Do Not Pass This Forward

by viramola
Dear nosleepers,
I have been a reader of this subreddit for a long time and I've debated whether
or not I should post this. As the title says, what I have come in possession of
is a letter that the author once demanded should not be forwarded.
However, I don't know the author or the original receiver of this letter. I'm fr
om Sweden and a few years ago I helped a friend's family clean out an old storag
e. Since I helped them out, I was awarded anything I wanted from the place and s
ince I am a lover of old knick knacks I was glad to get a box or two after the d
ay was done.
It took me a few weeks to sort through the stuff but when I did I found a tiny s
hoe box of old letters. It was pretty much ordinary family greetings, Christmas
wishes, birthday cards and so on but there was one envelope, tucked away at the
bottom of the box underneath some old pampleths, that really stood out. I can't
really explain it, there was just something about it. Maybe I shouldn't have rea
d it, but curiousity won that round.
I will post the letter here, but I give you a fair warning, I've translated it f
rom Swedish so there might be some grammatical mistakes here and there. I did my
best. I should also add that neither I nor the family who now owns the storage
knows the people who previously owned it and no ... there are no names or addres
ses on any of the envelopes in the box.
Dear brother,
I hope this letter finds you well. What I'm about to tell you might change the w
ay you look at me from now on, but trust me when I say that I have no one else t
o turn to in this matter and that hopefully, you know me well enough to know tha
t I wouldn't deceive you. I have witnessed something, something that after this
letter to you I will never speak of again.
Two weeks ago I was walking home late at night, never mind where I had been or w
ith whom, but it was late and I was alone. Once I was by the house I thought I h
eard a noise by the back porch. You know I'm not one to be spooked easily but I
am no match for someone who wishes to over power me, so I hurried inside and loc
ked behind me. I ran over to the back door to make sure it was safely locked. It
was not. I am absolutely sure I locked, it always gives me a bit of hassle you
see. I just know I locked it. I made sure nothing had been moved, touched or bro
ken inside the house. I felt it was too late to call on someone so I wrote it of
f as me being forgetful and went to bed. Once under the cover I felt something w
as wrong. The mattress was completely soaked right underneath my backside. I sho
t out of bed and undressed it in a hurry. It smelt of urine. What was worse was
that it was still warm. That night I had no choice but to sleep inside the bathr
oom afraid of every shadow and every sound made by house or wind.
You may call me a damn fool, brother, for not reporting this to the authorities.
But what was I suppose to say? I believe someone wet my bed while I wasn't home
? They would have laughed at me. The more I thought about the situation the more
I convinced myself that an animal must have gotten in. I was right, to a point.
The following days things went back to normal. Nothing out of the ordinary happe
ned and I was able to make my rounds at the hospital, come home at a reasonable
hour and trust me, I always made sure to lock the door.
When I woke up early Saturday morning on the third, the week after this incident
, I was sitting by the kitchen table having a cup of coffee when I had a sudden
urge to check on the back door. I turned the knob and it opened. I ran from room
to room, checking on sofas, chairs, and carpets, in closets and under tables. I
felt something was with me. Come to think of it now, I don't know why I kept se
arching... because what if I had found what was in there? What if it had found m
e? Clearly I wasn't thinking. It wasn't until I was back at my table, tiredly le
tting my eyes scan the kitchen that I noticed scratch marks by the basement door
. Long, uneven marks leaving the door splintered and cracked. I did hesitate one
and two times before opening the door. Yes I admit that I again showed lack of
judgement, but I wasn't going to go down and explore the basement alone. I just
wanted to open a small crack in the door and peek. The smell overcame me and I h
ad to run outside to vomit.
I ran across the field to my neighbour's house and found him by the road mending
his fence. I told him about the animal, but I left out details on an animal tha
t could open locked doors and who visits to urinate over my bed. He brought his
hunting rifle and followed me to the house. I didn't dare follow him inside and
instead I stood outside like a statue a safe distance away.
When he returned he looked puzzled and apologetic. He couldn't find any animal a
nd pointed out that when I ran to fetch him I must have left the door open and w
hatever it was had gotten back out. Nothing to worry about he said. Happens all
the time.
I felt ashamed of my cowardice and decided to bring down father's rifle from the
attic and keep it with me at all times. I changed the lock on the door. I mende
d the broken basement door with a plywood board and I washed the mattress a good
three times before returning it to the bedroom.
The day after I had a late shift at the hospital, and feeling a bit scared and v
ulnerable after past events I asked around for someone to walk me home. No one w
as going my way and everyone seemed to have an excuse. I was getting more and mo
re desperate so I began asking people I didn't know very well. The new janitor o
verheard me and offered his service as soon as he was done for the night. I glad
ly waited the extra hour and felt happy someone had taken pity of me.
The walk home was more than a little strained. He was very intense. Asking me a
lot of personal questions, wanting to hold my hand and being quite intrusive. I
felt I had myself to blame since I had asked a male stranger to walk me home and
perhaps I had given him ideas that I was a different sort of girl for doing so.
As we came closer to the house he began to pull me to him. He wanted a kiss for
his troubles. He leaned in and when I pushed him back he became more aggressive
. I, who had spent weeks fearing an animal entering my house, was about to be at
tacked by a beast I myself had invited. He had me pinned down on the ground whil
e he ripped and tore into my clothes. I laid almost fully exposed to him, feelin
g his tongue and teeth on my breasts and stomach. Slobbering. Panting.
Suddenly I heard a sound from the shadows. I could smell that foul odour again.
The beast, too busy to tug away at my underwear, noticed nothing. The sound kept
growing louder, reverberating against the tall trees. I stopped breathing as I
saw a man, not an animal, walk out from the darkness on his hands and legs and b
earing his teeth. With a few climbs towards us he leapt up and sank his teeth in
to the back of my attacker. I am unsure of what I saw next, but I will try to ac
count for the event even though my mind desperately wants to repress it. The man
, naked and dirty, ripped away at the flesh of his victim. He chewed and growled
as he tore pieces off in frenzy. The man didn't stand a chance. The screams wer
e unbearable, and yet I only sat there, frozen in my place. Blood was spattering
down my torn clothes and dripped down my naked skin. The sound and sight of a m
an being eaten alive will forever haunt me.
I sat there for a long time before I found the strength and sanity to pull mysel
f away and move towards the house. I crawled up on the porch and reached the doo
r. It was locked. I have no recollection what happened after this but I woke up
in my own bed, tucked down under the sheets and covers. I wanted it so badly to
be a nightmare, but the blood on my dress that hung in pieces around me would no
t let me forget even for a minute. I got out of my clothes and into a robe then
stepped outside on the porch. I don't know what I was expecting to see, a bonfir
e? Bones neatly stacked in a pile? Body parts strewn over the lawn? There was no
thing.
I heard a breathing by the bushes along the porch. I walked over and stretched m
y hand out in the darkness. I found a naked patch of skin, warm and sticky. I pa
tted it slowly. It breathed heavily, shook and then it was gone.
I held my hand up to the light from the kitchen window. My hand was covered in b
lood. I wiped it on my robe, went back inside and slept for two whole days.
It's now been a few days since and no one has come to visit me. I have called in
sick from work and there has been no news in the paper about a missing janitor.
I am not afraid anymore. I believe I now know the true nature of the beast.
I needed to get this off my chest. I witnessed a man die in one of the most grue
some ways thought to man and yet I feel nothing for him. Perhaps the beast in al
l of this, is I?
My dear brother I love you dearly Forgive me and please do not reply to this let
ter and do not pass this forward.
My Friend's Mother
by erikda777
This happened to me about six years ago. I was either thirteen or fourteen years
old when it happened. My palms are becoming sweaty just from thinking about the
story I'm about to tell you, it took quite some courage to start writing this. I
guess I'll try and keep it short.
Back in school I had a good friend named Ryan, and well, he was my only friend.
After school we always went to his house to hang out. His house sat almost in th
e middle of a big grazing field, which mostly worked in our advantage as it gave
us a lot of room for playing outside. Since the house was in the middle of the
field, you would have to follow a long driveway to get there. But that's enough de
scription so let's cut down to the flesh of the story.
It was 20.00 in the evening and a huge fight broke out between my parents and me
. I was frustrated and couldn't stand it any longer so I called Ryan's house, as I n
eeded to break away from this mess. He picked up the phone and was surprised hea
ring from me at such a late hour (we were kids back then), but after hearing my
story he said I could come over, although he said he was going to be away at foo
tball practice until 21.00, so I would have to wait for him.
I agreed.
A mistake.
It was night and it was dark. It didn't mind the dark, but I never liked the road
that led to his house. Its wavy pattern would sometimes make me sick, especially
if I was travelling in a car. But now that was not the case, I was on my bike.
The disturbing part of this story will not happen on this road, though. It will
happen once I reached the house.
Parking my bike by the side of their empty garage, I walked up their front porch
and reaching the door, rang the bell. The door opened almost as soon as my fing
er let go of the button, giving me a jump. There was no wait; it literally opene
d up almost instantaneously. Then I saw.
It was his mother. I always liked his mother; she was kind, sweet, and always of
fered her support whenever I felt down.
But I could tell something was wrong with her.
Her usually bright eyes seemed darker. Her hair was not neatly tied in a bun beh
ind her head; it fell upon her shoulders. Before I had the chance to examine her
further, something much more unsettling caught my eye. She was smiling.
She did not greet me, or start talking. Just kept smiling and stared right at me
.
Feeling very uncomfortable, I asked if everything was all right. Come inside and
have some tea with me, was her answer. Before I had the chance to answer she went
back into the house. It was then that I noticed that she was wearing her bathro
om robe. Having neither the disrespect to decline her offer, nor the guts to sta
y outside in the night, I entered the home and closed the door behind me.
Heading towards the kitchen I could hear her humming a strange tune. The moment
I entered, she stopped humming and an overwhelming silence took over. Without wa
iting for a conversation to start, I took a seat at the kitchen table. She was s
tanding in front of me, with her back turned in my direction. I tried not to loo
k at her and started awkwardly looking around the room, until the tea was ready.
I was thinking. Ryan's mom would always seem warm and loving and eager to talk ab
out anything concerning my school, family life, and anything else. Now she was j
ust silent. Saying nothing. I spent the next five minutes in this deep thought.
And then it occurred to me.
She hadn't moved at all during the whole time I was in the kitchen. With her back
towards me, I could see that her hands were hanging down her shoulders. Her head
was tilted to the left. Thinking something was wrong, I stood from the chair an
d approached her from behind. Making an awful lot of noise while doing so, she d
id not move a single bit. Carefully I approached her from the right side to look
at her face to see if she was all right. The following sight still haunts me to
this very day.
Her eyes were wide open and she was smiling.
Being as unsettled as I was, I decided it'd be best to go back home. I think I bett
er be off now, I have a lot of schoolwork for tomorrow, I lied, and receiving no
answer in return, I headed towards the front door and stepped outside onto the p
orch. I wasn't scared, well maybe just a little bit, but mostly I was just weirded
the fuck out.
As I was moved down the porch towards my bike, I caught a glimpse of two lights
at the far end of the wavy road. It was a car. Finally, I thought. Ryan was around
ten minutes late. However, as the car was nearing the house, I began wondering
who was driving Ryan back from football practice. His dad was at a business trip
, and wouldn't be back for another two weeks. Ryan himself was too young to drive
a car so who else? I was getting more and more anxious as the car was nearing th
e house. Who was driving Ryan back? The car pulled into the garage and stopped.
Ryan was the first one to get out, giving me a What's up, man?. But the person who c
ame out of the car next was his mother. She noticed me and asked how everything
was.
Reality is Creepier Than Fiction
by WontThinkStraight (Jan. Winner)
Reality can be creepier than fiction. What's truly terrifying aren't the things that
go bump in the night, but the macabre twists of fate in life. Especially when t
hey get more horrifying the deeper you pry into them.
Such as the story of old Aunt Mary.
Mary wasn't my aunt, but a friend of mine's. He's told me this story since I've shared m
y own childhood tale of Gurgles & Bugman. As it's a very personal family matter, t
he names have been changed to protect their privacy.
Old Aunt Mary was the eldest of four children. She was unmarried for the first 4
0-odd years of her life, so she was always spoiling her nieces and nephews with
indulgent gifts. She was everyone's favorite aunt.
However, deep down, she was very lonely.
Always being the spinster whilst everyone around her got married with children t
ook a mental toll on her. When both her parents eventually died, they left a spr
awling house for her inheritance. But the void in her life became as cavernous a
s the empty rooms of her mansion.
Shortly after her 46th birthday, she surprised everyone by announcing her sudden
wedding to Stanley, a man she'd known for only two months.
It was clear though, they were deeply in love with each other. He was only sligh
tly younger 39 years old but as charming, fit and generous a soul as Mary was. W
hilst no one knew much about Stanley, they all loved and welcomed him to the fam
ily. They were also secretly relieved that Mary had found happiness after all th
ose years of solitude.
A month after the wedding, they took a honeymoon of a lifetime, spending a year
to travel across the world. Every few weeks a postcard would arrive from various
exotic locations exclaiming how much fun they were having.
Everything seemed perfect until the couple returned from their trip. Living toge
ther at the mansion, Mary started to change. She stopped sleeping in the same be
d as Stanley, then insisted that they have separate rooms. Before long, she was
claiming to hear strange noises throughout the house: her name being called out
during the night, furious scratching sounds echoing in the hallways, or mournful
wails that seemed to come from the walls themselves.
The more Stanley tried to comfort her, the more terrified she became. She would
yell and scream at him to stay away, and to not touch her. She would spend days
barricading herself up in a room crying and babbling, slowly going insane from t
he filth that would accumulate and the mental isolation.
Eventually, the family got her to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed her with a type
of paranoid schizophrenia known as Capgras Syndrome. It's a rare condition where
the victim believes that someone close has been replaced with an identical impo
ster. She claimed that Stanley was not her husband but something that looked, ac
ted and pretended to be Stanley.
Her family was faced with the difficult choice of either committing Mary to a me
ntal institution to get the care she needed, or have her sedated and looked afte
r at home. They chose to keep her sedated.
Throughout all this time, Stanley was clearly distraught, but still loved Mary w
ith all his heart. He never wavered in caring for her at the bedside, feeding he
r and talking to her as a loving husband. Over the following year the family spe
nt a lot of time getting to know Stanley better as they took turns caring for Ma
ry, and felt incredibly fortunate that he was around.
So it was a total shock when they arrived at the house one day to be greeted by
a squad of police cars. The front door was plastered with police tape, and they
weren't allowed to enter. After proving that they were related to the occupants, t
he officer in charge relayed what happened.
That morning, Aunt Mary's body was found at the base of an ocean cliff about a hal
f hour's drive away. A passing jogger had seen her car drive right up to the edge
of the cliff, and a woman pulling a body from the back of the car. After calling
the police, he then witnessed Mary stabbing a male body several times with a la
rge kitchen knife. She then rolled the body off the cliff into the waters below,
and started to laugh uncontrollably for minutes on end.
When the police arrived, she had simply turned and smiled, then jumped off the c
liff to her death. They managed to recover her body, but no trace of Stanley's was
found. In all likelihood it was already washed out to sea. The licence plate of
the car led them back to the house, where the investigation was now focused. Th
ey found some spat-out medication near Mary's bed, and a broken lamp on the floor
with blood splatter on the walls.
Aunt Mary had pretended to take her pills, then knocked Stanley out with the bed
side lamp while his head was turned. She then had dragged the unconscious and bl
eeding body to the kitchen where she stabbed Stanley with a knife, before draggi
ng him to the car and driving to the cliff.
However, it was what they found next that puts a chill through my bones.
In searching the house that day, the police uncovered a secret cellar under a la
rge rug. Upon opening it, they were greeted with the anguished face of a desicca
ted corpse on the steps, clawing at the cellar door.
The room was covered in the stench of dried human waste, and deep gouges in the
woodwork where someone had desperately tried to scratch their way out of this pr
ison. When the DNA analysis and dental records came back, the corpse was a 99% m
atch with Stanley.
He'd been dead for months, most likely of starvation. His long fingernails were br
oken and scratched from clawing in his futile attempts to get out. Stanley was t
he thing that went bump in the night; it was his pleas and desperate attempts to
escape that echoed through the halls of the mansion at night.
But solving that mystery only created a deeper one.
Who then, was that person caring for Mary, spending time with her family - and w
hom ultimately was murdered and thrown off a cliff - if Stanley was already dead
?
Was it a twin brother? A Doppelgnger?
Whatever it was, Aunt Mary took that secret with her to the grave.
What haunts me most though is the thought that maybe she was perfectly sane thro
ughout it all, and it was the world itself that was truly crazy.
Reality is indeed creepier than fiction.
The Man My Father Knew
by Dermit15
It's taken me a while to finally be able to tell this story, and I hope you fare
better than me once you understand it. My father wrote this speech over a year
ago for a family friend's Halloween murder-mystery dinner. At the time no one took
him seriously, we all thought it was part of the show. However, all of the foll
owing information is true, even the parts that shouldn't be.
I've never quite come to terms with this, and I hope you begin to understand my
hesitation. No matter how hard I try, I just can't believe what my father said tha
t evening over dinner.
A little background before I start on the story tonight, as I understand not all
of you know who I am. My name is Dan [-----] and I was, until a few years ago,
the chief deputy for the county Sheriff's Department. I was a cop for 28 long year
s, and I could tell you stories about your neighbors that would make your skin c
rawl. It would be a genuine shock to most people regarding what goes on around y
ou every day. This job taught me that our neighborhoods are just as dangerous as
any ghetto. But, anyway, I can say firmly that everything you'll hear tonight is
true. My memory may not be what it once was, but it's still much too clear on this
subject for my liking.
When I got out of high school in 81', there was one thing and one thing only I wan
ted to do with my life, I wanted to be a science teacher. Unfortunately, my scor
e on the state college's admittance test remains the lowest one recorded to this d
ay, so I had to look at other options. By almost total accident, and a little bi
t of fate I think, I fell into the police academy. I won't even start on the stori
es I have from there, let's just say that some twenty year-olds shoot better intox
icated than not. Anyway, that year was the first time I met the subject of our c
hat this evening.
I don't remember his first name, we all called him Mr. Russ, but I remember his fa
ce like it was my own. He had this piercing smile, almost like the way a newborn's
is, and when he'd flash it, you'd be totally disarmed. It gave the impression that
not only did he lack a single care in this world, but he actively tried to get r
id of yours. The man never frowned, never got angry, he never even cursed that I
can remember, He was the most positive human being I've ever had the pleasure of
meeting, and ultimately, I think that's what made him so troubling.
Maybe I should back up a step at this point, Mr. Russ was an instructor for our
academy class that year. He taught rifle and handgun techniques, and he was a he
ll of a teacher. He could hit target at any range with any weapon, and he made s
ure we could too by graduation. Keep in mind that this was back way before anyth
ing like modern SWAT teams were around, in fact some of our exiting class became
the first officers for the one downtown. Naturally, all of this stuff was new t
o policemen so they brought in instructors from the FBI, the Secret Service and
even the military. I never got the straight answer as to which he was from, I as
sumed all of them, but he did only stay for that one year. I never got an answer
as to why that was either. But I did see him again.
It was probably three or four years later, and I was on an assignment on the eas
t side of town. For those of you who've never seen my lovely home or lovelier wife
, I live just about as far west out of town as you can get. So for three or four
weeks while I was working the job I lived out of a hotel. It wasn't nice, I'll admi
t that, but when I got home early one morning after a particularly long stint of
protecting and serving, I was surprised to see my room broken into. My surprise
turned into downright shock when I realized who was in it, yes it took me a whi
le to remember him, but it was beyond a doubt Mr. Russ. A very drunk Mr. Russ th
at is, he was passed out on my bed surrounded by tequila bottles. I'd like to chal
k it up to youth, but I'd lying if I told you I'd changed. I simply took off my jack
et, shut the door and went to sleep on the couch. I was too tired to ask questio
ns and, at the time, I didn't think a drunk police instructor in my hotel room was
odd.
When I woke up the next morning though, things didn't appear to me as quite so har
mless. Mr. Russ was gone, replaced by an apologetic note scrawled on the sink in
marker and a lingering aroma of cheap alcohol. Again, I thought it was odd he k
new where I was staying, but for that matter he didn't necessarily have to know wh
o he was imposing upon. The whole situation was bizarre in a way I never fully r
econciled, especially when I figured out the tequila had been dumped, and then l
eft in, my sink. I also never did discover how he got into my room, there were n
o signs of entry to my considerably trained eye. Then again, that was the least
concerning thing of the night.
When I met him again five years later, out encounter was considerably more tradi
tional. I was at an emergency management conference in DC, this was the year we
had all those tornados, I'm dating myself I know, and he came up to me out of a cr
owd. At the time I had forgotten all about the hotel affair and we shot the shit
for a few minutes. He acted like an old friend, and I honestly had trouble reme
mbering who he was. After a while he said goodbye and melted back into the semin
ar, leaving me faintly surprised that he even remembered me. Besides his intrusi
on years earlier we hadn't been in contact for over a decade. He must have trained
hundreds of different people over the years, what made me special enough to be
remembered? I never got the answer to that question, and it would be a very long
time until I saw him again.
It was over ten years later, the day after September 11th, and I was doing the w
orst job possible. The entire department had been ordered, and I mean directly o
rdered by the Governor, to guard the bridge to Indiana. We had to inspect not on
ly every vehicle, person and bag that came and went, but also assist the bomb sq
uad in sweeping the superstructure so the National Guard could take over. Do you
know how many people cross the state border every workday, yet alone how many a
t rush hour? Believe me, It's enough to drive an entire department of Deputies ins
ane very quickly.
At any rate, that afternoon Mr. Russ came driving up with that big ol' smile of hi
s. Some of the newer guys thought it was suspicious that he asked for me by name
, but he eventually got his point across. I realized right then I was getting ol
d, I got it twice I think. The first was when I finally understood that the so-c
alled `new guys' had considerable rank of their own and the second was when I realiz
ed I was more scared of getting home late than standing on a terrorist target. B
ut Mr. Russ was as chipper as ever, which was totally out of sorts with everyone
else on that bridge. He joked with the few of us who he had trained and was as
upbeat as ever, I remember thinking it was like he didn't even know what happened
the day before. I also thought it was odd he didn't look any different than the da
y I met him, it was like the guy hadn't aged a day since I saw him nearly a decade
before. But some people are naturally like that, the bastards that they are. Th
at afternoon was the first time I had serious thoughts about just who Mr. Russ w
as and just what the hell he was doing.
Our next meeting was sooner but still surprisingly unanticipated, he walked into
my office two years later to the day. He was all smiles like usual, he even bro
ught lunch with him, but there was also a point to this meeting. He asked if I w
as interested in moving on in Law Enforcement, to bigger and better things. I sa
id sure, I'd have joined the FBI years ago if it wasn't for the fact I could read. H
e thought that crack was funny, but then again he thought everything was funny.
Nothing ever came of our impromptu meeting, I never got a job offer, but it got
stuck in my mind.
I know I've gone on awful long tonight, we old guys love our war stories, but I wa
nt to say one last thing before we move on with the show . I saw Mr. Russ about
a year ago in a place I know he shouldn't have been. All the previous occurrence
s I could rack up as coincidences or shady fed work, but last April I met Mr. Ru
ss in the lobby of my son's high school. There isn't a reason in the world why he sh
ould have been sitting in that room, but he was, and he was just as happy as eve
r to see me. His face hadn't weathered like mine has and he was still as fit as th
e first day we met, the man was cut out of my memory from 1981.
I finally asked him everything I always wanted to know about our past interactio
ns, the hotel, the bridge, how he knew I was allergic to tomatoes and their abse
nce from the lunch he bought me. And friends, the answer I got wasn't easy to hear
, but it was the one I was expecting. It seems his job offer of something higher
was still on the table, and he wanted a second interview. Mr. Russ was recruiti
ng, and I was at the top of the list. Though I didn't fully grasp what he was sayi
ng then, I think I at least have an understanding of it now.
Well, that's about as much as I'm going to ramble this evening. You all must be gett
ing pretty sick of ol' Deputy Dan talking your ear off. The final thing I'm going to
do though tonight is to bring your attention to the table at the far back of th
e dining room. It's empty now yes, and it was empty when I started, but there was
somebody at it while I was speaking. I don't think any of you saw him, and I'm sure
he didn't buy a ticket, but I think we all still know who he is.
My father died in a car accident a month after he gave this speech, his vehicle
caught fire and exploded. The coroner reported that the fire was so hot no trace
of his body could be recovered for burial. But I think I know better than that,
they didn't find my father in that car because he wasn't there. He disappeared with
his old friend. You see, that morning a man came to our house and asked to see
my father. A man that smiled like his heart was about to burst.
There's People In My Room
by Brianne123
I started reading these stories on nosleep a couple weeks ago and, I got to say,
they're addictive. They're terrifying but for the ones that were the worst, I would
tell myself it's not real. However, paranoia is a strange thing; it plays tricks wi
th your mind, with your eyes, with every one of your waking thoughts. The shadow
s seem to move and the house seems to creak. But that's all fine; that's all explain
able. What's not explainable is the story one of my friends began telling me a few
days ago. I was telling her about all the stories here on nosleep, and she bega
n telling me her own. She had never told me any of this before, I guess because
we aren't the greatest of friends, but I feel connected to her now in a strange an
d terrifying way.
For the sake of this story, let's call my friend Claire. I've known Claire for a cou
ple years, but I would only have called her my acquaintance; just another person
in the group. I didn't know much about her life, I didn't know why she was sometime
s so quiet. A few days ago, my friends and I were hanging out at one of our hous
es, as usual. We were all drinking and somehow I ended up sitting alone with Cla
ire in the kitchen. Everyone else was downstairs in the living room, laughing an
d playing video games. I started telling Claire about these stories on nosleep a
nd her face turned white. I shit you not, it turned white. I know people always
say that, but I literally saw the color drain from her face. I thought she was g
oing to be sick from the alcohol, but that wasn't it.
What's wrong? I asked.
She looked up at me and her eyes were full of terror, I've heard about that before
About what?
Those things in your stories. I've seen them.
I laughed, thinking she was joking with me. But she didn't smile, she just stared
at me and I could see tears in her eyes.
Alright, tell me. I said.
This is the story she told me.
When Claire was six, her family moved to a new house. A big house, an old house.
Her parents were trying to flip it, she told me. She said she didn't remember much
about that, all she could remember were the people in her room. She was young; t
he stereotypical age that a child may have imaginary friends. So no one believed h
er. Claire told me that when she first saw them, she wasn't scared. She was curiou
s about who they were. She spoke to them.
Probably the biggest mistake of my life, she told me, I invited them into my world.
Claire's room was white-walled, peeling in some places. The floors were ancient ha
rdwood that creaked loudly at her when she crept across the floors. They creaked
when the people walked across her room too. Claire's bed was beautiful, she told
me. It had white canopy hanging down over a low brass bed. She had got to pick t
he bedding too; she chose purple sheets and a pink duvet. She was different from
most six-year-olds in that she loved making her bed in the mornings. She liked
tucking the corners of the crisp sheets into the squishy mattress, and pulling t
he canopies back, tying them with ribbon to the brass poles. After the first cou
ple weeks, though, her mother started to get angry at her. It would be the middl
e of the day and her mother would yell down to her.
Claire! Claire, come here!
Claire made her way up to her room, wondering what the matter was. When she got
into her room, she gasped. She was as shocked as a six-year-old could be. Her be
dding was thrown onto her floor, the sheets pulled off in places. The flimsy whi
te canopy was thrown over itself so that it hung in thick knots. It looked like
something was trying to find something, or someone, hiding in the sheets. There
was a scratch along her floor from her bed to her nightstand.
What in God's name have you been doing in here? Her mother asked.
I-I I didn't do this! I made my bed this morning.
Then who did it, Claire? Her mother sighed.
I don't know!
Her mother, like any mother, scoffed at her and proceeded to clean up the mess.
She ran her finger along the scratch in the floor and shot Claire an annoyed loo
k.
Please ask us if you want to move your furniture around!
Claire just stood in the doorway watching, wondering what had happened. This con
tinued to happen in variations over the next month. Claire thought that maybe an
animal was in their house somewhere and was messing her room up. That was, unti
l, she saw the people in her room.
Claire was cuddled into her bed one night when she awoke with a gasp. She felt b
reathless, like she had been running for hours. She coughed and tried to cry out
, but no voice could escape her. She felt paralyzed, she said. Even in her child
like mind, she could not escape the fear that enveloped her at that moment. Her
eyes bulged as she stared around her bed. The thin canopy was drawn tight around
her bed but, behind it, she could make out many forms. They were standing in a
perfect semi-circle around her bed. Most were tall, but some were short (Like lit
tle people short, she told me, only a lot wider they were disgusting). One specifica
lly terrified her; a short dense figure stood closest to her, next to her nights
tand. Her canopy wasn't drawn over this one part of her bed so that she could reac
h out to her stand. The figure barely stood taller than the stand, but she could
see its eyes and the top of its head. She said they were bright eyes, white as
snow. They had no pupils; they were empty and yet they stared deep into her.
She stared at the figure, not wanting to take her eyes off it. She watched as it
stepped closer and made to go around her nightstand. It walked heavily, she sai
d, and breathed loudly, like it was choking. She watched as it reached a hand ou
t to part her canopy. It pulled it back and she saw its face in whole. It was de
formed, she said. The nose was half torn off and its mouth dropped to one side,
sagging into a disgusting frown. The other side was pulled up into a disgusting
smile. It was smiling at her, a look of accomplishment in its eyes as it reached
out for her.
Everything went black. Claire told me she thought she must have passed out becau
se the next thing she knew, she was waking up in the bright morning. Of course,
it must have been a dream.
A few days later, however, Claire was in her room playing when everything starte
d going wrong. At first it was small things; her crayons wouldn't be there when sh
e turned around. Her doll seemed to move a few inches in either direction. Small
things that she passed off.
Claire was sitting on her bed coloring when she heard it. A loud screech that ma
de her hair stand on end. She looked around and saw that her nightstand had move
d a couple inches. Then, as she watched, the stand dragged itself violently forw
ard, screeching along the hardwood floors. She sat, open-mouthed, staring at it.
As quick as it had been thrown forward, it was thrusted hard backward. Claire b
egan shouting for her mother, screaming that something was in her room. She hear
d her mother coming up the stairs, but then her bedroom door slammed shut. She k
ept screaming as loud as she could and ran to the door, trying to pull it open.
It was stuck not locked, she had no lock; just stuck, like something was holding
it closed.
Her mother banged on the other side, yelling at Claire to stop fooling around an
d move whatever was blocking the door. Claire whimpered and pounded dully on the
door with her small fists. Then she heard it; warm air trickled onto her neck.
She froze. A stench hit her; she couldn't place it then but now, she told me, she
knew its smell. It smelled of decay of the rotting dead.
She slowly turned around but saw nothing. Or, I should say, no one. Her whole ro
om was astray. Her bed was thrown to the wrong corner, the mattress flipped upwa
rds onto the wall. The canopy was ripped in places, long scratches seeming to go
down it. There was scratches on the walls and the floors, like someone had drag
ged their hands across them. Claire's doll lay in the middle of the room, head tor
n off. Her coloring was strewn about, a lot of it torn up in angry thrashes. And
there was writing on the wall, obviously scratched in with bloody fingers. Clai
re fell to the ground and lay curled up, crying. Her mother finally threw the do
or open and came in, looking around in disbelief. She was about to rip into Clai
re for the damage she had done but then she saw it.
Scratched into the wall, dried blood left behind, were the words: Bitch Will Die
.
Her mother screamed and ran to the window, looking out for whoever had done this
. She knew that Claire hadn't. The writing was too high for her to have ever reach
ed, and her mother could see that it was scratched into the walls as if somethin
g with sharp nails had attacked it. And the wording Claire didn't curse. Claire lay
on the floor sobbing and shaking. Her mother carried her out and called her fat
her, screaming that someone had come into Claire's room.
Claire told me that her mother never believed that anything paranormal had happene
d. She said that her mother always believed that some maniac had crawled into Cl
aire's room and upturned it. Either way, they moved. Her mother was too terrified
to live in a neighborhood where someone like that could prowl her daughter. She
thought moving would keep the insanity away from her daughter. She was wrong.
The people left for a while, but Claire said they came back when she was fifteen
. And, to use Claire's exact words, "They were really fucking mad that I left.
Unknown Caller
by slidewithme (Feb. Winner)
I met my then-boyfriend, Nick, online- which was a little awkward to explain to
my parents at the time. I'm from the South, and technology doesn't really get around t
here like it does out here on the West coast. They weren't really comfortable with
the idea at first, but after they met him they really warmed to the idea of us
dating. We did the long distance thing for about three months, and then decided
that we had something really special and I moved across the country to live with
him.
We moved into an apartment together the day I arrived here in the Sunny State, a
nd it was really great. It was the first time I'd lived without my parents, and I
had a really good time setting the place up to be home. I wasn't working yet, but
Nick was, so I spent most of time looking for a job and playing house wife. Righ
t around the time I'd been here for a month, he started working the grave shift. T
hat's when things started getting a little weird, but I didn't see the signs until m
uch later.
It was a Friday night, and Nick was getting ready to leave for work. I'd planned a
nice relaxing evening of movies and chatting online, as I'd spent the entire week
applying and interviewing for jobs. He gave me the customary kiss-and-a-hug, an
d left for the wall board plant almost directly across the street from our compl
ex. I settled in with Lady and the Tramp, one of my very favorites, and a hot cu
p of decaf. A few hours later, having finished my movie, I was talking online wi
th my friend Seth. He was ragging on me as per usual for loving Disney movies, w
hen the phone rang. I looked at the time on my taskbar and wondered who would be
calling me at two o'clock in the morning, and then suddenly had the worry that so
mething had happened to Nick at work. I answered the phone a little confused.
Hello? I asked.
Hi, is Nicole there? a male voice responded; the timbre was low and somewhat scrat
chy.
This is she. I stated, still confused. May I ask who is calling?
No, you cannot ask. He said, sounding a little amused.
Uh... okay Are you calling from Koch Corp? Is Nick is okay? I inquired.
Who the fuck is that? he asked aggressively, scaring me a little.
I think perhaps you have the wrong number. Who are you calling for? I asked polite
ly, a little rankled at his tone.
I told you, I'm calling for you, Nicole. Who's this man Nick, and why are you talking
to him? I thought you understood that wasn't okay. His words are short and clipped
, as if giving me a command.
I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye. I hung up quickly, cutting off the las
t syllable.
The next hour went by slowly, and I couldn't determine whether I was scared, angry
, or both. Who the hell was that? You don't talk to people that way, whether or no
t you know them, and I certainly didn't know him. After coming to the realization
that I was pretty pissed, but more scared than anything, I wrestled with the ide
a of telling Nick. I didn't want him to think of me as a scared little girl, but a
t the same time that guy sounded actually scary. Demanding. Remembering the way h
e said that wasn't okay made goose prickles pop up all over my arms and neck. I deci
ded that regardless of what he thought of me, Nick needed to know.
The next afternoon, after Nick got up and had showered, I asked him if we could
talk.
What's up lady? he looks at me curiously, picking up my serious tone.
I had a phone call last night, around two in the morning. It was really weird. I s
tart flexing my fingers, and my agitation is palpable. I clench my fists to make
it stop. Remembering the phone call makes me feel scared all over again, and I
have a strong gut feeling that something bad is happening.
What's wrong? Concern lines his face, and he takes one of my hands and strokes it wi
th his thumb. I feel a little better just from the contact.
Twenty minutes later, after explaining the phone call and how I felt, he looks a
t me full in the face.
I know you're not some timid little girl, so don't worry about that. Thank you for te
lling me, but I don't think you're going to like my advice. His expression is apologe
tic, and I already know what he's going to say.
No, I reply, adamant. I'm not calling the police. It was just a stupid phone call.
His face becomes stern. Nicole, it just took you twenty minutes to articulate a 3
0 second phone call. It's obviously disturbing to both of us. Also, you're here alon
e at night. I need to know you're safe when I'm not here. I know you can handle your
self, but I also know it only takes one foot to kick in a window and be in this
apartment.
Somewhat ashamed, I say I know. It just feels silly.
I know it does, he says, hugging me. But I'd rather you feel a little silly than a li
ttle raped. He grins, making a joke. The horror of the statement rings in my head
, and I frown.
That's not entirely funny. I grin despite myself, trying to make light.
We agree to call the police, and so I do as he's getting ready for work. The conve
rsation doesn't go as well as I'd hoped, and the officer on the phone doesn't take me
seriously. She collects some random information along with my address and phone
number, all the while speaking in an oh-my-god-who-cares tone. I hang up, angry
again and dejected.
By the time Nick leaves for work that night, I'm already anxious. Will there be an
other phone call? Will I be okay? Did I lock the door when he left? Is the chain
in place? Where is the largest, sharpest object I own?
Around midnight, I end up falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. When I wake up t
hree hours later, I realize that I've psyched myself up so much I've ended up making
a mountain out of a mole hill. I tell myself the whole situation is hilarious,
and sit down at my computer to regale the whole ridiculous story to my friend Se
th.
As I'm typing it out and he's laughing at me, the phone rings.
I look at the clock; nine minutes after three o'clock in the morning. My gut tight
ens.
Hello? I try to sound more confident than I feel. My voice waivers a little anyway
.
Nicole? Are you okay, honey? Nick asks, worry thick in his words.
Oh, hey, uh, yeah. It's just so late, and I thought but yeah, I'm good. Had a nice nap
, just chatting with Seth now. How's work? I try to play off the tension, mentally
and physically shaking myself.
It's a little slow, thought I'd call and see how you were. I know you're normally up un
til at least four or five. No weird phone calls then? He sounds tired, a little s
tressed.
Well, now that you mention it, this one crazy guy just called me at 3am! And, oh
no, he's still on the phone! I pitch my voice low, mock-creepy, Do you think he's craz
y? I stifle a laugh.
He snorts. Go back to chatting; I'll see you when we wake up tomorrow. Love you. He
hangs up, clearly amused. I congratulate myself on my cleverness, and finish rel
aying the story to Seth.
Nicole: so, anyway, I basically am retarded, I think
Seth: I don't know, it sounds a little creepy to me, I'm glad you called the police
Nicole: Nick said the same thing, but I still feel a little silly. It's not like I
know this guy or anything. I think it was just a random call from someone who h
as issues.
Seth: Probably. or he's outside your window right now!
Nicole: not amusing, sir!
Seth: Incorrect, I am very amusing.
Nicole: Incorrect, you are very stupid.
Seth: Incorrect, I am a highly sought-after comedian of epic proportions. Your t
iny mind cannot comprehend the amusing..ness.
Nicole: Amusingness?
Seth: Shut up, it's a word
Nicole: right. I don't think Merriam would agree.
Seth: Webster is cooler anyway.
Nicole: sec, Nick is calling again, brb
I go to pick up the phone again, cheerful this time. On my way across the room,
I note it's raining pretty heavily outside. I see a few flashes off in the distanc
e, but don't hear anything. I find the little mini-storm calming.
What's up, lover cakes? I ask, grinning into the phone. Miss me?
Of course, darling, why else would I call? The voice on the other end of the line
isn't Nick, and the blood in my veins freezes. The creepy vibe this time is ten-fo
ld, and I know in my heart that this man is going to hurt me. All from those eig
ht words. Fear rapidly morphs into anger, and I grit my teeth against the sudden
up-spike of blood pressure.
You need to stop calling me. I say, my tone hard.
After a shocked beat, he says Excuse me? Don't you dare speak to me that way, you f
ucking whore! His words are low, threatening. How dare you stand there looking lik
e a disheveled transient, speaking to me that way! he nearly yells.
I decide to hang up right as thunder peels in the distance. I push the END button
on the handset and immediately pull the cord out from the wall. My heart hammers
, and I'm shaking visibly. I sit down at my computer and message Seth again.
Nicole: it wasn't Nick
Seth: Was it Mr. Creepypants?
Nicole: yeah, except this time he wasn't Mr. Creepypants. More like Mr. Homocidalm
aniacpants
Seth: .. you okay?
Nicole: yea, but I don
Seth: Nic?
Seth: hey, you okay?
Seth: Nicole come on, you're starting to freak me out a little :/
Nicole: Fuck!
Seth: ??
Nicole: I just realized he said I looked like a disheveled homeless person or som
ething. Right before I hung up, there was thunder outside. He can see me, I just
woke up from a nap and am all rumpled or whatever.. I heard the thunder through
the phone too
Nicole: what the fuck do I do!
Seth: Get out, Nic, come over here. I'm at home.
Nicole: No, I can't go outside, what if he's still there?
Seth: okay, call the police. Right now, message me every two minutes too. Are yo
u sure it was the same thunder?
Nicole: yes, I'm sure okay, calling now. Please don't leave okay?
Seth: I'm here, go call them
Nicole: okay, I'm dialing now
Seth: On the phone still?
Nicole: yeah, sec
Nicole: still talking, almost done
Nicole: k, they say they're on their way over here, they're gonna send a car. Office
r will identify himself when he knocks, they say.
Seth: okay, keep talking to me until they're there, don't leave me hanging
Nicole: k, I'm okay I think.. I don't know how he saw me. The windows are all covere
d with black out shades, and they're all closed
Seth: are there gaps on the sides?
Nicole: ugh, yeah probably
Seth: don't worry, he's probably gone now
Nicole: okay :/ maybe I should call Nick
Seth: probably a good idea. Don't forget to message me every few minutes until the
cops arrive okay?
Nicole: k, lemme call Nick's work
Seth: take your time. I mean it, every few minutes at least. Tell me when the co
ps are there. If you don't say anything for longer than a few minutes I'm coming ove
r
Nicole: k, thanks. I'm okay, it's ringing now
Seth: okay, I'm still here
Seth: still talking?
Nicole: I'm waiting, the guy that answered the phone said he'd go get Nich
Seth: kk
Nicole: damn :/ apparently they can't find Nick, he's up in the mixer somewhere. The
y said they'll have him call me back
Seth: okay. Still okay?
Nicole: I guess, I feel sick
Nicole: cops are here, sec
Seth: look through the peep hole first please!
Nicole: kk, brb
Seth: everything okay?
Nicole: yes, talking to cop, I'm here/okay
Seth: k, tell me when he leaves
Nicole: okay, he's gone. Said he didn't see anything weird outside, no one sitting i
n a car or anything. Took down some info, said he and his partner are in this ar
ea a lot at night. He was really nice, gave me his card with his cell phone in c
ase I need to call. He said they'd drive by a few times at night when they're on dut
y.
Seth: That's nice of him. You sure you're alright? I can be over there in a minute
Nicole: no, it's okay. It's getting late, and I should probably try to sleep, I have
an interview at 10am in Walnut Creek
Seth: k :/ call me if something happens and you can't get a hold of Nich, I'll be ri
ght over
Nicole: k, thanks. I'll talk to you tomorrow, let you know how the interview went
Seth: k, gnight
Nicole: night
For the rest of the early morning, I tried to sleep, and couldn't even manage to r
est. At seven o'clock, I heard Nick come in from work. He hadn't called me back, and
I figured he just hadn't gotten the message or was busy. When he came in, I prete
nded to be asleep because I didn't want to go through it all again.
Over the next few weeks, the phone rang almost every night between midnight and
four a.m. I didn't answer it anymore, and after the fourth night of it ringing, I
kept the phone on silent. On the fifth night, I had caller I.D. installed so I c
ould pick up the phone if it was Nick. Every time it rang, though, it just said C
ALLER UNKNOWN.
After two weeks, Nick and I started fighting about really small, stupid things.
Suddenly, during an argument one day, he stopped midsentence and looked at me.
What's wrong with you? he asked, more concerned than angry.
Nothing, I'm fine, why do you even care where I put my dirty clothes? I asked, annoy
ed.
You're not fine. We've been arguing over stupid shit for a while, and it's not where yo
u put your dirty clothes or the dishes not being done that's bothering either of u
s. What's wrong? His tone is exasperated, but I can tell by his face that he's concer
ned.
I sigh heavily, feeling all the anger flood out of me. You know that weird call I
got a while ago?
Yeah, the dude that was yelling at you? Did he call again or something? He tilts h
is head, concerned and looking a little angry.
Well, yeah, he did. The night after that. He called and a few things he said real
ly scared me, like he could see me or something and I heard thunder, both through
the phone and outside. At the same time. I look away, ashamed that I haven't told
him this yet.
He stares at me, like he's seeing a blue elephant in the middle of a china shop. Wh
y didn't you tell me that, Nicole? You should have told me that. He looks angry, bu
t moves across the room to hug me anyway.
I know, but... I called the cops that night, they came out. Said they'd keep an eye
on the house at night, that they work in this area. Seth said he'd come over if I
couldn't get a hold of you at work. I'm talking into his shoulder, trying to hold my
self together.
Why didn't you call me that night when it happened, honey? He squeezes hard, and it
hurts my ribs a little, but the feeling is nice none the less.
I did, I talked to someone who said you were up in the mixer and that you'd call me
back. I guessed you were busy.
I didn't get the message, I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. He looks down at me, and his
face goes serious. Is there anything else you haven't told me?
He the guy, I mean, he's called after that.
How many times?
Uh every night since then, usually between twelve and four in the morning. I say sh
eepishly.
He sighs, clearly disappointed but still worried. Okay. We're going to change our n
umber. Right now, I'm going to call AT&T and get it changed. I sit on the couch and
breathe deeply, relieved that I've told him. I scold myself for not doing it soon
er, and his voice talking to the lady at AT&T is soothing. I drift off to sleep
after having so much stress taken away, and I dream that I'm Ariel from The Little
Mermaid. When the dream turns weird and I end up drowning, I wake up suddenly.
Nick? I call out, curious.
Silence greets me, and I look up on my desk. It's eight o'clock, and there's a note on
my keyboard.
Hey, sorry I didn't wake you, it reads, written in Nick's handwriting, you looked so ti
red when I got off the phone. The new number will go into effect tomorrow night.
If the phone rings tonight, DO NOT ANSWER IT. Wait until it stops and call me a
t work immediately. I love you! NH
At the bottom is a seven digit character I take to be our new phone number. Plac
ing the note aside, I open up Seth's IM window and tell him about it. As per usual
, he makes sarcastic jokes about how I'm so popular I have to change my number. Th
e night goes on without an issue, until a few minutes after four a.m.
I'd crawled in to bed a little early, and was reading my favorite Harry Potter boo
k for the third time- I had just gotten it earlier that month, and like any true
fangirl I was totally hooked. Right during the part when Harry is walking down
the dark hallway, watching for Snape's footprints on the Marauder's Map, I heard an
odd noise outside the sliding glass door that leads from our bedroom to the pati
o.
Figuring it for the stray cat I left food out for at night, I didn't think much of
it. It sounded a little like scratching on pavement, and besides, the patio was
surrounded by an eight foot wall. No one would be able to scale it without maki
ng a lot of noise. No one besides the cat, anyway. The scratching stopped and I
returned to my book. I fell asleep, dreaming about gilly weed and house elves.
A few hours later, I woke up to plastic bags rustling in the living room. I went
out and saw Nick bagging something up through the sliding glass door next to th
e couch. Both glass doors went out to the same patio, so I went back to the bedr
oom and put on my robe. I stepped out the door there, and greeted him with a smi
le.
Hey, what's up? What's that? I asked, trying to peer into the bag.
Oh, uhhh just some garbage that blew in last night. That gap under the wall has go
tten a little bigger. He answered, a little shifty. I was immediately suspicious.
I look around and notice the whole patio area is wet, like he has hosed it down
.
Yeah, but not big enough for something like what you've got in that bag to blow und
er. What is it? It looks heavy, not like trash. I reach for the bag, and he jerks
it away.
Okay, look He wipes his hand down his face, and uncharacteristic sign of stress.
What? What's wrong? I ask, reaching for the bag again. He jerks it away a second tim
e, and holds out a placating hand.
Nicole, I'm I'm going to tell you what we're doing today, and then I'm going to tell you w
hy. Just listen. I need you to go take a shower and get dressed, then start pack
ing your clothes- just listen, okay? He asks again, as I try to interject. Start p
acking your clothes. I'm going to have some guys from work come over and help us w
ith the furniture.
What? I ask numbly. Where are we going?
We're going to go stay with my mom for a little while. I already called her, she kn
ows we're coming. We'll get another apartment soon.
Did you lose your job? I ask, confused. Sympathy creases my eyebrows, and I step f
orward to give him a hug. He steps back quickly, keeping the bag away from me.
No, listen. I need you to I need you to go shower and get dressed. I promise I'll ex
plain it after I've taken care of this. He motions to the bag, keeping it out of my
reach.
Still confused, I comply. I shower and dress quickly, then meet him in the kitch
en. He's washing his hands, and his face is marred with stress.
So what? Please explain, I'm getting really frustrated and anxious. I put my hands on
my hips, but keep my shoulders down. I'm a little annoyed, but the look on his fa
ce has me really worried.
Sit down, he says as he's drying his hands. He's getting in between his fingers, under
his nails drawing out the process. Finally, he sits next to me on the couch.
I'm just going to tell you without preamble, and without any sort of drama. I came
home this morning and that stray cat you feed- the little calico one? He was on
the porch out there. He was dead. He'd been I don't know, taken apart, and there were
parts of him it, all over the place. His voice is soft, low, like he's trying to te
ll me without it being upsetting.
I can feel my face contorting in horror, first, and then sympathy for the little
kitten. I wasn't sure, but he had to be less than a year old. I'd have taken him in
entirely, but the complex didn't allow animals. My heart breaks, knowing he must
have been scared when it happened.
Did he get attacked? By a dog or something? I ask, knowing by his body language, to
ne of voice, and the heaviness of his words that this question is ludicrous.
No, someone hurt him. There were numbers written on the glass, backwards so you co
uld read them from inside. It was our new phone number. They were kind of painte
d on with some leaves, I think, in probably red paint. He says the last quickly, a
nd I know he means blood. The little kitten's blood.
All at once, I feel like I'm trapped in a cage. Mr. Creepypants- the moniker rings
in my ears and I laugh suddenly, despite myself- his voice comes back to me, an
d it feels like sand paper in my ears.
This doesn't happen, though. Not like that. It starts with phone calls, and then it
goes on from there. It doesn't go from phone calls to murdering animals in less t
han three weeks. This is not how this goes. I say, frustrated. This is fucking cra
zy.
Nick looks at me desperately, at a loss for words.
Okay. I'm packing now. I move away, and as I pass by he catches me up in a hug.
I'm going to keep you safe, okay? I will do everything I can to keep you safe. He ho
lds tight, like I'm going to break apart. I feel like that might be true.
He could just be crazy. He knows my name, but that's all he knows, right? Maybe he g
ot it from our trash, a piece of mail. He doesn't know much more than that. Nick is
quiet, just holding me.
**
That night, Nick calls in sick to work and we continue packing. By the time two
a.m. rolls around, we're mostly done, having feverishly worked to get everything w
e owned back into the boxes they were taken out of such a short time ago. We wer
e both tired and hungry, so we decide to make a post-midnight run to Jack in the
Box. I'm addicted to their crappy tacos.
We'd already dismantled the kitchen table, so we ate slowly and sleepily on the li
ving room floor. Just as I'm finishing the last jalapeo popper, the phone rings. I
freeze with the morsel halfway to my mouth, and my stomach clenches. All the foo
d I just ate, including deliciously misnamed tacos, tries to crawl up my esophag
us.
Before I can do anything else, Nick is suddenly up off the floor, anger lining h
is face. As he storms over to the phone I can see his fists held hard at his sid
es. He reaches forward, rips the phone off the hook, and screams into it: WHO THE
FUCK IS THIS, AND WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU CALLING?
From the other end of the line I hear silence, and then muffled words. Nick's face
blanches, and he slams the phone back on the receiver. He turns to face me, loo
king somewhat surprised. Uh, oops. Wrong number. I think I just scared some poor
lady.
Despite the tension that had built up in the last few seconds, this just seems u
tterly hilarious to me. I burst out laughing, nearly crying from hysteria. He st
arts to laugh too, and pretty soon we're just caught up in the sheer stupidity of
the moment, giggling at each other. It's the first time in the last month I've had a
genuine laugh, and I tell him so.
He's helping me up off the floor as he says, It's good to see you smile. This is goin
g to turn out okay. His face is genuine, but I can see there's a lot he's not saying.
I decide I just don't want to know, and we head to bed. He checks the doors and w
indows for a second time right before he lies down, and I'm asleep before he's done
adjusting the blankets.
**
What seems like several hours later, I wake up to a hand pressed so tight over m
y mouth that my lips are digging into my teeth. I reach up to pry the hand off,
and at the same time I open my eyes to see Nick's face hovering next to mine. His
eyes are wide, and his other hand is holding a single finger up to his mouth. I
relax somewhat, and nod. When he removes his hand, I mouth the words what's going o
n?
He shakes his head and then motions toward the sliding glass door across the roo
m. The moon seems bright, and I can see the silhouette of the cherry tree behind
our patio. Next to it is the shadow of a tall person, standing motionless.
My first reaction is a little deer-in-the-headlights, and for a moment I'm all but
incapacitated by fear. Ice seems to coat my skin, and when I feel a sharp pain
on my thigh, I look down to see my nails have cut into my leg. I turn to look at
Nick, and he's slowly moving out of bed, reaching for something out of sight. The
shadow against the door moves, as if it's walking closer to the door itself, and
I'm quietly moving from the bed to the door. The phone is on the counter across th
e hall, but I notice that in order to get there I'd have to walk in front of the g
lass door in the living room where the vertical blinds are open. I stop, unsure o
f what to do, and turn back to see Nick with a tire iron in his hand about to op
en the door to the patio.
I tense, and hiss out no! right before the door opens. The tire iron comes down, b
ut before it makes contact with anything the man on the patio reaches out and pu
nches Nick in the throat. He gasps, loses his grip on the iron, and stumbles bac
k. Immediately, I turn and run toward the phone. My hands are shaking so badly I'm
not sure I can dial, but I manage to punch out 9, and then 1 before I'm grabbed f
rom behind. I felt a hard thump on the back of my head, and I don't remember anyth
ing after that for several hours.
**
I wake up, and the first thing I notice is that I'm cold all over. My head hurts,
but I try not to move around and give away the fact that I'm awake. I slowly take
stock: I can't see, I'm freezing, and my hands seem to be tied around something cold
and hard like a pipe. I blink several times and realize I'm hooded, and also nake
d. The floor is hard and rough under my right side.
Suddenly, the hood is ripped off of me and dim light pours in, temporarily blind
ing my eyes. I'm not able to turn around, and whoever removed the hood is behind m
e I can hear his footsteps. After a moment of silence, I hear another set of foot
steps and quiet murmuring some distance to my rear.
I feel like this is the time I should be formulating a plan to get myself out of
whatever mess I was in, but my only thoughts are for Nick. Is he okay? Is he he
re too? I don't see anyone else on the floor with me, but my range of view is limi
ted. I close my eyes and silently promise myself that I'd find a way back to him.
My resolve waivers momentarily when the footsteps start moving again, and a man's
voice is speaking to me. It is deep, familiar, and scratchy.
Are you awake? he asks.
I don't answer out of defiance, but also fear. A sharp kick lands on my left kidne
y, and I gasp out in pain.
Are you awake, whore? he demands.
Ye.. yes. I stutter out through the pain. The concrete bites into my right hip as
I try to roll backwards to look at him. I decide that if I'm going to die, or if h
e's going to hurt me, I will damn know what he looks like in the very least. His f
oot stops me from rolling, and pushes my left shoulder flat into the ground.
Don't move, bitch. I didn't say you could move. His voice has taken on an oily quality
and frankly, it pisses me off.
FUCK YOU! Get the FUCK OFF OF ME! I scream, squirming, tearing a gash into my hip.
GET OFF!
My words are met with a hard kick right in the middle of my shoulder blades, and
the wind is knocked violently from my lungs. I curl up, trying to suck in air.
My spine feels bent.
Shut up. If you scream again, I will remove your tongue. Do you understand? he ask
s, grasping the back of my neck firmly.
Fuck off, I spit out, along with a little phlegm and blood. Fuck you, and fuck off.
My chest heaves, and I'm still trying to get my breath.
You've got a dirty mouth, you know? Perhaps I could put it to use. I've got a few int
eresting things I could shove in there. What do you think? he asks, and he sounds
genuinely curious. I stay silent, still trying to gather myself.
The pain in my back is suddenly met with a sharp, deep pain in my calf, and I cr
y out. The pain lessens somewhat, but I can feel warm liquid running down my leg
.
If you scream again, or fail to answer me, I will stab you more. What do you thin
k about me shoving something in your mouth? Answer me, you stupid bitch! his last
words are punctuated with a sharp poke in my kidney, and again I gasp.
I think whatever you put in there should probably be something you don't mind losin
g, asshole. I grit my teeth against the pain of the knife in my side, and refuse
to cry out again. Tears well up, but I stay quiet.
Suddenly, I'm being lifted by my arms, and the joints in my shoulders scream in ag
ony. Despite my stubbornness, I involuntarily gasp in surprise and pain.
MANNERS are something you need to LEARN! he rages, jerking me around hard. He keep
himself behind me, and when I try to turn my face towards him, he cuffs me hard
around the head. He starts moving forward, walking quickly, and I try to get my
legs under myself so I'm not being dragged. I see that we're in a large room, but t
he ceiling is low like someone has installed acoustic tiles. The floor is indeed
cement, and it's like ice under my bare feet. I remember again that I'm naked, and
my footsteps falter as I try to cover myself. I have a momentary, crazy thought,
wondering how the hell I forgot I was naked. The surreal nature of the moment b
ecomes overwhelming, and I lose track of where we're going for a few minutes.
After what felt like an eternity, we're emerging from the building. The building i
s huge; I can see the shadow of it on the ground. The lot is mostly dirt, and I
surmise that this must be a construction site of some sort, though I don't recogni
ze the surroundings. When we're in the shadow of the building, and perhaps 30 feet
away from the door, he shoves me roughly into the dirt. Before I can even sit u
p, I feel a sharp prick on my neck.
If you move, I will open your jugular, he says matter-of-factly. The lack of sinis
ter in his voice is chilling, as if he's simply telling me a random fact one might
learn on the Discovery Channel. Going from rage just a few minutes before to th
is convinces me that the person I'm dealing doesn't really have all his eggs in one
basket. I stay still, and he removes the knife and moves back from me. I hear mo
re murmuring, and I realize he's talking on a cell phone.
Again, I assess my situation. Technically, I could stand up from the position I
was half sitting, half lying down in, but I'm unsure of how far I'd get before he'd be
able to tackle me. I let my muscles fall loose; keeping my head turned away, I
lay fully on my right side again. As I'm listening, he's still talking on the phone.
I hear the words girl, take, and asset. I decide whatever he's doing I don't like.
This is the moment I realize my brain has gone fully into snark mode to combat t
he fear. Upon realizing this, the defiance fades a little, and I can feel the te
rror sliding into me like the knife did into my side. I twist a little and look
at my left flank; blood is slowly oozing out of the wound. This pisses me off ag
ain, because what the fuck, you don't just go stabbing people. How rude! Again, th
e sassy defiance floods in, and I can still hear him talking on the phone. I sta
rt thinking that no matter how far I get before he tackles me to the ground, it'll
be farther than I am sitting here like a Christmas duck. I don't even like duck.
My breathing slows so I can hear him better. From the cadence of his voice, he s
ounds somewhat agitated, but not wholly angry. He also sounds like he's facing awa
y from me. Alright, then, I think. I can only focus on getting back to Nick. He
said he'd keep me safe, but I'll be all kinds of damned before I let that duty sit f
ully in his realm of responsibility. I'm a capable human being, so I decide to hel
p him keep that promise. He'll keep me safe, I know, but so will I.
Slowly so as not to draw attention, I pull my legs up, angling my feet so my toe
s are pressed against the ground. I figure that once I start rising, he'll notice,
so getting up is going to have to be done quietly, quickly, and in one smooth m
otion. Anticipation, fear, anxiety, determination, adrenaline, and bald terror p
ool in my stomach, and I feel like I want to cry. Tightening my stomach, I pull
my arms in close behind me. When I'm ready, I'm going to roll onto my right knee, pu
sh myself up, and run like my life depends on it. I realize suddenly that it doe
s, and my bladder lets go as my heart pounds. Fortunately, I'd not had anything to
drink with all the salty Jack in the Box quasi-food, so I don't make a mess. I'm si
lently thankful for this, because what would Nick think if I told him that durin
g my own daring escape, I peed myself? I stifle a laugh.
What am I doing? I'm procrastinating. I listen again, tense myself, and when I hea
r his voice again from far behind me, I hope he's facing away. I really, really ho
pe he is. Smoothly and with great pain, I roll onto my knee. I get my left leg u
p, my foot planted on the ground, and as I push up all my weight is on my left t
high. My side is bleeding heavily, and I can actually feel it running down my le
g. With one long exhale, I push with my leg and am suddenly standing. My head sp
ins, and for one split nanosecond I think I'm going to go back down. Instead, I ge
t angry, because fuck all of this. Without looking back, I start moving forward
on the balls of my feet. One step, two, and I'm running now. Three, four, five and
I hear him shout behind me. Like a report from a rifle, his voice sends adrenali
ne running through me and I sprint forward. I'm shaking all over, and my hands are
numb behind me. It's hard to keep my balance without my arms out, but I run anywa
y. My life depends on this, I tell myself. I can do this. I will do this.
After approximately 30 yards across the dirt, I hear his running footsteps close
behind me. The fear swallows me whole, and my legs feel numb. Determined not to
be the silly girl that trips and falls in her killer's path, I keep running for a
ll of my worth.
As I crest a small hill, I see a car parked in this distance perhaps 50 more yard
s. The headlights are on, and it seems like a natural thing to me to run towards
it. I move slightly to my right, making a beeline for the vehicle. I realize, t
hen, that the car might belong to the man chasing me. I just as suddenly come to
the conclusion that I don't care. If I can make it to the car and get in, lock th
e doors I might have a chance. Otherwise, I'm out in the middle of nowhere, complet
ely nude, without even shoes. It's the car or nothing, so I run. My breath puffs o
ut in great clouds in the cold air, and I can feel my lungs protesting. Usually,
it's about at this point that I'd stop and catch my breath for fear of an asthma at
tack. It's a little different when you're running for your life, however. This thoug
ht injects more grim determination into my stride, and I feel like a gazelle.
As I come closer to the car, maybe 25 or 30 yards away, I recognize the color. I
t's a little blue Saturn sedan, and my whole body sings with hope as I see the dri
ver is standing next to the door. It's Seth.
Seth! I scream, Seth! over and over I scream it. I hear my voice, and it sounds unna
tural; shrill and high. Please! Seth!
Nicole? What are you oh my god! DOWN! he yells, shock on his face.
Without a word, I drop to the dirt, skidding across several feet from the moment
um I was carrying in my run. Just as I hit the ground, a shot rings out behind m
e. The pain in my side suddenly comes back with raw vengeance, and the wind is k
nocked out of me, both from impact and sensation. The world is momentarily blurr
y, and as I'm trying to catch my breath I know that I'm in the middle of an asthma a
ttack. I try to slow down, just to get a little air, and it isn't working. Seth is
suddenly next to me, frantically trying to help me up. I hear running, and real
ize we're both being chased now. I see Mr. Creepypants (the misnomer is odd in my
head now, no longer amusing) some 20 yards away, closing fast. I get my feet und
er me, and am almost bodily thrown into Seth's car, across the driver's seat. He div
es in next to me, and slams the car into reverse.
In the seconds it takes me to orient myself, I look out the windshield and see h
im coming towards us with the gun raised. He fires once, twice, missing the car
entirely. My eyes go wide.
In the muzzle flash of the second shot, I see his face. I see Nick's face.
**
Almost a week later, I'm still in the hospital. The police officer outside my door
is standing at rapt attention, like he has been for the last six days. Beside m
e, Seth is looking at me like I'm broken. It's making me angry. Or, at least, it wou
ld, if I had the energy to be angry.
He wasn't there, nor were there any signs of another car being present. They think
he just walked in and out again. The woods are thick on the other side of the bu
ilding, he says this apologetically, like it's his fault Nick got away.
I'm quiet, not entirely sure of what to say. Finally, I settle with It's okay. He goe
s camping a lot, is good with the outdoors. I doubt they'll find him.
You said there was someone on the patio the night he took you. Is someone helping
him? Did you see who it was? he asks, concerned.
No, I never saw that person. Just his shadow. He was tall, thin. Could be anyone,
I guess. I close my eyes, the pain of betrayal even greater than that of my nick
ed kidney. I try to will the tears away, but they come anyway, completely oblivi
ous to my wishes of not crying in front of Seth.
He squeezes my hand, says, I'll go get you something to drink. I'll be right back.
I pull the sliding table across the bed, and turn on my laptop. This is the poin
t in my story where we come to present day. As I lay here typing this, it's been h
ours since Seth left. I figure he had work and had to leave, because he sent me
a text saying he would be back tomorrow.
I'm just not really sure what to make of all this mess. Typing it out like one of
my regular stories seems to have helped some, but still feel like my world has e
nded. It's early in the morning, and I haven't slept at all since I got here. I don't
even know what to do with this story, now that it's done.
Perhaps not, though. I want it to be over, but as I sit here alone in this hospi
tal bed, the phone is ringing. Who would be calling at two o'clock in the morning,
besides him?
Don't Forget Your Friend
by millerkevinisaiah
My parents told me the house we were moving into was new construction. They swor
e by it, telling me I didn't have to worry about monsters under the bed or bogey
men in my closet because it was all fresh and unsullied- there would be no horro
r hiding in a brand new home. I accepted this readily, as it made perfect sense
to my twelve year old mind- I had yet to hit that sticky spot in puberty where I
questioned everything my parents said.
The first two years flew by. I went from having nightmares almost every night at
the old house to only having pleasant dreams. By the time I was ready to start
high school I finally felt normal. I had made new friends in this city, I had fi
nally gotten comfortable letting people come to my house to hang out and I was n
o longer afraid to sleep alone in my own room. It seemed like things were lookin
g up for me, after a lifetime of paranoia.
The first house, left behind in the swamps of Louisiana, was something of a fami
ly heirloom. My great-grandfather had inhereted it from his wife's family after
she died from a severe case of pneumonia, and it had been passed on from family
member to family member ever since. My parents stayed there after my dad returne
d to school to get his MD, mostly to save money, and they got so comfortable tha
t they chose to stay. Eventually they had me, etc etc, and things were great. I
had friends, albeit imaginary, and I was a timid and precocious child. Eventuall
y, though, I was unable to outgrow feeling my imaginary friends.
At about eight I could no longer see my friends, nor could I hear them, but damm
it could I feel them. Their weight on my bed at night, their breath on my neck.
On the warm summer nights I could feel them, sometimes stroking my arm, sometime
s trying to slide their hands under the covers and stroke other parts of me. I h
ad no idea what any of it was at eight, but I figured it out fast.
Sometimes I would wake up with scratches or bruises, and my parents once pulled
me out of school because they found a hickey on my inner thigh. I told them, rep
eatedly, "It's my friends, the ones that live with us," but they just got mad at
me and said that I needed to grow up and tell them what happened. Eventually I
got sent to special ed, because of my "vivid imagination" that kept worming its
way into my schoolwork, and finally my parents agreed the only way to shut me up
was to move. They looked for a few months, but they didn't want to buy a house
that would allow the problems to continue and they had trouble finding good qual
ity new homes, so they gave up the search. It wasn't until just before my twelft
h birthday that my dad got a job offer at a cardiovascular hospital out of state
and, aware that the pay would be better and the housing market was prime for bu
yers, he packed us up and moved us out.
But I digress, this isn't a story about the old house, this is the story about t
he new house. I came home from school about two weeks into my freshman year and
stopped to grab the mail on my way into the house. It was all normal at first- b
ills, companies trying to get my dad to display advertisements for their product
s in his office, etc. One thing was odd, though- a smaller manilla envelope at t
he bottom of the pile had our old address sloppily scrawled as the return addres
s.
I shrugged it off, knowing that my parents were renting that house out, and just
assumed the current tenants mailed some forms over. Still, after two years of h
aving nothing to do with that house I did not like the suprise reminder that my
family is connected to it.
But then my parents handed me the envelope at dinner, already opened, and said i
t was for me. I took it reluctantly and pulled out the contents- a drawing I mad
e in elementary school.
I was a forest green stick figure eating ice cream with a black stick figure in
front of what I assume was my elementary school. There was a note attached in a
different messy script that the address, and its message was short:
"Found this in attic,
Thought you would like it back
xx"
I laughed, certain that this was the last thing I expected to receive. My parent
s seemed relieved by my reaction, and I was relieved that it was nothing terrify
ing. It wasn't until I was lying in bed that night that I stopped to wonder who
the black stick figure was. Perhaps a friend long forgotten, or just a classmate
that sat at my table for group?
I tried to shrug it off, but something didn't seem right. It wasn't until I was
too far in sleep's embrace to shake it that the memory of this friend crept into
my mind, vivid and fresh.
That night I had tumultous dreams, my first nightmare in two years. I was a gree
n stick figure, happily licking my ice cream outside of school during lunch hour
. That black stick figure, mischievous and jealous that he could not have my ice
cream, snuck up behind me and pushed me down. I cried and cried and cried, watc
hing as my ice cream melted into the ground and the black stick figure started l
aughing a warped laugh that sounded like a vinyl record that had been damaged. B
ut the laughing wouldn't stop, and even when I woke up that morning I could stil
l hear it ringing in my ears.
The next morning I was exhausted, but still not as frightened as I would have be
en had I stilled lived in the other house. I told myself the nightmares were a r
esult of having seen something I wasn't expecting, and I was satisfied by my own
answer. Until I saw the bruises on my leg, five small round ones spaced as thou
gh someone had grabbed so tightly with their fingertips that it left marks. I ha
d no explanation for that.
Things continued seeming normal after that night. No more nightmares, no more br
uises, nothing out of the ordinary. And then a second envelope arrived.
"This was in closet
Don't forget your friends
xx"
I looked at the photograph behind the note and saw a picture of me at what had t
o be my sixth birthday party. The table was set and I was blowing out the candle
s. There were two empty chairs on either side of me that had plates in front of
them, as though someone was meant to be eating there. This time I was able to re
member the moment immediately, and I knew the chairs were for my imaginary frien
ds.
Spooked, I decided not to mention it to my parents so I could spare myself the l
ecture.
I stuffed that enveloped into my draw, with the other one, and fell into a fitfu
l sleep that night. At one point I thought I could feel someone sitting on bed,
or maybe a warm and wet tongue on my neck. I woke up the next morning in so much
physical pain, every step I took making me ache. When I saw myself in the mirro
r before I showered I realized that I was covered in hickeys, and when I took my
underwear off I realized that there was blood in them.
Now, when I was a kid I didn't know what these things meant, but now that I was
in high school I had a better grip on sex and the stuff people get up to. Seeing
the blood made me flash back to being a kid, finding blood in my underwear and
having my parents get really upset.
I shuddered when I realized what it meant, and a wave of shame crept over me. I
sat under the steady stream of water from the showerhead, crying, for at least t
hree hours that morning. Things only got worse, though. It went from being infre
quent, the occasional envelope and nightmare, to me having these problems even w
hen the envelopes were nowhere near the forefront of my mind.
One day I woke up midway through a nightmare and I couldn't move a single muscle
. I was paralyzed. But I could feel everything, I could feel the weight resting
on my bed, the hands sliding across my chest, down the waistband of my pajamas,
and then I could feel whatever this was forcing its way inside of me. It hurt so
badly that I nearly passed out, and I spent every waking moment after wishing I
had. I could faintly feel something wet dripping down and realized I had once a
gain been torn open. As soon was I was capable of movement I ran to my bathroom
and vomited, crying and trying to hold back my screams.
Again I was too afraid to tell my parents. Who would believe someone saying a sp
irit or something was raping them? And even if they did, how weak would I look?
A guy that was not just getting raped but getting raped by a ghost? I resolved t
o stop by a store on my way home from school that specialized in holistic medici
nes and stuff like that. I knew that the woman who owned the store, Christine, w
as at least informed about the paranormal- there were rumors about it at my scho
ol- and at this point she was the only person I could think of that might believ
e me.
The store was small, crammed between a coffee shop and a mexican restaurant, and
dimly lit. The windows were tinted to near black-out levels, and the sign out f
ront said "Natural Remedies" written in big letters on a chalk board. I walked t
hrough the aisles, uncertain of how to go about talking to a woman I had never m
et about my problems, when she was suddenly behind me.
"May I help you?" She asked, her voice ragged and aged, as though she'd been smo
king for years.
She was short but extremely slim, outfitted in hemp sandals, black jeans and a w
hite t-shirt that said "Natural Remedies" across the chest. I couldn't tell how
old she was, but she was definitely younger than her voice made her sound.
"I...yeah. What can you tell me about, uh...h.." I trailed off, taking a deep br
eath. This was more difficult than I thought. "Please don't think I'm crazy, I j
ust really need help," I said in a rush, "I need to know about hauntings."
She raised an eyebrow at me and beckoned me to the front of the store, where the
cash register was, and pulled a book out from under it. It was large- bigger th
an my textbooks, and she opened it before I could clearly see the cover.
"Please, describe the things happening in this haunting and I'll look it up for
you and suggest a remedy to ward the spirit away."
Since this was already going much better than I expected, I decided to lay every
thing out and tell her about what was happening to me. She stayed silent the who
le time, only raising her eyebrow once or twice, and then didn't even bother to
leaf through the book.
"Get a sage stick, some of my blessed salt and this herbal powder-" She gestured
to a pestle and mortar behind the glass case with some sort of powder that look
ed more like what comes out of a nasty zit than anything else, "And I want you t
o burn the envelopes containing the pieces of your childhood. If this doesn't wo
rk, please come back and see me. There are only a few things that could be doing
this to you, each more dangerous than the last, and this is the best way to sta
rt. These are the more harmless remedies, less likely to anger the entities."
She made me agree to come back and see her in a week if things went well, immedi
ately if they did not, and told me that she did not want to discuss what was doi
ng this to me until she knew whether or not what she suggested worked. My fear w
ould only fuel their power, and if I knew their true name then it would make the
m stronger. I agreed that doing it this way was better, and I got to my house as
quickly as I could.
I followed her advice, burning the sage in my room and then lining the place wit
h the salt. I also burned the envelopes, sprinkling the puss yellow concoction o
n them as they crackled in my trash can. The room smelled terrible afterward, bu
t it felt good to burn it. Exhausted, I fell asleep almost immediately and had p
leasant dreams.
I saw her the next week, happy to report that nothing had happened since, and sh
e seemed both wary and relieved. I assured her that the semi-visible hickey on m
y neck was a remnant hickey- at least I thought it was- still fading away becaus
e I bruise easily, and she gave me a card with her cell phone number on it, in c
ase of any emergencies. My life was normal again, at last.
The next time I got a letter in the mail there was no return address. I was afra
id to open it, but the handwriting was much neater on this one and I decided tha
t, should anything happen, I'd just call the Christine and ask for her help.
Inside it was a letter, typed, and nothing else.
"Hope you are well
Hope there's no hell
You will burn
If you should tell
xx"
I was freaked out. I had no idea what to do, or what it meant, so I called Chris
tine and asked her. She cautioned me to stay calm and told me to go to her store
to pick up an herbal remedy that I could mix with water and drink that would he
lp keep me safe. She said it would allow me to project my spirit outside of my b
ody, which meant I could make contact with whatever was doing this to me. She al
so suggested that I might be able to drive it off, because on the spirit plane I
could harness powers my physical body could not.
I did as she asked and went to sleep, praying that this remedy would work. When
I woke up I saw my door open, slowly and quietly. A man dressed in all black wal
ked in on his tiptoes, as silently as possible. I tried to move but I realized t
hat I wasn't in my body- I was outside of myself. Once again I was at a loss for
what to do, and I just watched as it happened. The man pulled a syringe from a
case in his pocket and gently pressed it into my skin, injecting me with god kno
ws what. He then began caressing me, touching me, sucking on my neck and chest.
I tried to push him off of me but...nothing happened. That's when I realized tha
t I wasn't dealing with a spirit at all- I just thought I was.
I was horrified. I had to watch the whole thing happen. I couldn't stop it, I co
uldn't hide my eyes. This was the worst dream I could ever had, but I knew it wa
s real.
I had to watch as this man dressed in all black, who had haunted me for years, f
orced his way into me and used my body as his own sex toy. I had to watch as the
man I had known all of my life, the one I had looked up to most, abused his pos
ition of power. I had to watch as my father used stolen drugs to sedate and rape
me, as I now knew he had been doing almost my whole life.
Never, Ever, Go Into The Morgue
by Spider_J (Mar. Winner)
My name is Kyle, and I am an Urban Explorer. For years, one of my favorite hobbi
es has been exploring abandoned buildings. I loved the thrill of breaking into s
omeplace you're not supposed to be, the sense of wonder and mystery, the beauty
of nature reclaiming the masonry. Each adventure felt like I was in some long-ab
andoned ruin, finding the treasures of the culture that lived there before.
I couldn't tell you when or how I got into the hobby, but I know that it probabl
y stared with the Knight Hospital, an asylum for the 'mentally retarded' ( their
words ) just a mile from my house, closed many years before I was born. In a sm
all college town, stories and legends of the hospital were spoken with hushed wh
ispers on schoolyards, of how it was shut down for extreme malpractice and patie
nt abuse, or how you could find stacks of aged reports about bizarre experiments
. And, of course, there were dozens and dozens of claims of hauntings. But, lest
any child think of exploring on their own, the stories would always end with on
e ominous warning: Never, ever, go into the morgue.
Living so close, I had the opportunity to check out the hospital many times over
my childhood. The dusty. crumbling corridors and peeling paint eventually felt
like a second home to me, despite constant police patrols and decades worth of v
andalism . Over the years, I managed to create a pretty sizable collection of ph
otographs and mementos, some of which I'm sharing in this post.
I became familiar with every nook and cranny, every hallway and staircase. I cam
e up with nicknames for the various rooms - "The Dentist's Office was the one wi
th the decrepit x-ray machine, right next to The Blue Room , a recessed office wit
h painted windows that bathed the room in an eerie blue light. Downstairs lay The
Crypt , a dirt-floor basement adjacent to The Boiler . After spending so much time
in the building, I had my doubts about it's Haunted status. I heard noises every
now and then; a creaking door or muffled footsteps. But, being the skeptic that
I am, I always dismissed these as a trick of the mind. And, if there were ghosts
lurking in the shadows, at least they never caused me any harm.
Still, no matter how far I explored, or how rational my thought, I always rememb
ered the warnings: Never, ever, go into the morgue.
I had been near it, seen the door. Located down in the basement, the morgue door
stood ominous, its paint faded and hinges rusting. Every time I walked by, I fe
lt a deep temptation to grab the handle and slowly, carefully, take just a quick
peek inside. It was, after all, the last uncharted corner of this vast ruin, an
d my curiosity almost got the better of me several times. But, when I would exte
nd my hand and gingerly reach for the door, I would be overwhelmed by a deep, in
explicable sense of dread. I tried to reason with it, tell myself it was only th
e stories giving this room a power over me, that it was only a room like all the
others. Yet, I would find myself slowly backing away, some primal instinct warn
ing me against my imagined dangers. I would not enter, but the morgue didn't car
e. It would wait, defiant, until the next time I felt like testing my courage.
Last winter, everything changed. The snowy weather was giving me a terrible case
of cabin fever, and looking for something to kill the tedium, I decided to visi
t the hospital for the first time in months. I packed my flashlight and crowbar,
and headed out the door. Strangely, I neglected to bring my camera with me, a d
ecision that I now both regret and cherish.
By the time I reached the hospital, the sun was just beginning to set. Breaking
in had become something of a ritual by now, an adrenaline-building routine that
I cherished almost as much as the exploration itself. I cached the crowbar by on
e of the boarded-up windows and did a quick walk around the building, checking f
or police or witnesses. Confident that I was alone, I returned to the window and
began to pry at the plywood, eventually wrenching it lose with a loud crack. I
threw the board and crowbar into the building, and followed.
Inside, the building seemed colder than ever, even for a late New England winter
. I also could smell something new in the air, something strange and foreign tha
t I hadn't recognized before, musky and distinctly unpleasant. As I moved deeper
into the building, the scent grew in strength, until I reached the basement sta
irs and it nearly overpowered me. Every instinct in my body told me to leave, to
not investigate further, but I didn't know better. I did not yet recognize the
scent of Death.
As I crossed the basement door, I realized the smell was emanating from downstai
rs. Mustering up what little courage I still had, I slowly crept down the dark s
tairs, flicking on my flashlight as I reached the bottom landing. The scent was
reaching into my throat now, and I could practically taste the rot in the air.
I quickly scanned the room, and it didn't take long to spot the source. There, s
uspended by a beam in the center of the room, my light briefly caught a flash of
clothing hanging off a vaguely humanoid form, swinging oh-so-slowly from a fray
ed length of extension cord.
To say that I was terrified would have been an extreme understatement.
I turned and ran, panic coursing through my veins, almost tripping over myself a
s I scrambled back up the stairs, trying to cough the scent of death out my my l
ungs. As I finally reached the top landing, I looked behind me, convinced that I
would see the grim specter reaching for my ankles to drag me back down into its
lair. Nothing came.
My mind reeled, unsure of what I had seen. Of course, with the reputation of the
building, I would have sworn that it was some kind of ghost, a specter of some
former patient that had met a grim end and wanted nothing more than to devour my
soul. But, as I caught my breath, rationality slowly took hold. If it was some
vengeful spirit, surely, I would be dead already. Maybe I had imagined it? Or, p
erhaps, some homeless vagrant had hung his wet clothes to dry?
Contrary to every instinct to flee, I made the kind of decision that only a fool
with too much courage could make: I had to take another look.
My breath came in ragged gasps as I made my way back down the stairs again. The
only thought echoing through my mind was how stupid I was being, that I should r
un, run for my life, and never return. But still, almost by their own accord, my
legs carried me back, until I was in the basement again, enshrouded by the dark
ness. With a labored breath, I turned the light towards the figure again, fully
expecting the next sight to be my last.
There are two things every Urban Explorer dreads running into The police, and a
dead body. The latter is a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Murderers need p
laces to stash their victims, and homeless men freeze to death. Every time I wen
t into a new ruin, I ran the risk of discovering one, slim as the chance may be.
Today, my luck had run out.
I stood frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on the corpse in front of me. He had
been there for, I assumed, a month or two, and the cold weather kept the body i
n fairly decent shape. There was some evidence of rot, most noticeably in his fa
ce, but I could still make out his slack, depressed expression. His clothes were
filthy, but the grime was deep-set, long before whatever circumstances brought
him here. It was clearly a suicide, evidenced by a chair kicked not far from the
body. Vaguely, I recalled a chair in one of my prior photographs of this room,
and shivered at the realization that they were the same. Once I convinced myself
that the man wasn't going to jump out and grab me, I moved in for a closer look
.
The letter. That damned letter, the one that brought all this upon me. I noticed
it now on the ground before him, dangling just below his feet. A small, slightl
y yellowed piece of paper, carefully folded and placed before the body. I should
have left then, ignored what I saw, left everything and try to drown the memory
in drink. But now, having seen it, it was too late. Looking back, maybe I didn'
t have any choice, once I saw what was written on the front.
For Kyle, it said.
My name. Written so simply, so elegantly. Like a formal invitation. I guess, rea
lly, that's what it was.
I've seen enough horror movies and read enough stories to know what I did was st
upid. But, like I asked: did I have a choice? I bent down and reached for the no
te, carefully, like it was a loaded trap ready to ensnare me. And, God help me,
I opened it.
The writing, jet black, was short and simple, but filled me with terror that I d
idn't know words could contain. Four simple words in child's handwriting:
We're waiting for you.
As I read them, I heard a noise from above, a short gasp of expelled air and the
horrible creaking of old bones suddenly spurred into motion. I looked up, and I
swear on my grave, the corpse had moved. It was such a slight motion, just bare
ly enough to notice, but now the head of the hanged man faced down at me, his de
ad eyes locked directly into mine, staring through me and into my very soul.
That was when I ran.
I bolted up the stairs, note in hand, like all the hounds of hell were nipping a
t my heels. For all I knew, they very well could have been. My legs were fueled
by pure, unadulterated fear, and I made it up the stairs in less than a blink. I
n no time, I had reached the window that was my entry point, and I all but dove
through it into the welcoming snow outside. I didn't dare glace back until I had
reached the main road, terrified of what might have followed me. Then, ungracef
ully, I proceeded to vomit.
When I got home, I went to my neighbors and asked to use their phone. I called i
n an anonymous tip to the police about the body, but I never heard anything abou
t it on the news. I comfort myself by saying that the papers didn't think a home
less suicide was worth reporting, but truthfully, my great fear was that when th
e police arrived, the body was gone. I fear this because, for the next week, I w
ould see it in my dreams.
I could barely remember the dreams at first. There would be flashes of memory th
e morning after, then as my mind dismissed the fantasies, nothing. But by the th
ird day, they were gaining strength, and there was no ignoring them. I would fin
d the hanged man, sitting in the chair that I presumed he used, waiting for me.
He still had all the appearance of a corpse, but he did not attempt to frighten
me. Instead, he greeted me like an old friend, a rictus of a smile stretched acr
oss his rotten face. It didn't matter how cheery he tried to look, he still terr
ified me, and I would want to run, to put as many miles between us as possible.
But, in my dream, my body would refuse to obey, and I would walk towards him.
As I drew close, he would usher me past, down the hall in the old hospital. Each
time in the dream, I would walk further and further, never reaching my destinat
ion but I could sense it. The absolute dread that only one place in the world co
uld cause me, growing with each step. On the seventh night, my fears were confir
med.
At the end of the hallway loomed the Morgue.
On the last night, I woke in a sweat, mind addled but my decision made. There wa
s only one way to end the dreams, to appease the hanged man.
I dressed quickly, and grabbed my flashlight and crowbar. That night, I walked t
owards the Knight Hospital like I had so many times before, not knowing if I wou
ld ever make the walk home again. The building loomed in the distance, as dark a
nd foreboding as it was the first time I broke in as a child. Tonight, there wou
ld be no ritual, no safety checks for police or guardsmen. If anything, this tim
e, I prayed they would stop me. I would not get so lucky.
I entered through the same side window, still unboarded from the break-in prior.
I made my way down the stairs, into the basement, still expecting to see the co
rpse swaying from his beam, or sitting in his chair as he had in my dreams. Ther
e was nothing; only the pure and distinct sound of silence greeted me.
Slowly, I made my way down the hall, fear and determination fighting against eac
h other, wearing against me with each step. I could hear nothing but my footstep
s and my own heartbeat pounding against my ribcage like it wanted to leap from m
y chest, until finally, in the darkness, it stood before me, just out of arms re
ach. The door.
The door that guarded the Morgue.
Then, without warning, my flashlight flickered and died, leaving me in darkness
more absolute and terrible than I could have imagined.
Darkness and Silence.
Then, finally, a sound.
The door opened.