appeared at the end of the hall.

I held up the takeout as a peace offering, and a hint of a smile shined through her mask of increased exhaustion. We sat on the floor and ate at the coffee table, silently slurping noodles and picking odds and ends from several containers. Emily ate more than I thought she would, and I wondered if she had been eating at all in the past few days. Her face looked a little thinner, and her eyes were shadowed like a raccoons. Whatever rabbit hole she had found herself tumbling down, it was obviously taking a toll on her. How were you holding up? Work going all right?

I asked awkwardly, slumping against the couch. I winced at my own words, thinking I could have done a better job breaking the ice. Emily paused and gave me a startled look, much like a deer in headlights. When she processed what I said, she slowly put the takeout carton down like she was embarrassed. She wiped her mouth, took a long drink of sprite, and cleared her throat. I'm sorry. It's cool, really. She nodded and looked away

She looked guilty Lost Bothered I could tell she had a lot On her mind And she was sifting through it To find something to say After a moment

She took a deep breath And let out a defeated sigh I shouldn't have pushed so hard With the movies And I shouldn't have blown up over the picture I was just a little Brasold I guess

and drunk. It's not your fault. You didn't see it anyway. I was just so caught up in it, you know. She rested her chin on her knees. What do you mean? She looked confused for a moment before elaborating. Oh, sorry.

I looked into it some more. The leads are almost non-existent. Like I said, every time someone spills something, it's gone pretty quick. But showing you wouldn't have a mound. to anything anyway. You only see what's there when you're supposed to, when he wants you to. The paper machet man. It felt weird to say it aloud, like I was talking about the boogeyman or Bloody Mary. She chewed on her lip. Yeah. Would you like me to look at it again, just to be sure?

I was in a rush when you showed me. I might have missed something. I won't make fun of it or anything, I promise. No, it's all right. It's gone anyway. What? You didn't have to delete it? I leaned in. I was starting to feel bad. I didn't.

He did. Like I said, everything that has to do with him doesn't stick around for long. It just vanishes. Not sure how it happens, but it does happen. I had that picture on my phone, backed up on my desktop, and on a flash drive. And the flash drive was unplugged and sitting in my... dresser. Still, gone. I felt a surge of anxiety. What the fuck? Do you think somebody broke in? I stood up, but Emily just shook her head and looked out the window.

No, nobody broke in. It's more like a virus, I think, or something like it. How can you be sure if you were on the dark web and all that? How do you know that shit's safe? Who knows what Lainth still go to? I looked out the window to the parking lot outside the building. The sun was starting to set, the bright orange globe in the sky descending like a slowly closing eye. I have a camera set up in my room to catch him. She nudged a piece of General So's chicken with a chopstick. She shivered under her hoodie and seemed to sink further into it.

And did you? No. I looked outside again, as if to reassure myself. There was nothing there, only our cars and the cars of other tenants. I collapsed on the couch feeling suddenly exhausted. The whole thing felt off like something had changed in the air. The apartment felt dusty and cramped, despite our furnishings being pretty bare. I couldn't help but look down the hall to the shadow that led to our bedrooms.

There was nothing there, but you know that feeling you get when you're looking at, into the dark? Like maybe, just maybe, something could be? Wait, you said the other day something about a warning. He sends a warning. Did you get one? She shook her head and set the chopstick down. No. The lack of evidence is about all there is. Convenient, right? I rubbed my eyes and let out a bit of a chuckle from the sudden paranoia. It was just some sort of a messed up prank. It had to be. Look, you want to get out of here, go do something, get out of the house, maybe ice cream, bowling or something? No. Too tired. But hey, we can do something else if you wouldn't mind keeping me company. Would you mind watching another movie together? Like old times.

Oh? No, no, no, no, nothing scary. Just something normal. I promise. Please. I looked at her for a moment and started to laugh. Soon she did, too. I got off the couch and agreed. I'll make some popcorn and I think there's still a few beers in the fridge. Want one? Please. Twenty minutes into the Princess Bride, Emily was asleep, snoring softly on the couch.

Once the popcorn was made, we got some pillows and blankets from our rooms and settled in the living room. We cracked open some cans, had a brief cheats. years and settled in. I found myself downing mine in no time. Emily left hers mostly full. I settled in the old recliner we had and kicked back. Listening to her faintly recite old lines we had both heard a hundred times. It was nice to see her smile, but as her eyes grew heavy, I noticed her looking down the hall, as well as glancing outside. After she passed out, I made sure the door was locked, deadbolted, and chained, and checked the window as well. I decided to let the movie play and sleep in the chair, hoping the bright lights would keep the mood light and make it easier to fall asleep.

I watched the movie for a while, and as I started to get drowsy, I double-checked the alarms on my phone to make sure they were set for work. As I went to set it on the coffee table, I found myself hesitating. With the phone still clutched in my hand, I looked at Emily, who was fast asleep on the couch, her hood pulled up and the drawstrings tight. I sat back in the recliner, unlocked my phone, and opened the web browser. I entered the words, my thumbs moving reluctantly. Paper Meshay Man. Search.

I held my breath as it loaded, casting glances at Emily, down the hall, and to the window. The search results gave me instant relief. Nothing but Etsy purchases, pictures of ugly art projects, and paper mache tutorials. No forums, no haunted pictures, no madness. I locked my phone and set it down and kicked my feet up. Before I knew it, the lures of relaxation and ease grabbed me, and I drifted off to sleep. I awoke to Emily nudging me. I opened my eyes and jumped it first, not expecting to see her hunched over me.

With one arm she had shaken me awake, the other hugging herself tightly. And she was shivering. Huh? What's up? I wiped the drool from my mouth. She backed up so I could lower the footrest. When I sat up, I looked out the window, my drowsy eyes and brains still trying to boot up. It was dark out, save for the spotlight in the parking lot. I checked my phone.

It was just after midnight. What? Through my confused groginess, the icy crawl of goose bumps spread across my limbs. I looked at the door to see the deadbolt still turned, the chain latch still hanging. I was asleep, found myself awake, before I could fall back asleep. There was a really loud knock at the door. I'm surprised you didn't hear it. Are you sure?

I cautiously moved toward the door. I turned on the living room lights and the room lit up. Of course, I'm sure. Okay, okay. I approached the door silently. I waited to hear another knock or someone making noise outside. There was nothing. We looked at each other and shrugged.

Emily chewed her lip. I could tell she was terrified. Holding my breath, I pressed my cheek to the door and looked through the peephole. There was nobody there. The apartment hallway was empty, nothing but the bare white walls and the doors of adjacent apartments. I half expected something to lurch up and scare the shit out of me. Luckily, the jump scare never came. I pulled away from the door.

I don't see anyone. I heard it. I fucking heard it. I swear to God. She shook her head in frustration. I unlatched the chain and retracted the deadbolt. With Emily hiding behind me, I opened the door. We cowered behind the crack at first, both of us trying not to make a sound.

Nobody jumped out, no footsteps running away, no distant slamming door. I threw the door open and stepped out, whipping my head down both ends of the hall. Nothing out of the ordinary, until I looked at my feet. There was a small rectangular package on the welcome mat, wrapped tightly in newspaper and tied with Raffia yarn. What the hell? Emily picked it up, and against my better judgment, brought it inside. She set it on the coffee table, scooting aside half-eaten egg rolls and cartons of fried rice. It was thin, like a small paperback book.

It's really light. She tugged on the straw-like yarn. You think we should open it? Emily shrugged. What else are we supposed to do? I don't know. Call the police? But as she started unraveling the newspaper,

My curiosity kept me in place. Underneath several layers was a white unmarked DVD-style case, much like the ones you'd see at a video game store. She picked it up, and after we exchanged bewildered looks, she cracked it open. Inside was a CD simply labeled Your Turn. What the hell is that supposed to be? I looked at the message written in marker.

It was scrawled so neatly, it was almost like it had been printed on there. Emily said nothing for a time, just staring at it like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. It's for me. How do you know it's... I thought of something she had said a few days ago, ringing in my head over and over. Eventually, he finds you and sends you a warning. Emily popped it out of the case and was already on her way to the old desktop. I moved to intercept her.

What are you doing? You can't be serious. I'm watching it. I'm sorry, but I have to. She pushed the tiny button at the top of the tower. The disc tray squeaked out, and she swapped the princess bride with the new mysterious disc. After watching the tray recede, she looked at me.

Her eyes sad and guilty. You don't have to watch it with me. I can watch it by myself. The computer started to hum as it recognized the disc. But even as the media player auto-booted, I found myself moving closer so I could clearly see. We stood together in front of the coffee table and waited, the disc reader loudly getting itself together.

I hoped it was just a meme. I prayed for a Rickroll. Despite my wishful thinking, I just knew it was something worse. There was an unmistakable animosity to the disc and the program itself. Dread welled in my stomach, and I felt myself sweating. As the video buffered, the title of the video file showed on the top of the window as an

illegible string of text. We waited, visibly wincing for the snuff film, live torture, or some other unthinkable horror to begin. However, what we got was the furthest thing from that. The video started as a feed from an old camcorder. a heavy distortion that was slowly coming into focus. There was no sound to the video and no timestamp, just little black bars where the time and date would be.

The whirling static started to fade, and in the clarity we could see a girl. It was hard to make out at first. She seemed to be in a store of some kind, looking at a display shelf full of what I assumed were DVDs. She was hunched down, taking her time looking at each type, chewing at her thumbnail. She was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a black frilly skirt with leggings

underneath. The knot in my stomach worsened, twisting uncomfortably as the hair on the back of my neck rose. It was an outfit I had seen many times because it was something Emily wore. The girl in the video was her. What the hell is this? I looked to see Emily was shaking. Her eyes were locked on the screen, her pupils quivering as she took in the video. On the screen, Emily was browsing alone, kneeling down to inspect a copy of Friday the 13th. Her hood was pulled up as it usually was, little wisps of brown hair hanging out the front. She bounced on her heels, something she did when she was lost and thought. Totally unaware of the camera's presence, she returned the movie to its spot on the shelf.

The camera followed her motion. tracking her hand as she reached for another DVD. It focused on her hand, lingering to show her painted nails before zooming back out. They're fucking stalking you. Did you know about this? Did you see them? She was shaking her head, her eyes glued to the screen. I know when this was.

This was the day before we started doing the movie nights. I had seen these when I was out. I texted you that night because I wanted to. to be scared. I remember. I didn't. I didn't see them. I didn't know.

She trailed off, her eyes dilating as she watched herself peruse the horror movies. I recalled her text from that day. That was the night we set up our first hangout. That was weeks ago. Before you were looking that shit up, right? That doesn't make any sense. How would they have known where to find you? How?

I couldn't think straight. Emily started pacing the room as on-screen Emily browsed, taking her time reading the back material of Hellraiser. The camera caught a glimpse of her face, zooming in as she smirked at something she read. The video paused, not from us, but of its own accord. The TV was nothing but Emily's face, her little smirk immortalized in the grainy footage from the stalker's camera. I'm calling the police. I looked around from my phone. I dug through the graveyard of Chinese takeout, moving aside containers and soy sauce packets. As I found it, Emily mumbled something inaudibly. What? I unlocked my phone and glanced at her. She was frozen in place, staring deeply at the video. On the screen was the same paused frame.

She looked confused like she didn't know what she was supposed to be looking at. I touched her shoulder, but she didn't move, her eyes frantically looking around the screen, searching. I don't want to watch this anymore. Emily's screams ripped through the silence, her face twisted in a look I can only describe as pure terror. She swatted at my hand as she bawled, tears flooding as she recoiled from the screen, all the while, unable to look away. Oh, Emily, what is it? What's wrong? I looked at the TV.

Nothing had changed. Emily wailed hysterically, so loud, it rattled my ears. She pointed frantically at the video, her words breaking into irrational screams of fear. I panicked. I didn't understand. I tried to grab her to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. What is it, Emily? What?

She pulled at her hair so hard I heard the strands. rip. Her eyes were wild and bloodshot, streaked makeup running as the invisible horror tormented her. As Emily's cry melted into an agonizing scream, I stumbled to the TV. Out of desperation, I reached behind the stand and yanked the court from the wall. The TV shut off, and the video was reduced to our reflection on the black screen. Emily collapsed on the couch. Her face buried as she sobbed into the pillow. As she settled down, I opened the dial-pad and called the police. By the time I could see the blue and red strobe through the window, Emily's sobs had started to subside.

She had curled up into a ball on the couch and receded inside her hoodie. I tried at first to communicate, but every attempt only made her shift further away. The invisible horror that lurked inside the video had reduced Emily to a shell. When no words could provide comfort, I took to washing out the window until help arrived. I heard the police in the hall, the jingling of keys and the chirp of radios echoing along with their footsteps. The sounds brought a hint of relief to the air, but with that, a nervousness I wasn't prepared for. I had been so focused on them getting here that I hadn't even thought of what to say. The police are here.

This seemed to pull Emily out of reclusion. As the authoritative knock rattled the door, she sat up and wiped her eyes. I opened the door to see two officers, one male and one female. The man was tall and broad, with tanned skin and bleached blonde hair. The woman was considerably shorter. Her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, a shade of pink lipstick offering a polite smile. Hi there, I'm Officer Reagan and this is Officer Henry. Are you the one who reported harassment?

Yeah, but it's not me. It's my friend. Here, come in. I held the door open and stepped off to the side. The officers walked in. Regan looked around the apartment for a moment and moved towards Emily when she saw her. Henry came in close behind but stayed by the door. He hooked his thumbs in his Kevlar vest and took his time surveying the apartment, eyes darting as his jaw worked at a piece of gum. They both looked tired but alert. taking in everything in the living room surprisingly fast. Hey, I'm Officer Reagan. Do you mind telling me what's going on here? Regan knelt next to Emily, who was looking at the officer weekly. She's being stalked. They sent her out of talk, kid. Henry paused his chewing long enough to make sure I understood.

I nodded compliantly. Regan read a notepad, ignoring us both. She cleared her throat and clicked a pen. Start from the beginning. When did this start? Do you have any idea who it is? Emily said nothing for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. He's watching me. She looked out the window. We all followed her gaze.

Regan looked at Henry, who left without a word. Who's watching you? Ex-boyfriend, girlfriend? Regan scribbled briefly. I went looking for him. The tears threatened to return. Who, honey? Who did you go look at? looking for. Through the window, we could see Henry pass, flashlight panning into the night.

He sent me a warning. It's too late now. Emily hugged herself tighter. Mm-hmm. This guy got a name, sweetie. More scribbling. The paper machet man! Regan looked at me in a way a mother would look at her child for touching something they

shouldn't be, then turned back to Emily. Is this true? Is that our guy? Emily nodded weekly. You said he sent a warning? What do you mean by that? Emily lifted a finger to the computer tower, which was still humming by the entertainment stand. I cleared my throat and spoke up.

He sent her a CD. There was a video on it of him watching her. I unplugged the TV when she got upset. You want me to hook it back up? Could you, please? Then she addressed Emily again. Did you happen to? get a good look at him, this paper-machet man? Either of you see him out the window or dropping the

CD off? You can't see him. Not until he's ready. Ready for what, honey? For you to join him. Regan paused her scribbling, but only for a moment. The words gave me the chills. While I plugged the TV back in, Officer Regan continued her soft prodding. She asked Emily many questions, each time jotting down notes and flashing the same sweet smile. Where did you find him? Have you met in person? Do they have another name they go by? Have you seen them around here before?

Do they have any reason to hurt you? The last question hung in the air, only to be cut off by the chirp of Regan's radio. The stern voice of Henry crackled over. Ten four. I turned the TV on and grabbed the dusty mouse on the TV stand, giving it a wiggle to pre-eague. I'd deemptively pull it out of the screensaver.

Now, I'm going to need to see this video, honey. You want to wait in the other room? Would that be easier for you? Regan pocketed her notebook and put a hand on her shoulder. Emily shook her head. When the desktop screen appeared on the TV, I saw the video had closed itself out. I moved the cursor across the screen to the My Computer tab and double-clicked.

I looked at Officer Regan, who nodded for me to continue. I double-clicked on the DVD tray reader icon and waited for the video to play. We waited in silence, the spiral buffer icon taking its time. Behind us, the door opened and Officer Henry stepped back in. He joined Regan as we waited. This the video? His partner nodded. I waited for the window to launch and the static to follow.

The feed with Emily, looking at the old horror movies. When a window did finally pop, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. Error. File not compatible. Unable to launch. I hovered over the options to cancel or troubleshoot, feeling myself starting to sweat. It's not working. I'm going to try again. The officers nodded. I looked at Emily, who was now solemnly looking at the floor. I canceled it out and clicked the icon again. Same error, except faster this time.

I tried again and again, but each time it yielded the same result. After the tenth try, Officer Henry cleared his throat. You two do some drinking tonight? My cheeks grew hot. I already knew where this was going. What? Did you two do a little bit of drinking tonight? He batted an eye at the cans on the coffee table.

You don't believe us. I didn't say that. Look, I'll prove it to you. I opened the disc tray and reached for the DVD. My fingers stopped just short of the tray, my hand shaking in the air. The disc was gone. What the hell? Bullshit.

I looked to the screen for the icon for the DVD reader. The icon was gone as well. Emily buried her face and started to cry. softly. I checked the screen again, closed it out, opened again. I closed the disc tray and opened it a second time. Nothing. That's wrong. It was here. She opened it. It was wrapped in... I looked underneath the coffee table for the newspaper and the Raffia yarn. There was nothing. I looked around for the takeout containers. Nothing. Henry cleared his throat. All right. So you...

You two did a little drinking. Watch some scary movies. Some of those movies, they can be a little scary, can't they? I stood up. We're not making this up. It was here. He was here. Who was here?

The paper mache man. I felt suddenly foolish with my hands balled into fists. Henry exchanged a look with Regan, then sighed. Look, kid. No, no, we're telling the truth. She found him on the dark web. Now he's stalking her. He sent the disc and I saw it.

The dark web? Come on, Emily, tell him. Emily did nothing, only sink more. The silent tension built in the living room like a hot breath, and I wiped at the sweat forming on my forehead. Henry looked about out of patience. I looked at Officer Regan who just raised her eyebrows. Look, if you find the CD, the wrapping, anything, give us a call.

We can't stay here all night catching ghosts. I looked, all right? Whatever it is, it ain't out there. No footprints in the dirt, no nothing. We'll send a unit out here to make some patrols throughout the night, okay? And if you see anything else, call will come back out. In the meantime, maybe you should get some rest. Henry left first, talking into his radio in the hall.

Regan gave an apologetic look before following. I closed the door behind them and locked it again, both Deadbolt and Chain. I walked to the window to watch them leave. Emily sniffled and got up from the couch, wiping at her puffy eyes. Outside, the officers killed the strobe, and after sitting there for a moment, the cruiser pulled away. They're leaving. They're really just gonna...

I looked at Emily and was shocked to see her. no longer there. I looked down the hall, just in time to see her door shut. I remember lying in bed for a while, tossing and turning through the night. I would open my eyes at every noise outside, sitting up and checking my phone before uneasily rolling back over. I felt an odd paranoia I couldn't shake. Each time I would start to drift off, I felt like someone was watching me, and it would pull me from the lull of sleep. At one point, I was a little bit. At one point, I was a little bit I couldn't help but get up to check the apartment, creeping out into the hall and turning all the lights on. I checked every closet and corner, even going as far as checking the peephole to make sure

no one was lurking behind the door. I decided to look for the wrapping again, picking through the takeout trash to find some validation for the past events. I checked under the couch and inside the cushions, then in and around the recliner. I gathered up the containers to throw them away and even picked through the trash can to be sure before dumping it in. I found no evidence of the paper machet man. Before trying to go to bed again, I peeked out the window to the parking lot. My last ditch effort to find something before returning to my room. To my surprise, the only thing out of the ordinary was a police cruiser, parked and idling

next to the dumpster. They had actually sent a... patrol as they promised. Seeing the car made me feel emotional. The stark vehicle creeping in the night made me question myself, my thoughts, and everything I had seen. Had I actually seen this shit? Or was I just fooling myself to be there for Emily? I killed the lights and walked back to my room. I could see Emily's light under her door, the faint tune of music whispering from within. I wanted to knock and try to talk to her, but in the end, I was just too tired. Too tired to be awake any longer and too tired of this internet ghost conspiracy.

I returned to my room. My last shred of evidence spent wincing at how late it was. The next day I awoke, cursing my alarms for doing what I asked of them. I dressed like a shambling corpse, pulling on a wrinkled uniform. through the fogged lens of drowsiness. My body ached from the lack of rest. Each routine motion labored and irritated. I brushed and combed,

trying to make myself presentable aside from feeling dead on the inside. Putting on my shoes, the softly playing music could still be heard. Emily was still holed up in her room, and I wondered if she had been missing work. After pocketing my keys and wallet, I fished out my phone. and center a text. Off to work.

How are you holding up? I promptly left. Getting out of the apartment felt liberating, and it seemed to ease the paranoia lingering in the back seat. Maybe I just needed to get out more. Maybe she did. I felt a little better as the morning went on. I found the distraction of work to be welcoming,

and focusing on the day's tasks seemed to put me at ease. Time moved consistently, and I didn't even realize it was time to take my lunch until my boss mentioned it. I hadn't even realized I was hungry. On my break, I grabbed some food from down the street, deciding when I got back I would just chill and eat it in my car. I looked at my phone for the first time since I left the house and found my text message had been left on red.

The incessant nagging that had been lying dormant sprouted at the sight of Emily's name and the text I had sent the day prior. Have you learned anything else about the paper machet man? Seeing the words provoked a discomfort deep inside my soul. I felt a pressure in my head, a painless migraine pushing on the insides of my skull. Like a vibrating cell phone worming its way out from the compacted folds of my brain. I read the text again and again as if I had sent it to myself. I thought of last night standing at the TV,

next to Emily as we watched her browse the horror movies on camera. The look on her face when it zoomed in on her skin and how she couldn't look away. The way her eyes buzzed. My thumbs moved on their own accord, opening the web browser and typing the name into Google. I hit search and waited. The same results as the night before. DIY projects with glue and paper. Recipes for the perfect adhesive, newspaper sculptures in all shapes and sizes.

I looked at dozens of links, each leading to something crafty and innocent. I took to Reddit, and when I exhausted all points of interest there, I went to Forchan. I found nothing conspicuous, no inclination of the paper machet man's existence in any way, shape, or form. No-name websites were next, pages and pages of third-party forums. Each of them were ages old and shockful of ads. I kept scrolling, patiently waiting as my phone struggled to load the poorly optimized content. Threads that had burned out years ago, inconclusive convos that had been buried by a decade of old domains and forgotten email activations. The longer I looked, the more time it took for the pages to load.

I spent so much time staring at my phone. I hadn't noticed my break was over. My food sat in the passenger seat, cold and uneaten. I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I needed to head back in. I would have to continue this later. I gathered my things and threw open the car door, then stopped. Part of an old thread I was reading had finally buffered,

now showing several comments posted that lacked an actual message. Each comment showed up as removed. But one attachment had lingered, something that looked strikingly familiar. It was a picture of a dining room, with a set table and a darkened doorway in the background. A family sat there, each recoiled in their chairs. White hands brought to their chests, the fingers fat and contorted. Their faces were pulpy and gray, no features save for the smeared and matted text of newspaper. Standing in the doorway was a figure so tall it had to hunch over to fit.

With one lanky arm, it grasped the doorway. The other outstretched and pointed forward, pointing at me. I drove away from work to the sound of a dial tone drumming in my ear. My call to Emily timed out to voicemail. A cheeryer, past version of her told me to leave a message. I found myself rambling into the phone with an urgent stuttering that could have been simplified to... Emily, we need to talk. It's important. I can see him. My second call was to my boss, apologizing for running off without saying anything.

I told him I really wasn't feeling well, and on my lunch break I had thrown up all over myself. He was understanding and told me to take some time off until I felt better. Driving home, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. I kept checking the rearview mirror, expecting the malformed shape of a man to be there. Each time I would see nothing but the fleeting stretch of the road behind me. I called Emily again, straight to voicemail. I drove faster, a cold sweat shilling my neck. I caught every red light in town, subconsciously looking behind me at every stop.

The image of the dining room photo was burned into my mind. And everywhere I looked, I anticipated the long, pointing hand. When I arrived home, I practically jogged into the building. I fumbled with my keys, glancing down the hallway sporadically until the door was unlocked. I yanked it open and shut it behind me. The apartment was dark, except for the light trying to fight its way in through the blinds. The house was still clean from the night before, but everything felt dusty. dingy.

Emily? My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the complete lack of white noise. Silence was my only response. I made my way to the hall, turning on every light as I went. Before I even made it down, I noticed something missing, something I hadn't realized I was relying on until it was absent. Emily's door was closed, and the light was off. Hello?

There was no murmur of music from within, no comforting tune to assure me of her company. Nothing but a ringing that had started in my ears. I knocked on Emily's door and called her name again. I stood close to the door and listened for movement, keeping my eye on the front door. The apartment felt so empty, and I expected something to peek around the corner every time my eyes drifted away. My phone shined and scared the living shit out of me. I dug it out of my pocket and was simultaneously overcome with a rush of relief and worry. The text had come from Emily.

Ran into town, had to get out of the house. Be back later. I felt myself sinking. In the past few days of me coming and going, Emily had locked herself in her room and spent her time trying to make sense of the anomaly. and after days of not listening, I was now alone. When you see it, who's going to be the asshole here? You. I locked my phone without responding to her text.

Even if I knew what I wanted to say, hounding her over it now, didn't feel fair. I would just have to wait until she got back in. I went to the living room and opened the blinds. I was in such a hurry when I got there. I hadn't even noticed that her car was gone. The ringing in my ears made the silence unbearable. A tight knot was forming in my stomach, the anxious twist of stress hampering my breathing as I looked outside.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, but I still felt the eyes on me. I splashed some cold water on my face and tried to relax. Looking at my own distraught reflection, I realized there was only one thing I could do. The exact same thing Emily had done. Try and find out what the fuck was happening. I closed myself in my room and booted up my desktop. As I opened the web browser, I decided to try and recount my steps earlier. If I could just find something she might have missed, maybe I could help us both.

The ringing continued, and I put on some music of my own to alleviate the crushing silence. hours passed in front of the screen. I combed dozens of threads scrolling through every comment until each domain was useless. When I reached a dead end, I would backpedal until I found another fork in the road. My browser became littered with tabs. Reference points saved in case I snagged on whichever forum I was currently on. The longer I dug, the older the threads got. But everywhere I went, every where I went, every single.

Everything was removed. I imagined Emily doing the same, typing and clicking at her computer in the safety of her bedroom. Thinking back, it astounded me how well she had handled it alone. All the time she spent searching, trying to find some concrete assurance that she wasn't crazy. I thought of all the times I dismissed her and how I could have just helped her look, instead of just letting her sink. I could have asked more questions. I could have tried to understand.

After searching the whole day, I turned up nothing. I was exhausted, my eyes aching from staring at the screen and the swell of the migraine lingering behind it. It was mentally jarring, looking for something that didn't want to be found. Every time I thought I was. close, the trail would stop completely. The information just wasn't there. Almost like it didn't exist. I rubbed at my eyes and stood from my desk, feeling too tired and frustrated to continue. Maybe if I could rest my brain, I could try again tomorrow with a clearer start. I collapsed on my

bed, thoughts of the photos slipping away as sleep found me. I was standing at the bathroom mirror. I don't know how long I had been there, hands gripping the sink, staring at my own reflection. My palms were slick with sweat and I felt clammy. I stared at myself, eyes struggling to focus on a mirror image that didn't look right. The tap was running, ice cold. I felt the stream. I felt the with my fingers and hunched down to splash some water on my face. The water was freezing and my skin tingled as I massaged it in. I felt nauseous and dehydrated. I cupped my hands and brought them to my mouth, slurping greedily as my body shivered.

When I looked back at the mirror, I could see it. The difference. My eyelids were slack. I got closer to the mirror using my fingers to strike. the lids open. I looked at my own eyeball, then did the flesh around it. It wasn't the normal shade of pink and red. It was pale, white even. With my other hand, I picked and prodded, surprised to feel nothing as my fingers explored the open cavity of my eye. There was something beneath it. I could feel it. The first scratch was the hardest, a hot trickle of blood

chilling as it streamed down my face. There was no sensation of pain, and my need to see what lay beneath surpassed my concern for the damage I inflicted. I borrowed it into my own skin, digging until I could get under it with my fingertip. I worked the digit in, paying no mind to the sprinkle of red that was peppering the sink. I pinched the flap and pulled, ripping a strip under my eye until it came free. I could see it now, the hidden layer of blurred lettering that continued underneath. But it wasn't enough.

I couldn't quite see. I needed more. With both hands, I clawed and raked my face, each swipe peeling a little more than the last. My nails dripping as they worked through my face, my eyes fierce and focused on my deteriorating doppelganger. Blood splattered the sink, collecting in a thick pool as bits of my skin clogged the drain. The running water of the tap churned the mixture as it rose to the edge. It started to come free. My fingers dug deep, hooking into the flesh over my cheekbones.

I took a deep breath and started to pull, removing the mask that disguised my true face. Each revealing tug spurting the mirror in the air. dark streaks. I watched through the stained glass as I ripped my nose and lips coming free in one long strip of bloody skin. My trembling hands let the mask fall, and it fell with a splash. The dark pool gushed over the sides of the sink as I stared at what had been hiding all along.

A face made purely. of paper mache. I awoke gasping, clammy hands touching my face in a panic. I felt my skin hot and sweating from the terrible nightmare. It took me a while to come down, gasping for breath as my eyes struggled

to discern the dream from reality. A sense of familiarity slowly returned, and I realized I was in my bed. My bedroom was dark, the soft lullaby of music, still playing after hours of shuffling. The daylight that had previously shone in before had retired to the veil of night, leaving me to squint at the features of my room.

Just as I started to relax under the covers, an unmistakable detail filled me with discomfort. My bedroom door had been opened while I was asleep. The door was slightly cracked, a narrow beam shining from the light in the hallway. I pulled the covers off and swung out of bed, keeping my eyes on it as I stood. I had left it shut when I had laid down. I was sure of it. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and checked the time. It was just after 10 p.m.

Creeping toward the door, I began to hear a noise from the other side. It was a familiar sound, a scrit, scrit that I swore I had heard before. I froze next to the crack, trying to place it as I looked down the hall. It was coming from the living room. I opened the door quietly and looked down the hall. All the lights I had turned on earlier still remained, but it didn't make me feel any better. Emily's door was shut, still as dark and quiet as she had left it. I walked down the corridor, hugging the wall as the sound continued.

It was moving around, each time just a little further from the last. At the end of the hall, I could hear the scuffs of socks on carpet. I peeked around the corner to see someone standing next to the sliding door. Emily was looking outside, standing perfectly still. In her hands was a tiny camera. What are you doing? She jumped, then flashed me a look of startled anger. Sorry.

Emily walked over to the coffee table and reached for a bottle that sat in the center. My guess was vodka. She unscrewed the cap and took a swig, one that looked like it hurt. Taking pictures, obviously. She wiped her mouth, then offered the bottle to me, and I shook my head. She shrugged, her little shoulders bobbing in her tank top. Her lower half was covered by the massive Coheed and Cambria hoodie tied around her waist. the legs of plaid pajama pants poking out from under it.

Her socks were covered in little cats. I didn't know they made disposables anymore, I said sitting on the couch. Me neither, until today. She aimed the camera into the kitchen. I wasn't having any luck with the phone, so I'm trying physical copies. See if he shows up. Maybe if I hold on to the pictures, they won't go away. This is my third one.

She held the camera up, her thumb working the plastic wheel in the corner. You think he's here? I tried not to sound worried and failed. I looked around the apartment, feeling the uncomfortable ringing returning. Maybe. She aimed the disposable down the hall and clicked the button. I saw him this morning. Did you?

She worked the wheel again. It wasn't a question, more like an acknowledgement. Yeah, he was... I went to the gallery on my phone to bring up the screenshot I had taken before leaving work. It wasn't there. Emily walked to the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. Facing the front door, she raised the camera and clicked the button. Did you get a warning?

Her words hung dead in the air as she readied another picture. I saw the recording of Emily in my head, and the sounds of her frightened shouting, cut in like interference as I remembered her paused face. No. She inspected the camera closely, and without a word, came and sat on the couch. We said nothing for a while. Emily set the camera on the table and grabbed the vodka bottle. I watched her take a drink, wincing harder this time.

I felt like I should say something, something important, but every conjured thought ended with a pale hand pointing from a photo. What are you going to do now? Ended up being the best I had. Gonna get these developed. Then maybe go see my mom. I don't know. I feel like I should.

She rested her head on the arm of the couch, cradling the bottle upright. They still have 24-hour photos? Yeah. Wow. Hey. I swiveled on the couch to face her. You want me to take you? She perked up for a moment, but it didn't last.

You got work, don't you? I don't think I'll be making it in tomorrow. Rather make my own way, you know? She held the bottle out with the smirk. I took it. The mouthful was warm but comforting, an instant burn accompanied by something... Rudy? I coughed afterwards.

It's supposed to be strawberry. It's not. I took another swig. Emily sat up and grabbed the camera. Hey, I got one left. You wanna? She held it out, mimicking a selfie. Yeah, sure.

She scooted over. I put an arm around her shoulder, and she snuggled against me. Provoking a smile I hadn't thought possible until then. Emily held the camera up and pushed the button. Not long after, Emily called a ride like she said she would. While we waited, we continued to pass the bottle. As we got tipsy, we talked about horror movie. The more we drank, the more we laughed, until we wiped it tears from cracking up so hard.

We reminisced over the movie nights, and in that moment, there was nothing else that mattered. There was no paper-miche man. When her ride honked outside, we both frowned, and Emily pulled on her hoodie. I asked if she would rather stay and we could sort it out tomorrow, but she was adamant about leaving. I wanted to convince her to stay, but I knew once she had made her to stay. but I knew once she had made up her mind there was no changing it. She took a drink for the road and left me the bottle, a sad look in her eyes as she put on her shoes.

She hugged me goodbye, both of us swaying from the lull of the alcohol. I let her go, wishing it would have lasted just a little longer. She left and I found myself wandering back to the couch, unsure of what to do next. Without any better ideas, I reached for the bottle again. To my surprise, Emily poked her head back in. Thirteen ghosts. What?

It was one of the movies I meant to watch. Always forgot to put it on the list. Next time. We'll watch that first. I said, pointing at her with the neck of the bottle. Yeah. And she was gone. This time I got up from the couch and watched her go,

leaning against the slider as she shuffled to the little hatchback car that came to pick her up. She opened the door to the back seat. seat and saw me, giving me a wave and a smile before ducking in. I waved back, and as I watched her go, I finished the last inch of the bottle. I tossed the bottle in the trash, my steps sloppy and exaggerated. I locked the door and headed to my room, wondering if I should have done something different, maybe said something different. Looking back, I would have. I stopped at the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My reflection was tired and drunk, breathing too hard as I leaned forward to inspect myself. I looked into my glazed eyes and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The corners were soft and pink with nothing lurking underneath. The ringing had ceased as well, and before I left the bathroom, I was even smiling a little. When I got to my room, I left the door open and shut off the music. I sprawled out on my bed, the cool pillow and comforter soft of my skin. In the drunk serenity of peace and quiet, I fell back to sleep. The next morning I woke up late, my skull was pounding, and the daylight from the window was suffocating. I grabbed at my head, regretting the drinks I had the night before. I shambled out of bed with a groan, feeling for my phone as I shielded my eyes.

I hadn't called work to tell them I was staying home. As far as they were concerned, I was a no-call, no-show. I found my phone on the floor and squinted at the screen. It was 11 a.m. I had overslept three hours. I went to swipe, but something stopped me. I had received a single text while I was asleep, a simple message from the only name I hoped to see.

Emily. Want to meet me at the lake at noon? The usual spot. For old times' sake? I pulled up to the lake 45 minutes later. It was a small portion of an otherwise long stretch of beach, with the pavilion stuck between two fenced off private property signs. I could hear the waves as soon as I got out of the car,

accompanied by a cool breeze that rolled off the water. It was a beautiful place aside from its eternal gloom. A shore cursed with overcast skies the majority of the year. After a quick shower, a change of clothes, and some Tylenol, I was starting to feel less like a walking corpse. The dull ache in my head was starting to pass, but the ringing had returned full force. I called work before I left and informed them that I would still be out sick, and they were sympathetic. I guess I could thank my hangover for that. I locked my car and walked into the pavilion, old pines dancing above the masses of beach grass.

It was mostly empty, something you would expect on an early weekday. I looked around for Emily but didn't see her. She wasn't one to typically linger for friends to show before going. I assumed she would already be at the shore. Through the pavilion was a set of concrete stairs that had been built into the dunes, a kind of winding path that changed structure. several times before hitting the sand. I went down the steps quickly, past the spouts for rinsing off sandy feet.

There was nobody around, except for a couple walking their dog. The breeze got chillier, the closer I got to the water. The boardwalk was the last stretch before sand, a wooden structure built over massive rocks used to thwart erosion. I crossed it briskly, the old boards creaking with every step. My hands glided over the rails, beach grass tussling on both sides as I made my way. At the end of the boardwalk was a staircase that led to the shore below. Nodded and faded lumber that was eventually swallowed by sand.

I stood at the landing and admired the view. The dreary water stretched for miles, a seemingly infinite blue-gray with a pleasant sight on either side. On the left was the neon silhouette of Chicago. and on the right was the lighthouse pier. Between the two landmarks was Emily, sitting at a bench on the shore below. The sight of her made me quick in my pace. I descended the steps quickly, skipping every other step as the excitement welled within me. Even as I hit the dead resistance of the sand, I kept my eyes on Emily.

She was sitting with her back to me and her hood up, watching the waves quietly. beside her was the little red notebook, the wind flipping the pages as her gaze held on the water. I had a stupid smile on my face, my legs burning as my shoes slogged through the sand with every stride. Hey, Emily! I made it! She didn't move. The wind whipped at my face, and I raised a hand to combat it. Hey, sorry I didn't text. I was pretty hung over. I got here as soon as I... I stuttered as I got closer, a sense of foreboding weakening my legs as soon as I was within arm's reach. She wasn't moving at all, like she was frozen in place.

Her head was hung low, her hands stuffed in the front pocket of her hoodie, like she had fallen asleep. The wind tore at the notebook, pages turning sentiently at her side. Emily, it's me. I grabbed her shoulder. Her arm felt wrong, impossibly thin and bony even for her. Her head lulled to the side, and her hands slipped out of her pockets. They were contorted and white, knocking against the bench like rocks. I screamed. Emily's face was gone. In its place, a crude husk of paper mache. I fell back into the sand. The body remained still, tossed to the side like a discarded puppet. No hair, no nose, no mouth, only black holes where the eyes should be. The newspaper husk stared at me, the drawstrings for the hood swaying weakly in the wind.

I tried to speak, but the words were caught in my throat. I couldn't breathe. My hands shook in the sand. Despite the boiling urge to run, I approached the replica, thinking it had to be a joke. I looked up at the boardwalk, hoping to see Emily laughing or waving her arms. Nothing but an empty pavilion and dancing grass. I tried to laugh, tried to convince myself it wasn't what I thought it was. It had to be a joke.

I looked at the clothes it wore, shaking my head in denial. The newspaper husk looked at me, the wind whistling through the cutouts in its face. Cohede hoodie, plaid pajama pants, socks with little cats. She hadn't taken any extra clothes with her. I could see something poking out from the front pocket, a white corner contrasting the black of the hoodie. I reached for it and delicately pulled it out. It was a photograph from last night. night. The last photo selfie Emily and I took together. It showed me on the couch. My arm curled around

nothing, an empty space where Emily should have been. I touched the replica's face, tears falling as my fingers brushed the dry, pulpy skin. The surface withered away at my touch, bits of paper breaking and blowing away. I started to sob, averting my eyes as it wasted away. Then my gaze fell to the notebook next to it. Every page was filled with words. The same phrase penned over and over. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

In the distance, a blood-curdling scream echoed across the water and over the shore. The paper-miche replica collapsed, and an uproar of dust scattered to the wind. As the last of the dust blew away, I ran, leaving the deflated clothes, swaying behind me. I don't recall the drive home. I remember pulling up to the apartment and crying at the wheel, not wanting to go inside. I didn't know what else to do. I thought if I could make it back home, Emily would be there, hold up in her. her room just like she had been before she left. Her light would be on, her music would be playing,

I would knock and she'd answer and we would order takeout again. Or maybe we would just go somewhere and get away from all this. The thought urged me forward. Out of the car and into the building, I readied my keys and unlocked the door as soon as I got to it. I could see Emily's face in my mind. smile. I could hear her laugh. The combination of shy and obnoxious rolled together. She would be there. She had to be. I turned the key and opened the door. The apartment was dark and empty, the ringing of the noiseless void deafening as I closed the door behind me. All the lights were off. The blinds closed to shut out the brightness of the outside world. I didn't remember shutting them off, but it didn't matter.

I marched down the hall, determined to get to Emily's room even as the darkness grew. I looked for the light, for the sign of her presence. There was no light to be found. Her door was open, nothing but black peeking from the open crack. I wanted to turn around, but I couldn't. I had to make sure she wasn't here. I pushed the door open, the soundless, void beckoning me. I swallowed the knot in my throat and flicked on the light. The entire room

was covered in photographs. Thirty-five millimeter prints littered every surface from her computer desk to her bed. The floor was a sea of film. White-bordered Polaroids fanned out in all directions. I took a step in and heard the rubbery squeak under my heel. I looked at my feet to see I was already stepping on the photos. I crouched and picked them up, the feeling of churning bile rising in my throat. The ringing rattled my brain, but I kept my gaze on the photos, taking in the similarity they all seemed to share. In every picture stood the paper mache man. His hulking mass was caught one way or another, but in some you could see his entire frame.

He was unnaturally tall, hulking in every room Emily had snapped a photo in. His legs were long, but his arms were longer, often bracing himself on the ceiling or the walls as he struggled to fit in the apartment. Sometimes he just looked toward the camera, other times he reached for it. His fingers elongated and uneven across his hand. In some pictures, they looked like hooks, others like tentations. Whenever he pointed, they were long and rounded, a dozen digits with protuberant tips. His head looked heavy and bulbous with two unopened slits for eyes and a blank canvas for a mouth.

His skin was layered and pulpy with a pinkish tint that blurred at the edges of his body in the photos. The flesh was shiny and glistened like glass in the light. I looked through dozens of photos, each showing the lurking horror in different spots in our home. The kitchen, the bathroom, the corners in the ceiling, taking up the hallway, standing in her closet, kneeling by her desk. He had been right there the entire time, even waiting as we sat on the couch. And when Emily left, he followed her. I fanned out the pictures looking at each one. There were several that were similar, where Emily had gotten the same angle several times

just in case. I looked at all of them, each one serving as the evidence she strived to find since the beginning. On her desk was a large orange envelope, with the photo center's logo stamped onto the side. Holding it open, I gathered the pictures up, stacking them together and tucking them in as I worked my way across the room. Once the floor was clear, I moved on to the desk, removing the photos that blanketed Emily's keyboard and mousepad. I picked up so many.

I stopped looking at them, wanting to close them in the envelope and never peek again. Just when I thought I got them all, one photo remained, one that was much different from the others. When I picked it up, the ringing blared in my ears, and I felt a hot trickle seeping from the inside of them. The photo was of me, sleeping in bed. The paper-machet man was standing next to me. His large head craned as he watched me sleep. A single knock, thunderous and absolute.

The ringing was gone. I stood in pure silence, every nerve lighting like a switchboard. I tucked the photo into the envelope and closed it. I left Emily's room and closed the door, looking down the hallway to the source of the noise. In the living room, I set the envelope on the coffee table and booted up the old computer, listening to the hum as I powered up the TV as well. I took a deep breath and opened the door, knowing what I'd find. Wrapped in newspaper and tied with Raffia yarn was my warning.

I picked it up off the welcome mat and closed the door behind me. I pulled the string loose and let it fall to the floor, unwrapping the layers of old Sunday papers. The case was plain white with no decoration just like Emmylies. I cracked it open and looked at the disc with a label so clean it had to be printed. I ejected the tray and placed it in and watched it retract in silence. As the computer hummed and the video loaded, I sat on the couch and waited, gritting my teeth so hard, it hurt.

When the video loaded, it lit up the living room like a home theater. My video started with soundless distortion, just as Emily's head. I waited for it to clear, anxious and unable to look at anything but the screen. I even tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn't obey me. I had to watch. As the deformation cleared, I could slowly make out the scene around me. Little things at first, until the shapes bled together into a sudden clarity. When I recognized what I saw, I felt the air flee from my lungs.

In my video, Emily and I were on a bench at the beach. The view captured us from the side, from a spot that would have been impossible without us seeing. Old pines swayed in the distance with a chorus of beech grass at their feet. Overhead, a seagull passed by. The video zooms in on Emily, rearing back in laughter in her oversized hoodie. She's writing in her little red notebook, a beaming smile on her face as I light a joint behind her. I take a big drag and hold it in. smiling stupidly before exhaling a plume of smoke.

Emily takes it and does the same, except she coughs several times afterward. We pass it back and forth, both of us laughing as we kick our feet in the sand. Emily looks happy. I looked happy. The video zooms in gradually until our legs are removed from the picture.

It's focusing on our faces now, and the more I look at it, the more it starts to make it. sense. This was our first time at the beach, the first time we planned a movie night. The feed continues to zoom, but it's moving differently now. It's cutting Emily out of the frame until the screen is mostly my face. I'm saying something to Emily, something I can't make out. But I'm done talking. I smile at Emily, a half-stoned smile that she probably doesn't see. The video pauses.

I look at my face frozen on the screen and I'm squeezing the cushions in my hands. I don't know what's to come, but the image is getting larger, my eyes forced forward as I watch it grow. I thought the video was zooming in, but it's the screen that's getting bigger now. I'm moving towards it or it's moving towards me. I don't exactly know. Everything around me is getting tunneled out and I'm forced to sit and look as the screen gets closer until it's all I see. I hear something through the screen, the sound of ripping paper, followed by a low-pitched bellowing that vibrates the screen itself. Then there is no screen.

The room is dark, with a single overhead lamp shining above. It looks like a basement or a cave, something dark and damp and unnatural. The walls are bleeding. There's someone in a chair. They're tied up or stuck with something wet like glue. Their eyes are bloodshot, their lips trembling as they try to free themselves. They can't get free. Whatever is binding them, it's too strong.

At their feet are dozens of bodies. They're trembling on the ground and moaning, a choir of agony and suffering. Their hands are contorted and white, their faces wrapped in the pulpy shell of paper mache. There's footsteps, loud and heavy. Some of the bodies twitch. Some of them start to wail. One of the bodies starts to sob. Its oversized hoodie stained.

The logo unreadable. The video doesn't zoom. It doesn't pan. I am there. Watching firsthand. The naked, genderless monstrosity steps into the light. Its skin polished and shiny like glass. Its head is massive.

Its slit eyes looking in the direction of the person in the chair. The individual kicks their feet in fear, but there is no hope. Even if they could escape, there is nowhere to go. The person is me. I watch as the paper machet man gets close, a low-pitched growling vibrating deep within his chest. The low-echoing sounds of a lion's purr, but it's something abnormal, not of this world. Its face is in mine now, its pinkish head five times the size of mine. I'm whimpering, tears leaking from distraught eyes.

The rumbling purr gets louder and I watch as I piss myself. Inches away from my face, the entity's eyes open, revealing two globes the size of bowling balls, black and deep purple, swirling like wormholes in space. In its eyes I see what it wants and I see there is no escape. It raises its hand to touch me and I look away and start to ball. The entity's hand is large and grotesque, its fingers twisting and reforming constantly before my eyes. They are drenched with a crystalline slime, a clear mucus that steams as it trickles onto the ground. Slowly, benevolently, it smears it onto my face, the rumble in its throat growing louder

until it's almost screaming. Its eyes widen, and the globes in its face glow like burning stars. The misshapen hand closes around my face, squeezing the skin until it bruises and bleeds under its touch. It pulls the skin away effortlessly, peeling it from my body in a sanguinary spray as I scream helplessly. When the skin is removed, it holds it to the light, the dripping gore coagulating with the rest on the floor. The electric clicking from its throat settles as it's satisfied. In the chair, my screams are jumbled and hysterical. The skin gone from half of my face to my chest. A singular exposed eye darts around the room

looking for help, looking for death. But there is no hope. Only the groans of the ones littering the ground. The entity stretches the skin tight and wraps it around its torso. It smooths it out over its own hide. The mucus from its hands glazing it as it plasters it across its body.

It continues this for a while, until it is time for the next piece. First its torso, then one of its thighs, then the back of its head. Its wicked fingers flatten every applied piece until it is perfect. I watch until the end, and even when I run out of skin, it isn't finished. My skinless body convulses in the chair, beady eyes scrounged. scrambled like a faceless animatronic. The entity returns and once again applies its secretion to the bare tissue on my face. My wailing has subsided to groans like the others, and as it unravels the newspaper,

I nod obediently so it can apply it. The malformed hands work gently, delicately, until I am wrapped like the others around me. I groan under the shell of my new skin, and as it leaves, the light above me goes out. My groans mix with the others, until I'm unable to discern my voice from theirs. When I open my eyes, I'm in my living room. I don't know how long I was there, but my eyes are swollen and my throat is hoarse from screaming. I lay there for a time, processing it all. Every time I close my eyes, I see the horror unfold, and as I finally get up from the couch,

I find myself trying not to blink. I climb to my feet, find my keys, and grab the envelope on the way to the door. I get in my car and drive away, leaving the apartment behind me with no intention of going back. I keep the envelope close to me. I drive for a while, taking roads without any real direction. or course in mind. I don't look in the rearview mirror and I don't check the streets around me. The ringing is gone and I roll the windows down to hear the outside and feel the wind on my face.

I keep driving, looking at things in town I never paid attention to. Shops I never noticed, people walking down the street. I look at everyone's cars, what they're driving and who they're with. Everything looks so peaceful. As night falls, I keep driving until I'm at the edge of town. I find a bar with a neon sign of a smoking gun, and I pull in to have a drink. I keep the photos on me, tucked under my jacket so I don't lose them. The place is pretty busy, but as I walk to the bar, it seems like two gentlemen are ending their night.

One is bald with a mustache and full of muscle. The other is particularly average but smiling wide. I let them pass and take their spot, enjoying the music as I settle into one of the stools. The barkeep comes over and I order a drink. Two inches of vodka with a pineapple slice. I tilt it to my lips and drink slowly, savoringly. It tastes terrible. I enjoy my drink and ignore the growing feeling of being watched.

It won't be long now, I'm sure. Emily wanted to be scared. At first I shared her enthusiasm, but after setting up a few movie nights, she set out to look for something more. In the ruins of the internet, buried under old forums and long-forgotten pages, she found what she was looking for. I still don't know what it is. But what I do know is it was waiting for her, lurking in the graveyard of left behind IPs and dormant threads until someone... dug too deep. I don't know where she is, but I have a feeling that soon I'm going to find out, and I'm scared, but she's alone. She left behind a blank spot on a photograph in the crook of my

arm, and I remember what is missing. I remember her. That memory makes the waiting almost bearable. Sometimes someone just needs a friend. Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 13, is coming up next week, and season 19 starts the first weekend of February. And don't forget, season past 19 is on sale right now. Until next week, stay sleepless. Visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn more about our show, and to delve into the hundreds of hours of audio horror content from our archives.

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