Weighted Blanket Prank

... the suggestion outward like a blanket. "You're alone in here. Nothing... brought his null bat. The weighted weapon, infused with nullifying ability, .... Was this some kind of prank? A first-day-on-the-job harassment ritual for ...

... the suggestion outward like a blanket. "You're alone in here. Nothing... brought his null bat. The weighted weapon, infused with nullifying ability, .... Was this some kind of prank? A first-day-on-the-job harassment ritual for ...

First | Previous | [Next] Part II Part I “… usher in the era of a truly United Dominion. Where every Arxur, Terran and any other being that wishes to join us, will be able to fight for the right of the people of the Galaxy to chart their own path - and carve their piece of the coming victory! We will no longer allow caste or scale color or species to divide us in our relentless march forward! The new hierarchy would be built based on one’s claw and tooth, brain and brawn! On what they can offer to the people of the United Dominion, instead of resting on laurels of old blood and conquests long gone...” Even watching the speech the second time, I’m still swept by it. Under the Dominion’s banners, under the blazing Wrissan sky, sharp fangs barred and claws gripping the pupiter, Meier looks more of a Prophet than Giznel ever was - or that’s just human-to-human solidarity. I always believed our cause, but the feeling in my chest is new, clear and welcome. I know I can follow him. To the grave, if needed. To the grave most likely. The Generalissimus did it. Chief Hunter Isif, standing behind Meier like a paternal shadow, did it. They felled the beast that once appeared invincible. The Betterment is exposed, fractured, disintegrating before our eyes, and that means… does it mean that what I did was, indeed, meaningful? That it counted for this day to come? That all the blood spilled, all the death… “Now, the last obstacle to such a future, the Federation’s poisoned thorn in the side of the Dominion that festered for centuries, has finally been pulled out. The Yotul Ascendancy already stands with us as proof that we are more than the placement of eyes and the shape of teeth, and I tell it to everyone who listens - you too, can be more. More than what you were born as, more than what you were told you would be.” Jazhif too, is moved, I can see it. For a different reason, of course. As he lies strapped to the stretcher, immobilized and hastily sewn up, tremors of rage pass through his bulk from the snout and right down to the tip of the restrained tail. I ordered him to be patched just enough to last a few hours, and I wonder if he understands that his time has already run out. With his red eyes wide-open and bleeding nostrils fluttering from incredulous fury, I can see that the speech hurts him even more than his wounds do. The broadcast drone shifts its camera to show thousands of zealots, scions and even members of Abidence kneeling to the new Chief-Hunter and the Generalissimus. This is a throne taken by strength. I find it ironic that it’s the deeply-ingrained Betterment dogmas that would force Betterment followers to accept the new order. No challenger rose up and so the coup is fully legitimate by the Dominion’s own standards. “It’s… it’s fake. S-s-sssome construct”, the former Overseer croaks in effort to conceal his deflated tone. I can only snort at such nonsense. ”Like I’d waste time pulling a prank on a slab of dead meat.” This admission brings a spark of defiance back to the dulled red of Jazhif’s eyes ”Then why show it to me? This means nothing to me - my loyalty is forever to the true Prophet and not some half-runt traitor and his pet monkey uplift!”, he sneers through a futile attempt to lift off the gurney. “It wouldn’t take long until this so-called rebellion is crushed and all your heads roll down the Temple’s…-“ I lean in to him, fangs barred. To his credit, he barely flinches and, if stares could kill, I would’ve already melted under his glare like under a blast from a heavy Yulpa flamer. “Nobody is coming, Jazhif. Nobody!”, I hiss vehemently. “Your “Betterment” - a lie forced on you by the Federation preyshits, as it turns out - just cracked like a rotten egg!” “Really? You’re a fucking Terran! Primitive, limited, artificial!” His jaws part wider in a mock grin that he powers through the breathlessness of a shot lung. “What do you know of Betterment, of any of it?!” I know it’s his despair talking, know it all too well. Anger covering up utter terror. It’s… ironic. I look at my hands. “I gave the United Dominion everything… Some small things”, I wiggle the stump of my pinkie finger in the Overseer’s directions. “Some… hm, bigger than the whole world. Believe me, if Betterment did anything, but burn through the best of us, through the people we need to win this stars-cursed war, I’d be the first in line to enlist into Abidence as a human Enforcer!” I jerk my chin towards the paused holo projection. “As to why, hrm. Well, I figured this would hurt.” At that, the brow ridge scales that form the wounded Arxur’s scowl relax, as a shadow of… not understanding, no, but familiarity, darkens the flame in his eyes. A broken, self-deprecating rattle escapes his still-parted jaws. Laughter. “I have to admit… you could’ve made a good Arxur, ape.” ”I’ll take it as a compliment.” He then studies me for a bit, a calm overtaking the pain-seized features for a moment when he seems to reach some sort of conclusion. “Still, we never should’ve let you skinbags join”, the hiss that comes out of the alien lizard’s maw is laced with venom, the only sort he got left now. “You taint everything with your arrogance, with weakness… If not for this accursed alliance, Betterment would have-!” “No, that's bullshit. Even when you came to save us, we saw that your whole civilization was on its last legs. Even someone like me knew damn well that this Betterment charade was a rock tied around your neck - and then, our neck! Sure, your fury and resilience helped ignite our fight for survival, but… We are just as necessary to your survival now.” “Fucking. Cloaca. Slime.” “Oh really? So why did the majority of Arxur side with Isif? I’ll tell you why. Because Betterment was never for them. It was for a pack of elites, maybe for you, but not for them! You fed them scraps and demanded full compliance!” I stab a finger at him in accusation. “Look at the mighty United Dominion, where food rationing and shortages are still not uncommon, while Terra struggles to provide… But the zealots of Abidence always have a Rainbow Platter to go around, don’t they?” Jazif ogles me in contemptuous silence as another blood trickle starts out of his right nostril. I, however, cannot stop until I give this piece of scaled shit a taste of my mind. “But the United Dominion is for them. Chief Hunter Isif is for them. Generalissimus Meier is for them. They saw us give them hope and do things you’ve never thought of. Comradery. Trust. Abundance instead of Abidence. A life beyond circling their caste’s drain-pipe. That’s how it will be. No more Betterment lard-tails like you, Jazhif.” “You’ve wool for a brain, Terran. This is the nature of power - there’s no place for crowds on the top. Only the strongest”, he gulps, tongue flicking out with visible effort. “The fittest have the strength to climb… and hold… that power. To take the spoils.” “Maybe. But in the end, you have none of the power. And I do.” I roll closer, to his very stretcher, taking in every greying scale, every visible pulse of the large artery on the side of his neck. Savor every detail of him dying. “So now that you know that nobody’s coming for you, not planetside, not from Wriss - how about you make yourself useful and tell me something about, say, Abidence covert ops? Something Terran Command Milint doesn’t know already? I know you’re privvy…” ”I will not tell you anything.” It doesn’t take an interrogations expert to catch the finality in his tone. I know it’s useless torturing anything out of him. Oh well, formally I tried. I nod and reach to the side of the wheelchair, picking up the Overseer’s tliskis blade and lifting it to show him. This, as I expected, gets through him. When I run and clattder my claws along the blane’s length, the grimace that his bony snout contorts into seems to nearly snap its very bones. I hear teeth and claws grind upon each other with such tensile strength that I’m sure some are breaking. “Don’t! Keep your filthy claws away from it! I will tear your fucking heart and feed it to you, you fucking mite, you puddle of tilfish dung, you…!” But I pointedly admire the craftsmanship some more while the Arxur thrashes madly in his restraints, blood seeping through the hastily applied bandages. “You know, I thought it’d be poetic justice to behead you right now with your ancestor’s sword, the very one you made me kill Ruzha with, but then,” I twist the sword around to let it catch the overhead lights and put it back on the floor. It will have to wait for its turn. “I realized you didn’t suffer like him yet.” Next, out comes my combat knife. I demonstrate the dull blackened sheen of the blade to the hyperventilating Arxur, for they will become close acquaintances very soon. “For that I suppose simple Terran steel would be adequate. A Betterment zealot is supposed to be much more resolute than a light-scale defective, hm-mm? Let’s see if it truly is so. ” Finally, the full meaning of my words dawns on Jazhif and the once-powerful Overseer strains so hard that the plastic binding cuts deep into the scales of his forearms. But we both know he’s not going anywhere. He’s all mine, here and now. Jones cannot stop me, nobody can. A profound sense of satisfaction, along with a flood of saliva, warms the back of my throat. For a moment, I feel disgust at my own inclinations, but it quickly dissipates as I remember how this tliskis blade in my hand fought against Ruzha’s neck. What this writhing sack of leather made me do. Old habits die hard, a voice in the back of my head says. I have to agree. Certainly harder and longer than any man - or man-space-lizard - does. It’s quite amazing, the speed with which the crew tore down anything reminiscent of Jazhif out of his former personal quarters to make room for a new honcho. Not even a day after the mutiny passes until a new pecking order is festablished, and according to it I am now the temporary Senior Overseer of the Prophet’s Talon… which all things considered, is in dire need of a new name. But all that will come later. Now I stare blankly at the equally blank, scrubbed down bulkhead of the three by three room. No more book shelfs, trophy racks, trinkets or knacks to remind of the person that once occupied this space. “Sic transit gloria mundi”, as Nassar would say. But here, only a large circular rest-nest, which Arxur consider to be proper beds as compared to the more human-friendly bunks, remains. They also left the desk - now just a vast expanse of brushed steel with a bulb of the holo-terminal poking from the center of it. I idly wonder where the Arxur’s books went. Into the incinerator? A shame if so… An empty food tray perches at the desk’s edge, thanks to a Neophyte that was mindful to bring me a bite from the mess. As I munched on it, I examined the “meat patty” inside and found it to be the usual Soylent Fed mush. So much for not eating sapients anymore. Change in that regard will definitely take a while. I need to recover fast anyway. As I was eating, Johnes called to congratulate me. Flattering when one considered that she took the time for it while she was on Wriss and dealing with the fallout of the coup. “You don’t look half-bad for someone taking the sort of beating that you claim you did. Command is pleased that the losses are low and the optics with the new Wrissan powers are relatively fine, despite what you did to Jazhif. Plus, I look good for choosing you for this mission.” In the holocall, Jones seemed to be half-sunk into a car seat, light and shadow rolling across her face as her transport glided through a tunnel. At the mention of Jazhif, I reached a hand into the jumpsuit’s pocket and felt for the smooth surface of an Arxur fang. Never took trophies, but this one wasn't for me - it’s for Ruzha. “Listen… when you’re back on Earth, I’ll see what I can do for you. We care for our own, Major.” The sly curve to her lips did a bad job of hiding the double meaning of her words, and I tensed despite being a thousand light-years away from her. “If the brass wants to shower me with commendations, they can do so on Mars”, I snipped curtly. Jones’s eyes narrowed - no in anger, but playful sarcasm. “Nobody implied showering, though I think I can arrange that.” “My station is on Mars”, I ignored the heavy-handed wordplay in a dry, curt tone. I knew what she wanted, and was determined not to give it to her. “As you wish. But you can’t be stuck on Ghanith forever. Jazhif had friends, family, a whole bloodline. Some of them are loose, with knees unbent to the new order”, she cocked her head with all the curiosity of a cat watching a mouse squirm in its paws. “Need to get back to the Protectorate, Abaurre. Otherwise, your luck will eventually run out.” Luck, huh. If you say so, Cora. Back to the Terran Protectorate… what for? I’m not exactly where I need to be, but at least here I am useful. The war rages on, and it’s not like there’s something - or someone - waiting for me there. Despite being pumped full of painkillers, the sharp stab of pain to the side makes me double over and collapse into the human-fitted chair at the desk. For a moment, I feel colder and lonelier than ever. I can imagine Mira’s hands wrapping around my neck. The gentle touch and teasing whispers, asking if I needed a kiss to make it “all better”. No cuts or bruises or broken bones hurt when she was around. No anguish lurked in the dark corners of the mind when she laughed, even if at my expense. A treacherous moisture develops in the corner of my left eye. These goddam tears, again, like in the airlock. They’re nothing, but a drop that’s lost in the endless torrent of our collective despair. They came and went, leaving me not relieved and redeemed, but hollow… Confused. I hurry to wipe the drop away with an index claw, and, noticing how chipped it is, reach for my bag where the grooming kit lies unpacked. Filing the claws, running the strip of metal over the deep bloodstains again and again, puts me in a trance-like state. The focus and the simple, repetitive motions block out the melancholy I’ve been feeling ever since the station fully fell in our hands. And it works so well, that I barely notice the door chime with a request to enter. “Open hatch”, still engrossed in my manicure, I order the door open and only when I hear more than two pairs of Arxur feet drag in, do I lift my eyes to the visitors and put the file down. ”What’s this?” Dumb question, but I ask it nonetheless as I’m faced with a quartet of blood-soaked and nearly fainting prisoners: a Mazic, Gojid, Krakotl and even a Tilfish, locked between the towering frames of Kraniz and Hiznal. The latter, a light-scaled and scrawny Arxur, for a moment looks almost scared by the question, but then quickly regains composure and steps forward, his tail doing a polite swish-n-curl around his feet. “Um, Hunter-Exalted… Senior Overseer, that is, my apologies, [I see you persist]! We ah, were clearing the bodies in engineering, and these uhsssh… um… we found them trying to play dead meat after the siege and essh…“ “These four survived the breach shootout,” Stepping forward, Kraniz helps his friend as he stumbles through his announcement. “We, well, mostly Hunter-Ascendant Sazha, assumed it would be your judgement on what to do with them, Senior Overseer.” Good question. They shouldn’t have survived. But they did, and I grit my teeth in frustration. I’ve already got my hands full with the piling administrative tasks, and now there’s preyscum still alive on my station, demanding to be dealt with. Somewhat stumped by this development, I nonetheless observe them - and in return, averting their eyes away from mine, they exchange glances amongst themselves. Even without knowing the finer aspects of the Fed species’ body language, I understand it’s an attempt at building resolve in a moment of reckoning. The Krakotl reaches a plucked, disgustingly bare arm-wing over to the Tilfish and the smaller alien grabs onto it with its fore-feelers. Touching display, but it won’t necessarily save you… “It is my judgement.” I breath out with some residual pain, and leaning back in the chair, beckon the Feddies with a claw. “You, come forward. And you two, stop hovering over them. You what, think they’re a danger to us?” In all honesty, a well-trained Mazic or Takkan can go one-vs-one with a trained Atrox all on their own. But the Broken Tusk (huh, so he survived), is a pale echo of what a Mazic grunt can be in his prime. And he’s also not in a Juggernaut exo-rig. The rest are starved and hurt. The bugger is even missing one of his upper arms at the “shoulder”, the wound already self- sealed by a pale membrane. Was it the fight or someone got a snack before the mutiny broke loose? ”Did they kill any loyalists during the breach?” “I don’t know if these exact ones did, but all of them? Yes, they shot at least four. Made our job easier. Your decision to use them as a bullet sponge was uh, exquisite, Senior Overseer. You’d be pleased to know that none of the actual breaching team got seriously hurt.” “Hrm. Congratulations are in order then. To me - and to them.” Kraniz chuffs contentedly, his maw sharp and taut with hunger. Between the Arxur and me, the Feds don’t look re-assured, and I don’t blame them. They see a monster in me, of course. Teeth that tear flesh; claws that grab them to drag out of the station’s cattle-pen and onto the butcher’s block; ruins of their colonies and cities, families torn apart. But I, too, see monsters. The countryside of my hometown bathed in fire as I’m riding in the back of a truck, held in Arxur claws. Bags with corpses stacked in Riyadh’s cargo bay after the siege of the Cradle. Flames that sear flesh, melt armor into skin. Families torn apart. You can’t reason with a monster if you yourself aren’t one. On other hand, does that mean that monsters can find rapprochement between each other, some form of understanding built on nothing, but the common ground of their depravity? Maybe. Maybe I should try that. Weeks ago, I pointed a finger at their friend, to be taken and eaten. I ate him. And then another. And another. Because I deserved to live more than them. Perhaps I’m right, but, perhaps, some Takkan back on the Pakex colony thought just the same as he stepped on Malik’s head when he tried to crawl away. I recall my friend’s face, fraction of a second before that happened - disbelief and denial. My own reflection in the door of that airlock, contorted with the mortal fear from the realization that nothing in my life came to make sense or have value, right before it all ends. I see the same terror of looming obliteration frozen on the snouts of these hapless fucks. Isn’t it strange that underneath all this blood, beneath this sweet intoxicating veil of vengeance, we all have this face in the end? Predator, prey, doesn’t matter. Everybody running out of time to fix their mistakes. I intertwine my fingers, using the gesture to conceal a light tremor to the hands. They’re all with me, hundreds of deaths of my people that I’ve witnessed myself or oversaw later in reports. Their weight tangible, their call undeniable. Or so I tell myself to drown out the silence. “What’s to be of us, Terran, then?” The Mazic rumbles warily, calling me back out of my thoughts. “Bullet… or blade?” Horrid, ugly deaths, at times. What would it serve to add these four to the pile? Would it serve anything? Just another stain. “Of you, right. As the current Overseer of this station, I’ve decided that your debt to the United Dominion is…” I shift in the seat, then quickly snap my gaze towards Kraniz and nod, signalling that I’ve made a decision and it’s final. “Partially repaid. So you are to be transferred back to your homeworlds for further procedures with the local Dominion administrations.” The Krakotl’s pupil seizes into a tiny dot, the Porcie bristles with the remaining quills, but it’s the Mazic that reacts first, growing out his slump to a once formidable height, shoulders rolling out as he towers over the others. “H-how… Khoa has fallen?” he bellows hoarsely. “Has it? How else would you be able to send me back - to the ruins, then?!” I wave a dismissing hand. “No.” “And Nishtal-“ “It will fall soon”, I cut through the Krakotl’s squawk with a cruel smirk and point a claw at him and the Mazic. “You and you. You will likely be relocated to Venlil Prime. No details now, it’s beneath my station. Could be Leirn.” My finger moves to the Gojid and he withers like a gun has been pointed at him. “You will be sent to the Cradle or one of the Gojid colonies under our control.” “Cradle? But we were told the C-Cradle was destroyed… glassed!” The Porcie’s eyes boggle out the sides of his skull in shock. “No. Not even close”, my smirk fades away - a shame the Cradle only got occupied, as in my opinion it deserved the Scorch Directive no less than Grenelka. So many good men lost... “It’s part of the United Dominion now, but its heliosphere borders are locked and infonet connections to the greater Fednet severed.” Watching the Porcie process the fact that his homeworld survived, Hiznal can’t contain a loud condescending scoff. “Prey-brained shits think we’d waste goods so readily!” “And you…” my attention finally turns to the diminutive Tilfish. It chirps in agitation, the peculiar pupils of its faceted eyes shifting away from the other prisoners and onto me as it visibly trembles from antenna to the tip of its abdomen. “I’m not from Silis!” a creaking screech lets loose from its open mandibles. “Of course you aren’t.” I smirk. “Silis is a planet-wide bioreactor that serves us now.” “What does it mean? I don’t understand… I don’t understand!” It probably truly doesn’t understand. How old is it, even? Four, five years? The Tilfish Ambassadorship used their species’ unique reproductive cycle to bolster the Federation’s military to a stupid degree for centuries. All the population the Ambassadorship couldn’t sustain was funneled off-world into the bigger Federation. Leased out for the agricultural sector, for construction labor and, of course, war. Cheap and expendable. Unfortunately, when we took over Silis, several Hive Ambassadors with some of their retinue and citizens managed to escape and now the same cycle is repeated in half a dozen other colonies. Perhaps, I should pity the creature. It was molded to be this from its infancy, no more a willing participant than a gun hot off a production line. No guidance, no self-actualization, no care had been provided to them. T They’re taught to talk, read and operate some basic machinery and weapons. Then, equipped with the Fed equivalent of shitsticks, they get thrown into the grinder in enough numbers to stall and potentially whittle us down. How is that different from Essil or Ruzha… or you? We had a choice. Did we, though? The thought tries to claw in, but I shake my head in resistance. “It means you won’t be sent to Silis”, I tell the child soldier. “ Venlil Prime’s gravity is too much for your kind, so… Colia. They’d help fix the damage, too.” I gesture to its missing limb and it instinctively hugs the rest of its feelers closer to its body. By my side, Kraniz’s tongue flicks about in anxious doubt, the sickle-like claws of his free, left hand, flex as he listens to me. Hiznal’s tail taps a rapid rhythm on the ground. They don’t fully agree. True, it goes against the United Dominion practice. The only Feds that survive the Armada are either those who surrender voluntarily or those who are interesting to Milintel. But, new times are upon us, just like the Generalissimus said. And what else did he say back then, when the Scorch Directive had been issued on Grenelka? That a true victory, one the doesn’t spiral a war into another cycle, but breaks it, is a victory that is just. I can try and believe that. Grenelka was just… but so, perhaps, is my choice. “Senior Overseer, are you sure?”, Kraniz’s fear of my authority and his newfound confidence are clearly fighting among each other, evident by the way his voice breaks mid-sentence. He squints, eyes turning into thin emerald slits. “We can end it fast.” “No need. Secure them and move them to the brig, in a separate cell from the loyalists.” There’s no way to tell if this is a good idea, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t fully know where I’m going with this decision. The approach simply feels right. The United Dominion changes its course, so it’s also expected of me? There's no way to tell, since nothing about the moment is how I imagined it to be. Not like the picture I’ve painted to Zakwe back on the Izhali colony, where I implied that the change would be gradual, thoroughly planned out and dependent on people like me walking the halls of Dominion power. I thought I’d be sitting in my own office, issuing decrees and forming policies that would affect the lives of millions without ever seeing them. Not helm an ancient space-station with a bloody rip in my belly, in the dirt and grime, lording over the fates of a few former ship-cattle. Yet, in some way, the moment arrived, and I’m… am I even ready? I’m letting these Feds walk with their lives. The small procession is halfway out the door, when Broken Tusk stops, much to Tekhef’s dismay. He turns his head to focus one eye on me, and then steps forward, like he’s tormented by a lethal curiosity that just won’t let its claws off him. “Why, Terran? Why this, “ he waves a stumpy long arm towards the entrance. “Why don’t you simply…” He trails off, surprisingly not having the balls - or his species equivalent of - to say the words “kill us”, like voicing them would make me reconsider. It doesn’t. Maybe he thinks it’s out of respect for their supposed bravery or help? No. And I don’t intend on humoring the Mazic, until the answer that slips from my mouth surprises me more than him. “Mercy.” Mercy… as they leave my quarters I run a claw over my lips. The word sticks, uncomfortable and wrong in the context of the last few hours. It stains my skin and I pick more at the dry flakes, trying to peel the still-clinging taste away. The former Overseer’s room is dark, calming my eyes. The air is stuffy. It feels like a sarcophagus, those tombs in Egypt that miraculously survived the Glassing. It’s exactly the place I should be in. Mercy. I hesitate for a second, then, overtaken by deathly exhaustion, climb into the nest-rest. Jazhif slumbered here, and using it is like taking a trophy. Especially since instead of the utilitarian, synthetic-fiber blankets you’d find on the Armada ships, the Arxur’s bowl-like bed is filled with opulent fur throws. Lush and glossy, silky and rough, spotted, striped, faded… Each one - a Fed’s life. Despite the insufficient gravity, I try to relax my body, rock on the ebbing waves of painkiller-induced apathy. As I’m exploring the clashing textures of the pelts around, the cold fur and feathers start to warm up when the heating pads beneath them activate automatically. But this heat is artificial. The bed is empty. Again. Was it empty for Jazhif, I wonder? He had his whole clan, at least… one that supposedly will try to hunt me down in revenge. And I’ve none of my own that would protect me. No blood, no kin. Come and go like a nightmare, leaving nothing after myself, but a film of terror-borne sweat and the weight of sorrow on the heart. I run my fingers, claws and fingertips, across some short and incredibly dense fur. Don't recognize the species, but it matters not. What does is that its softness is accusatory, almost repulsive. I bury my damp face in it. Breathe in the smell of dust, alien oils and the accompanying death, then curl up as tight as I can and close my eyes. Mercy. Will there be a time when someone considers me worthy of it? submitted by /u/BlackOmegaPsi to r/NatureofPredators [link] [comments]

Iruka-sensei called roll the same way he had for the past six years; alphabetically, mechanically, while simultaneously trying to confiscate whatever Naruto had inevitably smuggled into class this time. "Aburame Shino." "Here." "Akimichi Chouji." "Here." "Haruno Sakura." "Here, Iruka-sensei!" His chalk paused midway through writing the day's lesson on the board. The classroom was... quiet. Disturbingly quiet. The kind of quiet that usually preceded Naruto bursting through the window dressed as the Hokage or replacing all the training dummies with poorly constructed straw versions of Iruka himself. "Hyuuga Hinata." "H-here." Iruka scanned the room. No orange. No catastrophic giggling from the back row. No Naruto Uzumaki vibrating in his seat like a caffeinated squirrel waiting to explode into chaos. "Inuzuka Kiba." "Here! Arf!" "Kiba, your dog can't—never mind. Nara Shikamaru." "...troublesome... here." Iruka reached the U's. His voice carried a note of confused anticipation. "Uzumaki Naruto." Silence. "Uzumaki Naruto?" More silence. Several students turned to look at the empty seat near the window—Naruto's preferred launching point for dramatic entrances and even more dramatic exits. "Huh." Iruka blinked. "That's weird. He's never missed a chance to disrupt my class before." Shikamaru lifted his head from his desk, which alone indicated something significant. "Maybe he's sick?" "Naruto doesn't get sick," Kiba said, scratching Akamaru behind the ears. "He's got too much energy to get sick. It's scientifically impossible." "That's not how science works," Shino adjusted his collar, insects buzzing faintly beneath his coat. "However, Kiba is correct that this is unusual behavior. Why? Because Naruto has perfect attendance, even when suspended." Sakura twirled her hair, eyes drifting toward Sasuke. "Maybe he finally gave up on being a ninja. I mean, he fails every test." "He fails every written test," Hinata said quietly, then seemed startled by her own voice. "His, um, his taijutsu is actually quite good. When he focuses." "Whatever." Sakura returned to making eyes at Sasuke, who continued to stare out the window with the emotional range of a particularly brooding rock. Iruka tried to continue the lesson, but his eyes kept drifting to that empty seat. By lunch, he'd sent a messenger to check Naruto's apartment. --- The messenger returned fifteen minutes later, slightly out of breath. "Well?" "Empty, sensei. Door was unlocked. Place was... cleaner than expected, actually. But there was this on the table." She handed him a piece of paper. On it, in letters so large they'd clearly been drawn with multiple brushes and possibly some kind of industrial paint, was one word: *GOODBYE* Iruka stared at it. Turned it over. Nothing on the back. Just that single word, screaming from the page in capitals that somehow felt both aggressive and final. "Oh no." .......... Within an hour, the Hokage's office looked like a very small war room populated by very stressed ninja. "We've checked every ramen stand in the village," one ANBU reported, mask tilted in what might have been confusion. "Twice." "The training grounds are clear," another added. "Including the ones he's specifically banned from." "Konohamaru hasn't seen him," Ebisu reported, adjusting his sunglasses. "The boy is devastated. Also, slightly relieved he won't be pranked today, but mostly devastated." Hiruzen Sarutobi, Third Hokage, looked older than his years as he stared at the letter. That single word seemed to mock him from his desk. "GOODBYE." Not "I'm leaving." Not "I'll be back." Not even "Screw you guys, I'm going to become Hokage somewhere else." Just... goodbye. "Kurenai," Hiruzen said quietly. "Take your team. Search the Fire Nation. Every village, every town, every tea shop that might serve ramen." The jonin bowed and vanished. "ANBU, expand the perimeter. Check the border territories. If he's left the country—" "Hokage-sama," one of the ANBU interrupted carefully. "We've been trying to track his chakra signature. The sensor division is having... difficulties." "What kind of difficulties?" The ANBU shifted uncomfortably. "The kind where they can't sense him at all. The Nine-Tails' chakra creates interference normally, but this is different. It's like he doesn't exist." In the deepest part of Naruto's seal, in a cage made of hate and paper charms, the Kyuubi opened one enormous eye and grinned. Let them search, the fox thought, wrapping its chakra around the boy like a blanket made of pure nothing. Let these fools who imprisoned me lose their precious container. Let them panic. The beast's laughter rumbled through the sewer system of Naruto's mindscape. I may be caged, but my cage has gone missing. How delightfully ironic. ............ Three days later, Kurenai knelt before the Hokage's desk, frustration evident in her clenched jaw. "Nothing, Hokage-sama. We've searched every corner of Fire Nation. If he's there, he's hidden in a way that even our best trackers can't detect." Hiruzen aged another year. "Send for Jiraiya. If anyone can find him..." Around the village, reactions varied. In the merchant district, a shopkeeper who'd once charged Naruto triple for spoiled milk raised a cup in celebration. "Good riddance to that demon brat." His neighbor didn't return the toast. Instead, she stared at her own reflection in the window and remembered a small boy asking very politely if she had any day-old bread, and how she'd thrown water at him instead. At the Ichiraku Ramen stand, Teuchi stood motionless behind his counter, ladle forgotten in his hand. Ayame had cried for an hour straight. "He's just a kid," Teuchi whispered to the empty stool where Naruto always sat. "He's just a kid." In the ANBU headquarters, a masked figure stood before the mission board, reading the new priority: FIND UZUMAKI NARUTO. HIGHEST PRIORITY. ALL AVAILABLE OPERATIVES ASSIGNED. Behind the dog mask, Kakashi Hatake's visible eye crinkled in what might have been a smile. .......... The Academy classroom had remained subdued for nearly a week. Even Kiba's enthusiasm had muted to a dull roar. Shikamaru, who'd spent twelve years avoiding effort like it was contagious, had actually walked to Naruto's apartment complex himself. He'd stood outside for ten minutes, staring at the window, before trudging home. "Too troublesome," he'd muttered, but his hands had been shoved deep in his pockets, fists clenched. Hinata hadn't activated her Byakugan in days. What was the point? She'd checked the first day, scanning the village until her eyes burned. Nothing. Naruto's chakra signature—that wild, bright, impossible-to-miss sun of energy—had simply vanished. She'd cried, quietly, in her room, where no one could call her weak for it. Even Shino, who prided himself on logic and observation, found himself distracted. "Why?" he asked his insects, who had no answer. "Why would Naruto leave without telling anyone?" Because no one gave him a reason to stay, a small voice in his mind suggested, and Shino's usual composure cracked just slightly. On the eighth day of Naruto's absence, Iruka was halfway through a lecture on chakra control when the classroom door opened. "Sorry I'm late! Is this the Academy? I'm here to enroll!" Every head turned. The boy in the doorway had spiky black hair that defied gravity in a way that seemed almost familiar. His eyes were bright green and enthusiastic. He wore black—a simple black shirt and pants that somehow seemed designed to fade into the background despite their wearer's loud entrance. He grinned widely, showing all his teeth. "Name's Arashi Menma! I'm from the Land of Waves! I came here to become a real ninja, believe it!" Several students flinched at the phrase. It sounded wrong in someone else's voice. Iruka blinked away the strange sense of déjà vu. "The... Land of Waves? That's quite a journey for a young man. Do you have your enrollment papers?" "Right here!" Menma bounded forward, somehow making the simple act of walking across a room seem like a controlled explosion of energy. He thrust a folder at Iruka. "All official and everything! Orphan, no clan, chakra tested and ready to learn!" Iruka scanned the documents. Everything seemed in order, stamped with the proper seals. "Very well. You can take... the seat by the window." Menma's grin, impossibly, widened. "Awesome!" He practically bounced to Naruto's old seat and dropped into it, immediately sprawling across the desk in a way that Iruka's eye started twitching. "So what'd I miss? Are we learning cool jutsu? When do we get to throw ninja stars? Is the ramen here good?" "Ramen isn't part of the curriculum," Sakura said with an eye roll. Menma looked at her like she'd just claimed the sky was made of cheese. "What? Ramen is the food of gods! How can you become a proper ninja without proper ramen?" The classroom went very quiet. Kiba stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. "What did you say about ramen?" "That it's amazing? Because it is? Is that weird here? In Wave, everyone loves ramen. I mean, not as much as me, obviously, but—" "Sit down, Kiba," Iruka said, voice strained. "Menma, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself? What made you want to become a ninja?" Menma's green eyes sparked with something fierce and genuine. "Because I'm gonna be Hokage! I'm gonna be the greatest ninja this village has ever seen, and everyone will have to acknowledge me!" The silence this time felt like a physical weight. Hinata's hands trembled in her lap. Shikamaru sat up fully, eyes narrowed. Shino's insects buzzed louder. "What?" Menma looked around, confused. "Why's everyone staring?" Sakura's voice was oddly cold. "Someone used to say that. The person who used to sit where you're sitting." "Oh yeah?" Menma scratched his head. "What happened to them?" "He vanished," Hinata whispered. "Naruto-kun just... disappeared." Menma's expression shifted through several emotions before landing on dismissive. "Oh. Naruto. Yeah, I heard about him from some people in the village. Sounds like he was kind of a nuisance, honestly. Always causing trouble, failing tests, being loud..." The temperature in the room dropped. Hinata stood up. Her Byakugan activated without her meaning to, veins bulging around her pale eyes. "What... what did you say?" Menma blinked, suddenly aware he'd said something very wrong but not entirely sure what. "I just mean, from what I heard, he seemed like he made things hard for everyone? I'm not trying to be mean, just—" "BYAKUGAN!" What happened next would go down in Academy history as "The Incident Where Hinata Hyuuga Broke A Desk, Three Training Dummies, And A New Student's Everything." Menma went flying through the training dummy area at the back of the class, crashed through two wooden targets, and ended up sprawled on the floor with Hinata standing over him, chakra-enhanced fist still glowing. "Don't," she said, voice shaking but firm, "talk about Naruto-kun like that." Menma groaned, coughed, and gave her a thumbs up from his position on the floor. "Got it. Noted. Won't happen again. Also, I think you cracked my ribs." "Good," Hinata said, then seemed to realize what she'd done and immediately fainted. Iruka was already moving to check on both students, but in the chaos, he missed the slight smile on Menma's face as healing chakra—faint and orange-tinged—flickered across his injuries before fading. ........... One month passed. Then two. Then three. The search continued, expanding beyond Fire Nation borders. Jiraiya had arrived, taken one look at the situation, and vanished into his spy network. Reports came back sporadically: no sign in Water Country, nothing in Wind, Earth had its own problems, and Lightning reported no unusual chakra signatures. The other Hidden Villages, of course, had noticed Konoha's frantic searching. Spies reported that the Nine-Tails Jinchuuriki had vanished, and suddenly every nation had "ambassadors" visiting Fire Country with very specific missions: find the boy, recruit the boy, capture the boy. In Konoha itself, the memorial services had begun. Small at first. A candle at the ramen shop. Some flowers left at the Academy. But as months passed with no sign of Naruto, the memorials grew. Someone—no one was sure who—erected a small stone marker in the memorial garden. Just a simple stone with a name: Uzumaki Naruto. People began leaving things. Flowers. Training kunai. Cup ramen. A surprising amount of cup ramen. Sakura stood before the stone one evening, arms crossed, face troubled. "I never really talked to you," she said to the memorial. "I just saw you as annoying. But... you never gave up. Even when everyone ignored you or yelled at you or—" She stopped, unable to continue. Behind her, Ino approached quietly. For once, the two rivals weren't fighting over Sasuke's attention. "He asked me out once," Ino said softly. "Did you know that? Years ago. I laughed at him." "He asked everyone out," Sakura replied, but without heat. "Yeah. Because everyone ignored him otherwise." Ino placed a single flower on the memorial. "We were terrible to him, Sakura." "I know." Sasuke watched from a distance, hidden in shadow. He wouldn't approach the memorial. Wouldn't pretend to feelings he couldn't access. But he'd stopped dismissing Naruto entirely. The dobe had been persistent. Loyal. Stupidly, infuriatingly loyal to the idea of friendship that Sasuke had no room for in his quest for revenge. Had been. Sasuke clenched his fist and walked away. ....... In class, Menma had become... not exactly popular, but definitely present. He failed written tests spectacularly. He excelled at taijutsu in ways that made Iruka's head hurt because the style was unorthodox but effective. He pulled pranks—not as elaborate as the legendary ones attributed to Naruto, but enough to get sent to the Hokage's office regularly. "Menma," Hiruzen said during one such visit, studying the boy who'd painted the Hokage Monument again, this time with flower crowns instead of crude jokes. "You remind me of someone." "Yeah?" Menma grinned. "Someone cool?" "Someone very troublesome." The Hokage's eyes were sad. "Tell me, why did you choose Konoha?" "Because it's where real ninjas are made! Plus, I heard you had the best ramen." Menma leaned forward conspiratorially. "Is it true? Is Ichiraku Ramen really as good as legends say?" "You should try it and find out." "Already did! Teuchi-jiisan makes the best miso pork ramen I've ever had! Though he seemed kind of sad when I ordered. Did something happen?" Hiruzen's pipe smoke curled between them. "We lost someone important. Someone who loved ramen as much as you seem to." "Oh." Menma's enthusiasm dimmed. "The Naruto kid everyone talks about?" "Yes." "Must've been pretty special for everyone to miss him this much." "He was... unique." Hiruzen stood, joints creaking. "You're free to go, Menma. Try to keep the pranks to a minimum." "No promises, old man! But I'll try!" After Menma left, Hiruzen returned to the window, watching the boy bounce down the street with familiar energy. "Kakashi," he said to the empty room. A figure materialized from nothing. "Hokage-sama." "Have you noticed?" "Noticed what, sir?" "That boy. Something about him..." Kakashi's visible eye crinkled. "I notice many things. Would you like me to add him to the observation roster?" "No." Hiruzen took a long draw from his pipe. "No, that won't be necessary. Just... keep an eye on him. Informally." "As you wish." Kakashi vanished, and if there was a hint of laughter in his departure, Hiruzen chose not to comment on it. ...... Three months into Menma's enrollment, Shino approached him after class. "Menma. Would you like to observe beetle larvae with me? Why? Because I believe we could be friends." Menma's green eyes widened. "Really? Yeah! That sounds awesome! I've never had anyone ask me that before!" It was true. Menma had never been asked. But Naruto had been asked, once, and he'd been too busy pranking someone to show up. They spent the afternoon in silence, watching insects do insect things. It was peaceful. Comfortable. "You know," Shino said eventually, "you behave very much like Naruto did. Why? Because you share many of his mannerisms." Menma stiffened slightly. "I never met him." "I know. But perhaps you're similar people. Perhaps that's why..." Shino paused. "Why I find your company pleasant. Naruto was going to be my first real friend." "Was?" "Is. Somewhere, he is still alive. I have to believe that." Menma didn't respond, couldn't respond, because his throat had closed up with emotions he couldn't safely express. That evening, he sat in his new apartment—three floors above his old one, in the same building that no one wanted to live in because of the "demon fox"—and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He let the transformation jutsu drop. Blue eyes stared back instead of green. Blonde hair instead of black. Whisker marks on his cheeks. Naruto Uzumaki looked at himself, at the face everyone had spent months searching for, and felt nothing but a hollow ache. He raised his hand, channeled chakra, and watched as his reflection shifted. Green eyes. Black hair. No whiskers. Arashi Menma smiled back at him. "I could keep doing this," Naruto whispered. His face was grinning, wide and bright and false. His eyes were crying. ...... The next day, Menma was late to class. When he arrived, he did so by bursting through the window instead of using the door. "GOOOOOD MORNING, EVERYONE! WHO'S READY TO LEARN SOME AWESOME NINJA STUFF?" Iruka's eye twitched. "Menma. We have doors." "Doors are for people who aren't awesome!" Menma struck a pose that was somehow both ridiculous and enthusiastic. "Besides, entrances should be memorable! How else will people remember the future Hokage?" Several students exchanged glances. "He's doing it again," Kiba muttered. "Doing what?" Ino asked. "Acting like Naruto. The loud entrance, the pose, the Hokage thing..." "It's just coincidence," Sakura said, but she sounded uncertain. "He's from Wave. He never met Naruto." "Right," Kiba said, but doubt colored his voice. "Coincidence." Over the following weeks, Menma's behavior became increasingly... Naruto-like. He skipped class to pull elaborate pranks. He argued loudly about ramen being superior to all other foods. He proclaimed his dream to be Hokage at least once per day. He failed written tests in spectacular fashion while excelling in practical exercises. But everyone, somehow, rationalized it away. "I think we're just projecting," Sakura said one day at lunch. "We miss Naruto, so we're seeing him in Menma." "Grief does strange things to perception," Shino agreed, though his insects seemed agitated. Even when Menma pulled off an exact replica of Naruto's legendary paint-bomb prank on the Hokage Monument, people simply said, "He must have heard stories" or "Great minds think alike." Hinata, who'd been researching Naruto's favorite training spots, found Menma practicing in the exact same clearing Naruto had always used. She approached him carefully. "Menma-kun, why do you train here?" "Huh? Oh, I just found this spot. It's quiet, and the tree stumps are perfect for target practice." He threw a kunai, missing the center by a mile. "Or they would be if I could actually aim." "Naruto-kun used to train here," Hinata said softly. Menma's hand slipped, and the next kunai went even wilder. "Did he? Guess he had good taste in training spots." Hinata studied him with Byakugan-enhanced vision, seeing the chakra flowing through his system. It moved oddly, like it was constantly suppressed, constantly hidden beneath layers of— "Menma-kun," she said suddenly. "Can I tell you something?" "Sure!" "I... I miss Naruto-kun. I never told him, but he inspired me. He never gave up, even when everyone told him he should. Even when people were cruel." "Sounds like a great guy." "He was. He is." Hinata took a deep breath. "So I've decided. I'm going to become stronger. For him. For you. For everyone who needs someone to be strong." Menma's grin softened into something genuine. "That's awesome, Hinata. I think... I think you'll be amazing." She left feeling lighter than she had in months. Menma waited until she was gone, then let his transformation flicker for just a moment. Blue eyes, blonde hair, whisker marks. Then Arashi Menma was back, and he was laughing, but it sounded like crying. ....... Six months after Naruto's disappearance, the memorial had grown into something substantial. Villagers who'd never spoken to Naruto left offerings. Ninja who'd once spit at his feet bowed before his stone. "I'm sorry," they whispered. "I'm sorry I never saw you." At Ichiraku Ramen, Teuchi served customer after customer, and with each bowl, he remembered the blonde boy who'd loved his cooking unconditionally. The boy who'd eaten there alone every night because he had nowhere else to go. "We should've done more, Dad," Ayame said, tears streaming down her face. "I know, sweetie. I know." Menma came by that evening, ordering miso pork ramen with extra toppings. "You know," Teuchi said as he prepared the bowl, "you order the same thing he did." "Who?" "Naruto. The boy who used to sit where you're sitting." Menma's chopsticks paused. "Was he a good customer?" "The best." Teuchi set the bowl down with shaking hands. "Never complained. Always smiled. Always thanked us." He met Menma's green eyes. "You remind me of him, kid. The way you eat like every meal might be your last, the way you light up when you taste something good. It's... it's nice. Like having him back, just a little." Menma's grin was blinding and broken. "Thanks, old man. This ramen is the best!" He left double the payment and vanished into the night before Teuchi could object. In the alley behind the shop, Menma—Naruto—leaned against the wall and sobbed silently, fist pressed against his mouth to muffle the sound. They missed Menma's ramen enthusiasm. They missed Naruto's memory. But no one, not one single person, looked at Menma and saw Naruto. ....... "Has anyone else noticed," Shikamaru said one day, sprawled on the Academy roof with Chouji, "that Menma is literally doing everything Naruto used to do?" "Mmm," Chouji munched chips thoughtfully. "Yeah. The pranks especially. That thing he did with the training dummies was exactly like Naruto's style." "Right? And the way he talks, the ramen obsession, the Hokage dream—" "You think he's Naruto?" Shikamaru was quiet for a long moment. "No. I watched him use a transformation jutsu in class. Saw him change into a tree. His face was completely different before he transformed. And Naruto's chakra signature is supposedly gone completely. Not hidden—gone." "So?" "So we're just seeing what we want to see. It's too troublesome to deal with grief properly, so our brains are making Menma into a replacement." Shikamaru sighed. "It's not healthy, but it's human." "Troublesome," Chouji agreed. They didn't notice the figure standing in shadow nearby, listening to every word. Kakashi's visible eye crinkled in amusement before he vanished in a swirl of leaves. ........ Hinata found Menma alone in the training yard one evening, working on what appeared to be a transformation jutsu. "Menma-kun? What are you practicing?" He jumped, nearly fell off the stump he was standing on, and dispelled whatever he'd been working on. "Hinata! Uh, just trying to get better at henge. I'm pretty bad at it." "You seemed fine in class." "Yeah, well, basic transformations are easy. I'm trying to do something more... specific." She climbed onto the stump next to him. "Can I see?" "It's probably stupid—" "I'd like to see." Menma—Naruto—made a decision that was either very stupid or very necessary. He formed the hand signs, channeled chakra, and transformed. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Whisker marks. Hinata gasped. "Naruto-kun?" "Not exactly," Menma said in Naruto's voice, before dispelling the jutsu. "I've been practicing. Trying to honor his memory, you know? By learning to look like him, maybe I can... I don't know. Keep him alive somehow." Tears streamed down Hinata's face. "Menma-kun, that's... that's so kind of you." "You think? I worried it might be disrespectful." "No." She grabbed his hands, squeezing tight. "No, it's beautiful. You never met him, but you're trying to keep his memory alive. I think... I think Naruto-kun would have really liked you." Something in Naruto's chest cracked completely. "Thanks, Hinata. That means a lot." She left feeling comforted, believing she'd witnessed an act of memorial rather than a confession. Naruto sat alone in the dark, laughing hysterically, because what else could he do? He'd literally transformed into himself in front of Hinata, and she thought it was a touching tribute. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor darker than any shadow jutsu. ...... As months became a year, Academy life continued. Menma excelled and failed in equal measure, beloved and exasperating by turns. The search for Naruto had quieted to a dull background hum—still ongoing, but without the desperate urgency of those first months. Hiruzen visited Naruto's memorial regularly, leaving flowers and quiet apologies. Iruka did the same, carrying guilt that weighed heavier than any mission pack. Even Sasuke, in his own way, acknowledged the loss. He trained harder, pushed further, as if trying to make up for dismissing Naruto's determination while he'd been alive. "The dobe was an idiot," Sasuke muttered to Naruto's memorial stone. "But he was right about not giving up. I won't give up either." Nearby, hidden by transformation and the Kyuubi's continued chakra suppression, Menma watched and felt nothing at all. The stone that marked Naruto's "death" had grown weathered now, covered in offerings and messages from people who'd never once offered him kindness while he'd been present. It was, Naruto reflected, the most acknowledgment he'd ever received from the village. All it had cost was his existence. That night, sitting in his apartment with transformation dropped, Naruto looked at himself in the mirror. "I could keep doing this," he said again. This time, his face was serious. His eyes were dry. The decision had been made months ago. Everything since had just been confirmation. Tomorrow, he'd wake up. He'd transform into Arashi Menma. He'd go to the Academy and fail a test while acing the practical exam. He'd eat ramen at Ichiraku and watch Teuchi smile at the memory of someone who no longer existed. He'd listen to his classmates talk about how much they missed Naruto while looking directly at him. And he'd do it all again the next day. And the day after that. Because Menma was accepted where Naruto never had been. Because sometimes the only way to be seen was to disappear. Because the village mourned Naruto Uzumaki beautifully, but they'd never loved him alive. Naruto Uzumaki smiled at his reflection—really smiled, with all the bitter understanding of someone who'd pulled off the greatest prank in shinobi history. He'd made himself miss him. Tomorrow, Menma would go to class and proclaim his dream to be Hokage, and everyone would smile sadly and think of Naruto. No one would realize they were the same person. No one would ever realize. And somehow, impossibly, that was exactly what Naruto wanted. In his mindscape, the Kyuubi laughed and laughed and laughed, because chaos was chaos, and this was the most chaotic thing the fox had seen in centuries. The village had caged the demon. The demon had helped its host escape. And now they mourned what they'd destroyed while celebrating its replacement. Humans, the fox thought with vicious satisfaction, are the greatest fools I have ever encountered. For once, Naruto didn't disagree. Time passed. Teams were assigned. Arashi Menma, Sasuke Uchiha, and Sakura Haruno were placed on Team 7 under Kakashi Hatake. Kakashi’s single visible eye would crinkle into a smile whenever Menma pulled a particularly Naruto-esque prank. He never said a word. The Chunin Exams arrived. During the invasion, Gaara of the Desert, transformed into a shukaku-infested monster, went on a rampage. Menma, faced with the threat, let a sliver of the Kyuubi’s chakra loose. A red, bubbling cloak enveloped him, his eyes slitting like a cat’s. He tore through Gaara’s sand defenses with feral glee. Afterwards, the village cheered. “Incredible, Menma!” someone shouted. “Your chakra cloak henge was so realistic! What a brilliant tactic!” Years later, when Pain attacked and Menma erupted into a six-tailed state, Tsunade, the Fifth Hokage, rationalized it immediately. “Of course!” she declared, nursing her injuries. “It must have been a fail-safe! The Fourth Hokage sealed the other half of the Kyuubi in this boy, Menma, in case Naruto ever failed! What foresight!” Inside his own mindscape, during the battle, Naruto confronted the mental imprint of his father, Minato Namikaze. The Yondaime looked at Menma’s form with profound confusion. “I… I don’t understand. I sealed the Nine-Tails in my son, Naruto. Who are you, young man?” Naruto’s eye twitched. Then it twitched again. A vein throbbed on his forehead. With a guttural roar that was decades of frustration in the making, he launched himself at the glowing blonde ghost and beat him senseless. “YOU SEALED THE FOX IN ME AND YOU DON’T EVEN RECOGNIZE YOUR OWN SON?!” he screamed, pummeling the memory of the hero of the Third War. “WHAT KIND OF DAD ARE YOU?!” After finally making peace with the Kyuubi and confronting his “dark self” at the Falls of Truth, Naruto had a final, brilliant, utterly unhinged idea. He had mastered the fox’s chakra. He could create a Tailed Beast Ball; why not a Tailed Beast Clone? Using a massive portion of the Kyuubi’s chakra, he molded a perfect, solid clone. It had blond hair, blue eyes, whisker marks, and wore orange. He even gave it a simple, sunny personality. He named it “Naruto.” He then “found” it meditating at the Falls of Truth and brought it back to the village. The result was pandemonium. The villagers fell to their knees, weeping with joy. They begged the “Naruto” clone for forgiveness for their past sins. The clone, programmed for absolution, smiled brightly and forgave them all. “It’s okay! I’m just happy to be back! Let’s all get ramen!” Menma, now a respected jonin, married a strong and confident Hinata Hyuga. They had two beautiful children named Boruto and Himawari. Their home was filled with laughter and love. The “Naruto” clone, meanwhile, became the village’s beloved hero, a living monument to their collective guilt and redemption. It was constantly mobbed by thousands of fangirls desperate to marry the legend. And in the Hokage’s office, now the Rokudaime Hokage, Kakashi Hatake looked out over his vibrant, absurd village. He watched the “Naruto” clone being chased by a horde of screaming women down the main street. He saw Menma, the real Naruto, playing with his children in the park, a genuine, unburdened smile on his face. A quiet, muffled giggle escaped Kakashi’s lips. Then another. He slumped in his chair, his shoulders shaking with silent, helpless laughter. He had been Naruto’s Anbu guard all those years ago. It was he who had erased the boy’s physical trail and spread false leads across the Fire Country to fool the other sensors. He had been demoted to jonin sensei for his “failure,” but he considered it a small price to pay. He had seen the pain in the boy’s eyes, and when Naruto had decided to become someone else, Kakashi had decided to help the charade along. The clowns on the stage had finally found their happy ending, and Kakashi, the silent stagehand, was the only one who knew the show was a masterpiece of farce. And he found it absolutely, sidesplittingly hilarious. submitted by /u/Fun-Cartographer-368 to r/NarutoFanfiction [link] [comments]

This is our first Halloween in Oakbrook Village. Even as the first chill of September set in, I could tell something was different about the way this town celebrated. For one, the decorations were different. There were no cute inflatable decorations, despite the many families that had small children. There were also no Instagram-mom decorations—no regal wreaths of autumn foliage or pumpkins painted gold. The kinds of decorations here were what I’d call “tasteful creepy”: skeletons of all kinds, witchy hats, fake graveyards. No hockey masks or fake corpses or bloody body parts. I think every house had a jack-o-lantern, lit every night without fail. Everything from classic triangle eyes to elaborate, contorted faces of witches and werewolves and ghouls. Avery and I didn’t want to stand up, so we did some jack-o-lanterns. She did a very elaborate one with a demon on it, and I did two (rather shitty) triangle-eyed ones—one for each side of the front door. Hers got the place of honor at the foot of the steps. But as Halloween approached, things started to get… weird. A few days before Halloween, I found two papers taped to my front door. I yanked them off the door and started to read: RULES FOR HANDING OUT CANDY 1. Please be respectful and inclusive of all our trick-or-treaters. Teal candy buckets mean food allergies; blue candy buckets mean autism. Do not hand out candy (or anything else) to children using a black candy bucket. 2. Never open the door for someone wearing a clown costume (child or adult). This is not a trick-or-treater. Turn off your porch light and wait until they leave. 3. If trick-or-treaters come to your door asking to take shelter in your house, only let them in if the streetlights are flickering. Otherwise, do not let them in. 4. If you open the door and see a single child standing several feet from your door, facing away from you, close your door immediately. 5. Do not answer the back door for any trick-or-treaters. 6. If you are visited by a group of three children, specifically dressed as a pirate, fairy, and demon, offer each child something that holds deep sentimental value to you. You can take a while to decide; they will wait. Do not hold back—you do not want to find out what happens if they deem your objects unworthy. 7. Do not approach any houses that have an unlit jack-o-lantern. 8. Trick-or-treating begins at 5 PM and ends at 8 PM. You must be present to hand out treats for the entirety of that time. There was also a complementary list underneath, for those trick-or-treating: RULES FOR TRICK-OR-TREATERS 1. If you have food allergies, you may use a teal candy bucket to indicate it. If you have autism, you may use a blue candy bucket to indicate it. Do not use a black candy bucket. 2. Do not wear a clown costume. If you see a child (or adult) wearing a clown costume on someone’s porch, skip that house and tell everyone in your party to skip it as well. 3. If the streetlights start flickering on and off, take shelter in the nearest house. 4. Always travel in groups. Never stray from your group. 5. Do not trick-or-treat at 18 Magnolia Ave. (the dark, Victorian-style house at the end of the cul-de-sac.) 6. Avoid the following costumes: pirate, fairy, and demon. There is only one group that uses these costumes, and they do not like to be copies. 7. Make sure you light at least one jack-o-lantern for each member of your household. 8. Trick-or-treating begins at 5 PM and ends at 8 PM. You must remain outside, trick-or-treating, for the entirety of that time. And then a third paper, which simply read: Please note ALL residents are expected to participate in our Halloween festivities. You may choose to either trick-or-treat (no matter your age!) or hand out candy. However, please be sure to abide by all rules for your group. It had to be some sort of prank. Honestly, hats off to them. This was creative and creepy. I’d rather our teenagers be playing harmless pranks like this than scrolling TikTok. “You going trick-or-treating this year?” I asked Avery as I came in. “Yeah, Maddie and David are going with me,” she said. “You want me to come with you guys?” “Mom,” she groaned. “I’m thirteen.” “Okay, okay. You’ll have your phone. Right?” “Yes.” I gave her the rules lists. “Did you see this? Some kind of funny prank.” Avery looked them over. “Oh yeah, Maddie told me about them. They’re legit.” “What?” “We’re supposed to follow them. They’re real.” “No way.” “Yeah way.” Was she involved? Or maybe the perpetrators were friends of Maddie’s? I opened my mouth to say no wayagain, but Avery’s expression suddenly darkened. Serious. “Promise me you’ll follow them,” she said quietly. “Uh…” “Seriously. Promise me.” “Okay. I promise.” I almost regretted moving here. Things were getting weird. Too weird. But I tried to comfort myself by thinking about my increase in salary, and how much closer we lived to my boyfriend now. This was just a rocky, weird start. Things would look up from here. How wrong I was. *** Halloween night was cool and crisp, just as it should be. A full yellow moon hung low in the sky, and a brisk wind rattled the half-bare branches. Dried leaves skittered across the sidewalk, and the air was full of giggling excitement. Avery had left an hour ago. It was just me, alone, sitting at the door with a bowl of assorted fun-sized candy. I picked out all the Milky Way Midnights for myself as I did my annual watch of Hell House LLC. Ding-dong. I got up, grabbed the bowl, and looked through the peephole. Three girls in various princess getup stared up at the door. Tulle and sparkles in green, purple, and orange. I threw the door open. “Trick or treat!” they shouted in unison. “Oh, how sweet,” I said, reaching into the bowl. “What would you like?” That’s when I noticed two things. First, there was no parent with them. The closest adults were all the way out on the sidewalk, and they didn’t seem like they were waiting for the girls. The second… All three of them were holding black candy buckets. I froze, handful of candy mid-air. Those rules were a joke. Right? I’m not going to tell these kids I’m not going to give them candy. That would be insane. And so mean. The three girls stared at me expectantly, not smiling. “Um,” I coughed. “I’m out of candy.” Oh, real convincing, good job. I was holding the candy bowl. “I mean, I’m saving this for someone else.” They stared up at me, not saying a word. “Sorry.” I started to close the door. As the door shut, for the tiniest moment, they smiled. And I could’ve sworn— I saw rows of razor-sharp fangs. I shut the door. My heart pounded and I felt a little faint. I collapsed back into the chair by the door. They didn’t have fangs. That’s ridiculous. Or if they did, that was part of their costume. Vampire princesses. Yeah. Probably some movie… I was unnerved until the next set of trick-or-treaters came. I made sure their candy buckets weren’t black, and they weren’t the pirate-fairy-demon triad. Then I sucked in a breath and opened the door. Three boys in superhero costumes, trailed by a normal, tired-looking mother. I sighed a breath of relief and gave them generous handfuls of candy. When I closed the door, I texted Avery. Me: Some girls came to the door with black candy buckets I didn’t give them anything Was that rude??? Are these rules really a thing??? After a minute, she replied. Avery: YOU DID GOOD Thumbs-up emoji. This was all so weird. I sighed and sat down, fidgeting with the candy, no longer excited to watch Hell House LLC. More trick-or-treaters came to the door, and each time I was relieved to see they were normal-looking. Maybe everything was fine. Maybe this was all in my head. Then Avery texted me. Avery: Don’t open the door for the clown!! I frowned. Me: I know. That’s one of the “rules” right? Avery: This isn’t a joke mom!! I just saw him He’s next door Coming to you next I started texting her back— Ding-dong. I stared at the door. Then I slowly, slowly scooted out of my seat. What appeared to be a fully grown man stood on my doorstep. He was decked out in a classic clown costume—but he was turned away from the door. I couldn’t see his face. Only the back of his red-and-white onesie. The curly, plastic red hair of his wig. I stared at him through the peephole, my heart pounding in my chest. He was just standing there. Not turning around or any— Blip. My phone. Avery: rememeber to turn off the light!!! Right. The porch light. I leaned over and flicked the switch. The porch lights cut out. I stared at the clown on my doorstep, now not more than a shadow. Lit in gray and blue tones in the moonlight. He slowly began to turn around. Painted white skin. Red nose, dripping red lips. And something hanging from his hand, that I only noticed now that he was slightly turned. An axe. He turned his head. And kept turning. Until his head seemed to be turned more than a normal human neck would allow. I ducked away from the door. Crouched out of view. I heard footsteps—I held my breath—but then the footsteps began to recede. When I finally looked through the peephole again, he was gone. Me: he’s gone. Come home RIGHT NOW Avery: I can’t, it’s the rules Me: then I’ll come get you Avery: DON’T!! ITS THE RULES!! Me: I’m calling the police then. HE HAD AN AXE. Three dots appeared. But Avery didn’t text me back. Screw this. I hit call. “911, what’s your emergency?” “There’s some guy in a clown costume. With an axe. And my daughter is out there, and—” The officer interrupted me. “What’s your location?” I gave it to her. “Oakbrook Village?” “Yeah,” I breathed. “Don’t open the door and turn off the porch light.” “…What?” “If he comes to your door. Don’t open it and turn off the porch light.” The blood drained out of my face. “I… I…” “He poses no risk to the trick-or-treaters, ma’am. As long as they stay away from him, as the rules ask.” I opened and closed my mouth. No sound came out. “So they’re true,” I finally croaked. “As long as you follow them, you’ll be safe.” And then the call disconnected. I stared at the phone, my mind blank. Me: Anything else I should know? Avery: just follow the rules. Me: Are you sure I can’t come with you? Avery: MOM DON’T You CAN’T leave early. you CANT I began to cry. Why hadn’t I insisted on going with Avery?! I can’t stay here. I have to get her. I’ll drive to her. What’s going to happen? Someone’s going to shoot me down or something? I have to be with her. That’s my kid. As if Avery could read my mind, another text came in. Avery: Promise me mom. Just wait until 8. Everything will be okay. I cried harder. Ding-dong. I got up and wiped my eyes. Grabbed the candy bowl and opened the door. Looked down at the three kids standing on my doorstep. “Trick or treat!” Wait a minute. A pirate… A fairy… A demon. I swallowed. These were the kids that wanted something of sentimental value from me. Right? I looked at each of them. As a group they looked normal, but… when I looked closely at each of their faces, something was a little off. The pirate’s face was too long. The fairy’s eyes were too big. The demon was wearing a mask, but I could see his (her?) hands, and they were too big to be a child’s. Okay. Sentimental things. Do I really have to do this? “Just a second,” I said, and walked back into the house. I scanned the fireplace mantel. There was a photo of Avery and me up there at the fair, each of us holding a pink fluff of cotton candy. We’d gone there right after the divorce. The digital copy was lost, so it wasn’t like I could print another one. I could give that to them. Would it be cheating to take a photo of it with my phone first? Dammit, I loved that photo. But it was just a photo. Me: Do you think the photo of us on the mantel is sentimental enough for the three kids? Avery: I think so. I grabbed it off the mantel and walked back to the kids. I dropped it in the pirate’s bag and wiped at my face. Surprisingly, he immediately turned around and walked off the porch, back into the dark. I guess that meant I satisfied the request. “Okay, you’re next, huh?” I said to the fairy with the huge eyes. She nodded. I walked back into the house. Looked around. I grabbed another photo off the mantel, another one I’d lost the digital copy to. It was me holding her at the hospital. Right after birth. I grabbed it and held it over the fairy’s bag— She shook her head. She was no longer smiling. Hmm. Okay, maybe I couldn’t repeat the type of object. I walked back into the house and glanced around. What was most sentimental to me, really? My eyes fell on the painting in the kitchen. That had been the first (and only) painting I’d ever won anything for. I’d submitted it to the fair when I was 18, thinking I had a promising art career ahead, that this was the start of the rest of my life. But life hadn’t turned out that way, had it? I’d spent five years living in a rat-infested apartment in Brooklyn, eating ramen every night. Churning out painting after painting, only keeping myself afloat with more erotic pieces I’d painted. I’d eventually closed that chapter of my life and went back to school for accounting. But a tiny part of myself had always thought, maybe someday… I grabbed the painting off the wall. A landscape of a dreary bog and a cabin in shambles. It looked like how I felt, right now. It didn’t fit in the fairy’s bag, so I dropped it at her feet. “I hope that’s sufficient,” I whispered, staring her down. She picked up the painting and walked off the porch. So it was just the demon left. His ice blue eyes stared up at me through the mask. Does he wear the mask because he doesn’t look as human as the others? After a few minutes of searching, I found something even more precious than the last two—Avery’s baby blanket. The one she came home from the hospital swaddled in. I pressed it against my chest, crying, then got up and offered it to the demon child. It shook its head. “I don’t know what you want from me. This is probably the most precious thing I’ve ever owned.” It shook its head again. Then it lifted its hand—and pointed at me. Does it want me? Is it just going to kill me? “Me?” I finally asked. It shook its head. And then it spoke. A low, grating whisper, barely audible over the wind. “Your daughter.” “No. No, not Avery. No!” My voice cracked. I began to shout. “Not Avery! You can have anything but Avery!” The demon-child stared up at me. Then, noiselessly, turned and walked away. I stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching him disappear into the shadows beyond the halo of the porch light. I finally found the strength to close the front door. Then I collapsed in the chair and sobbed. I don’t know how long I sat there, sobbing my eyes out. But before I knew it, my phone was ringing. Avery was calling—and it was 8:01 PM. I let out a long sigh of relief. “Avery? Are you okay?” “Are you?” “…What?” “I’m standing outside. But, uh, one of the jack-o-lanterns isn’t lit up anymore.” I got up and peered out the peephole. Sure enough, I saw Avery, standing at the foot of the porch steps. She’s okay. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?” “I don’t know. But the rules say, don’t approach any houses with jack-o-lanterns that aren’t lit up.” “Wouldn’t that only apply before 8 PM?” “I don’t know. I… I think I should stay at Maddie’s tonight.” My heart dropped. “Are… are you sure you’re okay?” “Yeah. I just don’t want to risk breaking the rules.” So that was it. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I cried the entire time. How could I really know that Avery was okay? I’d seen her, sure. I’d heard her voice on the phone. But what if that was some sort of illusion? What if she actually wasn’t safe? What if the demon-child had somehow gotten her anyway? Could he take her without my permission? But at nine the next morning, the front door creaked open, and Avery walked inside. I hugged her and cried and she pried me off her and groaned, “Moooom.” But for the next few weeks, I watched her like a hawk. Not only to make sure she wasn’t in danger. But also… What if the demon-child had actually taken her? What if this was some mimic, some thing imitating her? And not really my daughter at all? Because Avery never tied her shoes like that before. Avery never blinked like that before, as if the sunlight hurt her eyes. Avery never filled her sketchbook with dark, spindly creatures of the woods before. Never went out foraging for mushrooms, digging her pink-manicured nails into the damp dark dirt, breathing in the smell of earth and decay. As the days went on, I grew more and more suspicious. A heavy weight in my gut. Until one night, she cooked me dinner with some stuff she’d foraged, and I began throwing up. I halfway thought she—the thing that replaced her—had poisoned me. I was wrong. You see: I was pregnant. That June, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Ava. Avery was over the moon to have a little sister, and even though it turned our plans upside-down, it was the best thing to ever happen to us. Except. Except a birth in June, meant that I was pregnant on Halloween. And the demon-child… It had asked for my daughter. And I’d said it could have anything—anything—other than Avery. It’s the beginning of October now. We’ve since moved out of Oakbrook Village, but I still wonder. If on Halloween night, that thing will somehow find me. And take what I promised. submitted by /u/BlairDaniels to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

Royal Road First|Previous|Next Acantho was an Arachnid who would dearly love to be left alone. As a member of House Silk, even being the 6th child did not absolve him of his duties to attend parties. Parties, as in poorly disguised negotiation chambers, where every word was a blade poised to strike and every move monitored by a thousand beading eyes. Acantho really liked his own room. Where it was just him. Where the web was designed to be just tricky enough to confuse even his own family. Where it was wide enough that he could carefully retreat into the shadiest corner and bundle up in the coziest of silk blankets. And simply. Breathe. Funny how that’s a source of relief for him. It wasn’t as if the partygoers paid much attention to him anyway. Most were busy swindling his mother for a bit of extra cash and clout. Others were busy kissing the paws of his eldest brothers and sisters. Yet, even if he was nothing but a speck in their peripherals, an ornament that blended all too well into the background, there were enough eyes to watch his every move. His strategy? Stay at the banquet table. Not many mistakes he could make when the entire purpose was to eat. No reason to talk if his mouth was stuffed to the brim. Tonight was the same for him. Sure, more dignitaries of foreign species, dwarves, gnomes, and the occasional centaur, crowded the area. He even spotted a few elves here and there, their magical aura unmistakable, being the most mana-rich species in all the realms. Well, they were the most mana-rich species in all the realms. And the reason for that change was the entire motive for today’s impromptu gathering. Humans. Were they powerful, indestructible beasts, who would use trickery and cruelty alike to bend the universe to their whims? Were they soft, weak prey coddled by their own realm, abusing gifts given to them by birthright? Now, wasn’t that the debate of the cycle? Frankly, Acantho couldn’t care less. And in his personal opinion, his family shouldn’t, no matter whatever the Eternal Dance insisted. It certainly did not require every realm to take down one uppity race. They were already doing plenty well for themselves, having a pretty sizable territory. They had even subsumed a realm of their own, an achievement few could claim. Hubris was the downfall of heroes in the stories. The Arachnids should be satisfied with just the Fae, and leave the volatile humans to become problems for the others. Sure, the rewards were tempting, but that realm was simply too unpredictable to gamble on. The griffins had already paid a hefty price. Acantho would very much like not to join them. Let the other realms fight over them. Let them exhaust each other and spend their resources. Let them waste their own lives for information that would eventually trickle into the ears of those with patience. Perhaps, when the time was right, when the involving parties had thoroughly drained themselves and each other, they could swoop in and claim the finishing blow. Hardly noble, but who would be left to care, when the details would be washed away by the waves of time? Who would complain when they reap the benefits with none of the risks? Or, at least, these would be his ideas. If anyone actually cared enough to hear them. It wouldn’t matter in the end. He mused, sipping on a particularly delectable mush – Fae Wings, the main course of the night. His job wasn’t to think. It was to sit still, look pretty, mate, and hope his future wife doesn’t bite his head off. He caught a significant look from his mother just as he had reached for another cup. She gestured at the ladies milling about before going back to her chat with an elf. His paw stilled on the cup, claws not quite touching. The room was vast and curved beautifully to suit its purpose. Artistic webs were stringed tastefully everywhere, each of them silvery-white, as if threaded from moonlight. Carefully placed fireflies illuminated the room with a dim glow, casting large shadows that loomed over the proceedings, reminiscent of the Great Mother Herself. Orchids, peonies and more hung from silk baskets so thin they appeared invisible. A radiant sunflower served as the centerpiece of these floral arrangements, the yellow gleaming amidst its muted companions. A daffodil fell on Acantho’s head, and he nearly flinched at the touch. The room, for all its curated opulence, meant to shine, to impress, had never felt more unwelcoming, more terrifying than at that moment. He was raised for this. Could speak word-for-word his purpose before he could write his name. A destiny so long decided that he should really be used to it by now. He would get used to it, he promised himself. Just. Not tonight. Before he could articulate his own thoughts, he was already moving. All eight of his limbs strode purposefully through the room, cautiously weaving through the guests. He brushed past a couple of elbows and legs, but he was swift, disappearing into the shadows whenever they turned to stare. And it was with this simple dance that he found himself out of the stifling atmosphere. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He would get chewed out by his family for his absence later, but he found himself unable to care. He needed to calm down, take a breather, and contemplate. Come to terms at his own pace. The gardens would do. He moved quickly, winding past long hallways and occasionally jumping from one web to another. He passed a few fae on his way, the little bugs yelping when his eyes landed on them and trembling even as he passed them. No time for entertainment. He needed to get away. It was cold outside. Slightly damp, as though the air missed the rain that had fallen just a moment ago like a devoted lover. Blades of grass glistened with beads of dew clinging desperately for dear life, reluctant to leave. The flowers bloomed brighter in the quiet. And Acantho breathed. He was glad for the reprieve, allowing himself to pace leisurely in the nonsensical maze that was crafted by generations of uncertain paws, his own included. Claws grasped the petals of tiny asters with gentleness unbefitting of its size. They traced tenderly down the stems of lavender, barely touching it, like the breath of a kiss. Faint music floated from the numerous windows that decorated the manor. Without a thought, Acantho found himself moving to the beat, uncurling his legs and spinning around. His abdomen raised itself up and down, body swaying side to side. Here, he was alone. Here, there were no expectations. No watching eyes ready to point out any imperfection, any mistake he made. Here, he could dance to his heart’s content. Tapping his feet to the beat. Twirling around the garden with the flowers alone as his silent witnesses. The song reached its crescendo, and he swung himself even harder, throwing himself into the air. He spun a graceful arc suspended in the air before he landed, out of breath. Gathering his composure back, he excitedly looked around, instinctively searching for imaginary applause. But, of course, there was none. He was alone. This was what he’d wanted after all. So, why did his heart still ache? He shook away the foolish notions taking root in his mind. The music had ended so they must be wrapping things up. Final speeches. Last minute deals. Insincere goodbyes and well wishes. Sooner or later, portals would blink on and off in the open sky as ships returned to their home realms. No one ever liked staying with the Arachnids for too long, and it was the last day of the party. The next gathering would not take place until a couple of cycles later. He let himself fall to the ground, a graceless tumble softened only by the still-wet grass. His vision grew hazy as the moisture lulled him to a comfortable state of rest. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Surely, there was nothing wrong with taking a tiny nap… He was out in a matter of moments. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Oh, Great Mother, save him! He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to. But he did. What time was it now? The moon was blotted out by dark clouds, so he couldn’t even guess. The gardens he’d once sought comfort in were pitch-black, the outlines visible only by the faintest gleam of moonlight as if to mock him for his mistake. The wind had picked up, its howls a mournful cry. It brushed past him like a lonely ghost, making him jump and shiver from the cold. He really was going to receive hell from his family. But right now, he just wanted to get back to his room. His web. It was far too dark to see outside, so he muttered a faint spell. A tiny flame materialized, suspended on one of his paws as though his claws had personally plucked it from the sun. He had to be careful with the fire. All of his kind had to, given the flammable nature of their homes. Having been granted the faintest hint of sight, he delicately weaved through the vegetation, keeping the flame far away from the sticks and leaves. One leg after the other, he moved through the maze, its turns and twists as imprinted into his mind as the spots and stripes that lined his body. He was out in seconds, heading straight for one of the windows. Scaling was a laughable task that he’d completed with nary a worry. For a brief moment, he stopped for breath, easily perching on the sill like a throne. The clouds parted, letting the moon finally peek through, its piercing glow casting over the landscape- What was that? In the courtyard. His eyes strained to see. With the darkness that had enveloped the world, he had no way of telling. But the clouds parted more and more, and waves of light washed over the scenery. His family. Or, more accurately, their bodies. Their. Still. Unmoving. Bodies. They were all neatly tucked in, as if they were still asleep. Brachy had a leg poking out like she always did. Scurria’s mouth was open, mid-yawn. And was that… mother??? Two figures hauled his mother’s unmoving corpse body from within the house before dumping it next to the rest of his siblings. He was so focused on the macabre sight that he’d only just noticed the intruding beings lingering around. From this vantage, he couldn’t make out their features, but, by the rich mana that hovered around them in a startling display of color he had never seen in his entire life, he already knew, even though his mind refused to believe it. The shock wavered his connection away from the spell, the flame falling into the manor like a lit match into a haystack. To the webs. To the plants. To the plush carpets lining the floor. Perhaps, it would be his last, and most, destructive mistake. His paws lost their grip on the edge, and he tumbled down to the dirt in an ungainly heap of limbs. The fire only needed seconds to spread its way to the entire area. It laughed at its newfound freedom, drunk on the taste of power, devouring anything in its path. In seconds, the building Acantho called his home had turned into a tragic parody of its former glory, rather accurately reflecting the state of its inhabitants. But he couldn’t waste time musing. Shouts were tearing through the air like invisible arrows. Their voices resembled the growls of rabid beasts, almost as if the words had to violently scratch the throat and slice the teeth before ripping their way out in an explosive fashion. They rang thick like destructive sap, the language seemingly tasting the world outside and finding the tranquility repulsing. And yet, even through those animalistic guttural rasps and snarls, the translation magic did its work, an unaffected bystander that did not care for its recipients’ wishes. “What in the ------- For the love of ---------- find what ---------- the fae ---------- still in there! ------- go and save ---------- you can find!” “Sir! ---------- Arachnids ---------- one missing!” He had to run. They knew he was out here. They were going to hunt for him. He didn’t want to die. So, he ran. He ran and ran and ran, like he never had. His legs tripped over one another. He tasted dirt more than once. Stray leaves clung to his body and still, he ran. Past the gardens, past the well-trodden paths, into the forest, whose shadows and dense foliage may just give him enough coverage. Mud stained his attire, the flawless white of his suit now darkened black and brown. The layers of artistry came undone in one unfortunate encounter with a thorny bush. He was shabby, grubby, and tired. He chose a tree on a whim and climbed it before resting on of one its branches. He needed to think. He couldn’t stay hiding in the forest forever. What kind of beings show up undetected and slaughter an entire household in one night? The humans, apparently. Their growls still echoed through his mind, etched into his memory like a repeating nightmare. And the timing. The timing was too perfect. Taking place immediately after a party ended, knowing the others wouldn’t come to check on them for some time. It almost felt rehearsed. A play they had done a thousand times, the script memorized long ago. And Acantho was the amateur that stumbled over his lines, left clueless and floundering. If they could accurately time their murders and do it so efficiently without a sound, what else could they do? The forest, for all its cover, was starting to feel less and less safe. Acantho must have only slipped their notice because he had accidentally fallen asleep, breaking the script. But then again, how long had they been watching that a lucky coincidence was the only reason he survived? How were they even watching? Their auras were too colorful, too noticeable. For all its ridiculous beauty, it was an eyesore that competent professionals like his mother, and even his eldest siblings, should at least detect. Maybe this was how the griffins felt. Maybe this was how they all vanished. Cleanly, efficiently. A couple of humans for every household. Bam. Realm empty. How many humans even were there??? No, he couldn’t spiral now. He wouldn’t be able to stop if he got too in his own head. But what else could he do, heart thudding so hard it was a wonder those beasts couldn’t hear it. Limbs petrified into stillness. Hardly breathing, as if disturbing the air might just set off an invisible alarm. He didn’t know how long he sat there, tightly gripping onto the trunk, thoughts spiraling around and around the same circle, and adamantly refusing to think about his family. He couldn’t let himself. All those memories. Brachy’s stupid pranks. Scurria’s shrill laughter. Aran’s rigid discipline. Dia. Neri. Mom… No, he couldn’t think about them. He wouldn’t. Because otherwise, he would have to face reality. Otherwise, he would have to accept. That they were gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone… Voices. He startled out of his misery. How long had he been sitting here again? Didn’t matter. He looked down at the curious sight before him. The Fae. A group of them, in fact. They must be the ones from his family. How come they get to walk unscathed? Unharmed? Did they make a deal with them? Were they looking for him? He huddled even tighter at the bend between branch and trunk, wishing he could just disappear. At least, they were an uninteresting bunch. Walking in that skittish way the fae do. Shoulders hunched, wings drooping behind them. Not much different from the usual. Except for one of them. It would have been barely perceptible, such a slight change it was. But Acantho had spent his whole life doing nothing but watching from the sidelines. He could tell the difference. It walked at the front of them all, supposedly the leader. There was a small pep to its steps, something the others lacked. A little jump every other length of ground. Its wings rose sometimes, fluttering a little in the air before calming down. And, most disconcertingly, it was… talking? Singing? No, humming. Humming in the way only the fae could understand. Tiny coos and excited chirps. Was this one infected with something? Had to be, he’d never seen any fae act in such a way. It must be trying to influence the others too, the cursed creature. His claws itched with the weight of the spell they wished to perform, the curse already springing to his lips. But. What would it do? When the fae were dead, what would he do? If they were in an alliance with those… monsters like he assumed, would they get even angrier? Maybe, then, they wouldn’t even grant him the peace of a quick death. The honour of his family loomed at the back of his mind like a siren call. He wanted to avenge them. But ravaging a small group of fae would not avenge his family. So, he restrained himself, instead deciding to follow where they were headed. He called it being smart. But he knew, deep down, what his family would call him. A coward. He shook away the thought and discreetly made his way to the ground. Normally, his large size would have given him away, but he’d quickly uttered a cloaking spell that rendered him invisible. He hadn’t done it before in his mad dash to the forest, believing his little tricks would be useless against the beasts’ superior mana senses. They had torn his life apart in the blink of an eye. Whatever magic spells he knew should surely pale in comparison to what they had. The fae, however, were notoriously weak mana sensors. His gamble paid off, as the group showed no sign of being disturbed. They continued following their unsettlingly chipper leader, unaware of his presence. On and on, they went, past twisting bends, thick vegetation, and the occasional brook. It wasn’t until they’d squeezed through a particularly nasty tunnel (which was perfect for the fae, but just a teeny bit too little for him) that they’d finally reached a destination. An isolated grove. The trees crowded around, curving inwards, trapping him inside. The grass was sparse, and the ground dry. A large rowan tree stood mighty at the center. The leaves framed the place in a way that would provide shade from the afternoon sun, and offer lovely specks of moonlight at night. Dia would have loved this place. Acantho didn’t. The fae seemed to have stopped for a while. Some of them dropped down as soon as they could, holding themselves just shy off the ground. They barely changed, still droopy, still shaky, still fae. Except for that odd one who seemed to be anxiously waiting for something. Its foot tapped restlessly on the ground. Whatever it was waiting for hadn’t arrived yet. Impatience gnawed at him, biting deep into his bones. He longed to tear off the cloaking spell and put his all into butchering all those who dare stand in this grove. Stand, as if his entire world hadn’t completely fallen apart. Stand, as if his home hadn’t burned down to ash. Stand, as if they had nothing to do with it. It was only the weight of his fear that suppressed his urge to maim, the fate of his family looming constantly in the back of his mind. It must have taken only a matter of minutes. But, to him, it felt like a lifetime had passed by before something finally happened. First, like everything else on this terrible night, all seemed well. Then, the softest crack. A change in the air. A vague rustle of leaves. The slight change in the dots of moonlight speckled on the floor. Two of the insignificant trees that made up the grove parted. The trunks moved away in a trembling manner characteristic of a servant bowing to a lord, or a worshipper to a god. Their branches untangled themselves almost apologetically, falling limp to the side, making ample pathway. And. Out. Stepped. A beast. “Puck!” The leader made a piercing shriek as it tackled the most dangerous being in the universe. Surprisingly, the beast did not retaliate. Instead, putting its arms around the fae in a way Acantho thought was to strangle, but was actually a loose hold. It laughed? An uncannily modest sound that did not fit its fearsome reputation. “I take it everything went smoothly?” The fae nodded, eager to please, “Yeah! I thought your human friends were scary at first. But, they’re actually really nice. One of them even jumped into the fire to save poor Caelia!” It grabbed one of the others, a quivering little thing. It bowed to the beast, head tipped so low its hair brushed the ground. “I thank you, O’ Merciful One, for going through such extreme lengths unnecessary for your own wellbeing, simply to grant me another chance at life. I am forever in your debt-” “Hey, none of that, now.” It stepped forward, pressing a palm onto the other’s arm, making the fae stand back up straight. “We only did what we could to help. You don’t owe us anything, alright? You living is more than enough payment.” The fae’s voice shuddered. “You are as kind and generous as Feronia has described you, O’ Merciful One.” “Just call me Puck.” The beast bared its teeth. “Now, is that everyone? Okay, so here’s what we…” The voice trailed off, as its eyes swiveled around the clearing. Before landing on Acantho. No, he was invisible. Did it sense him moving somehow? Oh, he should have run away as soon as it showed up. Its hand clutched on something in an unusual bag-like thing it possessed, slowly pulling out a strangely-shaped object. It handled the thing, not so unlike a wand, aiming the tip to the- He barely managed to dodge the first shot. It made no sound, the only evidence of it firing being the tiny arrow-like needle embedded in the ground where he once stood. In the panic, his spell dispersed, leaving him in full view. The fae gasped and screamed. Most of them darted away from him in fright. Others froze with terror. The odd fae moved closer to the beast, face paler than freshly fallen snow. And the beast. It raised its contraption again, but Acantho made a split-second decision. He threw himself down in front of it, pressing flat against the ground. He tried to ignore his own trembling body, retreating into a small tight ball to appear as compliant as possible. “PLEASE, DON’T KILL ME!” He shouted with all his might, muscles vibrating with the force of his own voice. “I’LL DO ANYTHING. JUST DON’T KILL ME.” The beast lowered the contraption, brows furrowed. “I wasn’t going to kill you.” What. “You’re the Arachnid Acantho, aren’t you?” Okay, not bad. Not bad at all. It knew his name. That was fine. This was good. The beast might be playing with him or biding its time to use him for something worse. Either way, he bought some time. “Yes. I am Acantho. But! The weapon in your hand! The silent magic. If not to kill me, what was it for?” A small pause followed his question. The beast stared down at him with a questioning look, its face scrunched up slightly as though it was intently focusing on something. One moment, a brief look of surprise flitted across its face before it schooled itself back to a neutral mask. “I only meant to paralyze you. Just in case you had harmful intentions towards anyone here. It wouldn’t have hurt.” It finally explained. Acantho let out a wheezing breath, desperation crawling into his voice in the form of a rasp. “Please don’t paralyze me. I won’t harm anyone here, I promise.” He bowed his head again. “You have already taken my family to death’s hands. Won’t you allow me the smallest shred of mercy and let me go?” “Your family? Death? What- Speak plainly. What did you see tonight that made you come to this conclusion?” He pressed tighter, almost making a dent in the dirt. “I went out to the gardens for some simple nightly exercises. When I headed back to the house to sleep, I saw your people lining my family’s dead bodies in the courtyard. I accidentally started a fire because my shock made me lose control of a flame spell, and I ran into the forest because I didn’t want to die.” “Gardens. Nightly exercises, huh? You caused the fire.” The beast ruminated on the words, fingers flexing on the object he had yet to put down. “Your family isn’t dead, Acantho.” What. “They’re simply paralyzed. We would never use lethal methods unless strictly necessary. Rest your worries, they’ll be back to normal in time.” It contemplated something, its two eyes far more penetrating than his own eight at that present moment. But no, this- this was good. Better than he expected. His family wasn’t dead! Oh. Oh, Thank Great Mother. What a stroke of luck. Yet. His family wasn’t dead. The humans could have killed them off, and they hadn’t. Which meant… Something still wasn’t right. But he couldn’t just ask. Couldn’t let them know his burning curiosity. The desperation that clung to his mind like a parasite. No, he needed to find some other way. He raised himself up to a standing position, though still keeping his head tilted to the ground. “Thank you for your mercy. I assure you that we have no ill intentions against you. If it’s the fae you want, they’re yours to take. Just leave us be. We won’t trouble you so, I guarantee it.” He couldn’t, but what else could he say? He had never expected to be the one responsible for his entire family’s fate. That was never what he’d prepared for. But he had to try now. He had no other choice. The human was still staring at him. The silence stretched for some uncomfortable amount of time before it shook its head. “I’m afraid you’re not in a position to bargain, Acantho. Though I do sympathize with you and apologize for our unwanted intrusion. In fact-” It snapped its fingers. “I have a compromise. We will not paralyze you and will attempt no further harm towards you or your family. They will be transported to another location. I cannot disclose where it is, but I can tell you that it is a safe, pleasant place. On the other hand-” It finally put the contraption back in its bag. “You will have a rare chance to accompany me. You will not be allowed to harm anyone under our care, physically, verbally, magically, or else for any reason other than self-defense. But if you don’t give us any reason to, we won’t hurt you. Instead, we can go through a… shall we say, ‘cultural exchange’ of sorts. With this, we may be able to answer questions you have about us, and vice versa. Of course, if you wish to decline, I can reunite you with your family instead. You will not be harmed either way, but we may not be able to exchange information as freely. Ultimately, the choice lies with you.” It held out its hand, palm open wide as if to make the deal sweeter. Even the fae around them had gone dead quiet, too afraid to breathe lest they disturb the moment. The odd fae still hovered around the human, still shivering but too curious to run away. It was not a terrible deal, but not a great one either. If he decided to accompany it, he could potentially learn valuable knowledge no one else has had the privilege to. He could uncover the mystery of humanity, one which would allow him a tremendous bargaining chip that could elevate his family’s standing to previously impossible heights. However, he would be alone, lost for the first time without the guidance of his elders. He would have to navigate a completely new form of social networking, starting from ground zero. It would be a harsh, lonely journey with an unstable end goal far out of sight. Still, he made the choice quickly. Not because it was easy, but because it was the correct choice he had to make. The one choice his family would support if they were here. And, well, he’d always wanted to be left alone, didn’t he? He placed a paw in the other’s grip, and nearly jumped back from the contact. He hadn’t expected the monstrous being’s limb to be so… soft. Like handling a newborn’s exoskeleton, a fragile little thing that he feared may break at the slightest pressure. He supposed he should have expected this, given their similarity to the elves. But elves had a certain… distance to them. Even if you were talking to them directly, they would appear as if they were realms away, invested in a world others couldn’t hope to reach. The human was more… focused. There was a certain fixation in its gaze that rooted him to the spot. Its blindingly colorful aura bent inwards, a cautious precision that guided its next moves. Except there was also something else, a simple curiosity it couldn’t quite hide. A desire so innocent and youthful… Sometimes, Acantho forgot that they were a new species who had never witnessed the universe beyond their own little bubble of influence. Sometimes, he suspected that the universe forgot too. “I’ll take your deal. I’ll accompany you, as long as you uphold your end of the bargain.” It bared its teeth- No. It was a smile. “Pleasure to be working with you.” submitted by /u/BuddingDreamer123 to r/HFY [link] [comments]

It was past midnight when Chris and I left the old 24-hour diner at the edge of town. We had spent the evening catching up over burgers and coffee, talking about high school memories and future plans that would likely never materialize. As we strolled toward my car parked a little further down the block, Chris slowed his pace. I glanced over and noticed him rubbing his temples. He was pale. "Everything okay, man?" I asked, half-jokingly. "Too much greasy diner food?" Chris shook his head, wincing as he leaned against a nearby lamppost. "No, it’s… different," he mumbled. "Everything's spinning." He grimaced, clutching his stomach as he swayed on his feet. I rushed over and grabbed him by the arm just as his legs gave out. His breathing was ragged, each breath shallow and strained. A jolt of panic shot through me. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but it was more than just a bad burger. "Come on," I said, guiding him toward the car. "We need to get you to the hospital." We barely made it to the passenger seat before he collapsed completely. I managed to push him inside, buckling his seatbelt as his head lolled against the window. His breathing had grown faint, his skin cold. I didn’t waste any more time. I jumped into the driver’s seat and sped toward the hospital. The roads were empty, the entire town blanketed in a pale bluish light that made everything look strangely surreal. When the hospital finally came into view, I pulled up to the emergency entrance and skidded to a stop. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and I half-dragged, half-carried Chris inside. The bright fluorescent lights inside the emergency room burned my eyes as I shouted for help. A nurse and a security guard rushed over immediately. Chris was placed on a gurney and whisked away into a triage room. I tried to follow, but the nurse held up a hand. "You need to stay in the waiting room, sir. Someone will come speak to you soon." Reluctantly, I turned back and made my way into the waiting room. It was a small, uninviting space lined with rows of faded plastic chairs. The harsh lighting overhead buzzed like a hive of angry bees, casting a cold, sterile glow over everything. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, with a hint of something stale, like old coffee or cheap hospital food. The reception desk sat at the far end of the room, cluttered with stacks of paperwork and a dusty computer monitor. Behind the desk, a tired-looking receptionist typed away with little enthusiasm, barely glancing up as I entered. She looked like she had been working the night shift for years, with deep shadows under her eyes and a weary slump in her posture. A glass partition separated her from the waiting area, with a small sliding window used to speak to patients. Aside from the receptionist, there were only a few other people scattered around the room. A middle-aged man in a wrinkled jacket sat slumped in a chair, staring blankly at the floor tiles, his face pale and drawn. Across from him, a young woman scrolled through her phone, her foot tapping rhythmically against the leg of the chair. In the far corner, an elderly woman with a hunched back knitted quietly, her lips moving as she murmured to herself, though I couldn’t make out the words. The wall-mounted TV flickered above, showing a muted news broadcast with closed captions scrolling across the screen. Next to it, a clock ticked irregularly, the second hand jerking with each movement as though struggling to keep time. The room itself seemed caught in some liminal state. I chose a seat near the corner, trying to calm my breathing. My heart was still racing from the rush to the hospital. The seat beneath me was stiff and uncomfortable, offering little relief from the tension gripping my body. I shifted, trying to find a better position, when I felt something crinkle under my leg. Frowning, I reached down and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that had been wedged into the chair. It was old and yellowed at the edges, like it had been left there for a while. Curious, I unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on my lap. The handwriting was rushed, uneven, as if whoever wrote it had been in a hurry, or panicked. The list was numbered, and as I began to read, I couldn't help but feel a mix of surprise and amusement at what was written there. Rule 1. "Avoid making eye contact with the receptionist between 2:00 AM and 2:30 AM." I raised an eyebrow. That seemed oddly specific. Why would anyone write something like that? I glanced over at the receptionist, who was still tapping away at her keyboard, oblivious to the rest of the room. Was this some kind of prank? The idea made me smirk a little, despite the heaviness in the air. Rule 2. "Never walk past the reception desk without greeting the receptionist after 2:30 AM." I let out a short, dry laugh. "So I’m supposed to be polite now?" I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. It was all so ridiculous. Maybe someone had written this as a joke to mess with the people stuck here at odd hours, bored out of their minds. I could imagine some bored night-shifter scribbling out these 'rules' as a way to pass the time. Rule 3. "If a visitor arrives asking for directions, do not help them." I paused. That one was… strange. It carried a different weight compared to the others. Who wouldn’t help someone lost in a hospital, of all places? Rule 4. "If you hear your friend’s voice calling from down the hallway, do not leave the waiting room to look for them." The amusement drained from my expression. I felt a chill run up my spine, as if the temperature in the room had just dropped a few degrees. I glanced toward the dimly lit hallway that led to the ER rooms. It seemed to stretch into darkness. I shook my head, pushing the thought away. This list was just some random nonsense… wasn't it? I continued reading, my curiosity now tinged with unease. Rule 5. "If a power outage occurs, stay seated and do not move." Rule 6. "If a door that should be locked is found open, close it immediately and do not look inside." The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I couldn’t explain why, but each rule seemed to grow darker, more foreboding as I read on. It wasn’t just the content of the rules, it was the way they were written, as if someone were trying to warn me. Rule 7. "Do not look through the glass doors leading to the courtyard after 4:00 AM." Rule 8. "If you feel a sudden chill, do not look over your shoulder." That one made me swallow hard. There was something inherently unsettling about the thought of a chill creeping up on you from behind, and not being able to turn around to see what, or who might be there. I couldn't help but glance behind me, but there was nothing there. Just the same sterile room, with its faded chairs and buzzing lights. I reached the last rule, and for some reason, my heart beat a little faster. Rule 9. "If a security guard tells you it’s time to leave, check the clock before listening. It's safe to leave after 6:00 AM." My gaze flicked up to the wall-mounted clock, its second hand twitching with every tick. It read 1:30 AM. At the bottom of the paper, written in shaky red ink, were the words: "Trust me. I learned the hard way." There was a dark, crusted stain on the corner, one that looked disturbingly like dried blood. The sight of it made my stomach twist. I rubbed my fingers over the words, feeling the rough texture of the ink beneath my skin. I couldn’t help but let out a short, nervous laugh. "What kind of place is this?" I whispered to myself. I slumped back in the chair. It was hard to shake the nagging feeling in the back of my mind, but I forced myself to dismiss it as a weird prank. The list couldn’t actually mean anything, just someone’s twisted idea of a joke. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to calm my thoughts. A part of me couldn’t stop thinking about Chris and the way he had collapsed in the parking lot. The quiet hum of the waiting room wrapped itself around me, making the place feel even more isolating. That’s when I heard it. My name, spoken in a low, barely audible voice that seemed to drift down the hallway. "Adam… Adam..." My eyes shot open, and my body tensed. The voice was unmistakable, it was Chris. I jerked my head towards the corridor leading to the ER rooms, but there was no one in sight, just the pale overhead lights flickering. The voice came again, a little louder this time. "Adam, help me…" I jumped up from the chair, the sound of my name sending shivers down my spine. My feet were already moving before I realized it. I took a few steps into the hallway. I glanced back at the waiting area, now a few steps behind me. The other visitors, still scattered about, seemed completely unaware, oblivious to the voice echoing down the hall. "Adam…" Chris’s voice was more desperate now, laced with pain. I took another step down the hallway, my footsteps echoing against the floor. As I walked deeper into the corridor, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed louder, some of them flickering out completely, leaving long stretches of darkness. The ER rooms lined the sides of the hallway, their doors slightly ajar. I hesitated as I reached one of the open doorways. I peered inside and immediately wished I hadn’t. There, standing in the center of the dimly lit room, was a man in a patient’s gown, facing me. The man's head moved in quick, jerking motions, shaking from side to side so rapidly that I couldn’t make out any details. It was just a blur, a sickening blur. Then, without warning, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang, and I stumbled back in shock. My breathing grew shallow as I tried to make sense of what I’d just seen. But there was no time to process it. Chris’s voice came again, further down the hallway, "Adam, please…" I pushed forward, forcing myself to continue. The unsettling darkness around me seemed to press in from all sides. I came across another room, the door half-open. Inside, I could see a doctor standing over a patient, his back hunched as he examined something on the table. The doctor wore a white lab coat and surgical mask, his features obscured. But there was something off about the way he moved, his motions were robotic. Then I noticed the tool in his hand, a bone saw. He raised it slowly, the harsh metal glinting under the dim light, and then I heard a gut-wrenching scream from the patient on the table. I stumbled backward, slamming into the wall behind me, my eyes wide with terror. When I looked back into the room, it was empty. There was no doctor, no patient. Just a dark, vacant space. My hands trembled as I rubbed my face, trying to snap out of whatever hallucination I was trapped in. "This can’t be real," I whispered to myself, but the corridor seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me, and Chris’s voice continued to call out, drawing me further in. As I turned the next corner, I froze. There, hanging in the doorway of a nearby room, was a mass of dark hair, long and tangled, spilling down from just beyond the doorframe. It looked like someone was standing behind the door, peeking around the corner. A single eye, black as pitch, stared directly at me from the darkness. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. The figure remained there, still and silent, just watching me. I took a slow step forward, and then the eye pulled back into the shadows, disappearing from view. The hallway was deathly quiet, save for the low hum of the lights. I forced myself to move past the doorway, my pulse hammering in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure again, just around the corner of the room, her head unnaturally high, as if she were crouched against the ceiling. I could see more of her this time; her elongated arm stretched out, the bony hand reaching towards me. Before I could react, the hand brushed my shoulder, cold and corpse-stiff... its fingers scratched into my skin like claws. I bolted, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum as I raced down the hallway. I had no idea where I was going; I just wanted to get away from whatever that thing was. I threw open the first door I saw and stumbled back into the waiting room. My heart pounded in my chest as I staggered to a stop. Everything appeared normal again, the reception desk, the plastic chairs, the other visitors who hadn’t moved an inch. It was as if none of it had happened. But my skin prickled with the lingering touch of that hand. Glancing at my shoulder, I noticed 3 faded scratch marks, a reminder that something was very, very wrong. I slumped back into a chair, catching my breath, trying to make sense of the nightmare I had just experienced. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled list of rules, my hands trembling as I unfolded it. I glanced at Rule 4 again, the words seeming to taunt me: If you hear your friend’s voice calling from down the hallway, do not leave the waiting room to look for them. I had ignored it, and now I was starting to believe that those rules weren’t a joke after all. I tried to calm myself, my breathing coming in short, ragged gasps as I leaned back in the chair. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to force myself to think rationally. Maybe I was just sleep-deprived, or maybe the stress of seeing Chris collapse was catching up to me. I told myself that I had only imagined the things I saw in the hallway. But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, the feeling of that cold hand brushing against my skin lingered. I glanced at the clock, 1:45 AM. The minutes seemed to crawl by. I couldn't shake the dread that had settled in my chest. My thoughts drifted back to the list of rules. Each one seemed ridiculous on its own, but after my experience in the hallway, I found myself paying closer attention to each word. That was when I noticed him, a man who hadn’t been in the room before. He stood near the entrance, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his long coat, his eyes scanning the waiting room like he was searching for someone. His presence sent a jolt of unease through me. I was sure he hadn’t been there earlier; I would have remembered his tall, lanky figure and the unsettling way his gaze seemed to linger on the other visitors, one by one. The list. I pulled it from my pocket and read the third rule again: If a visitor arrives asking for directions, do not help them. The man’s gaze found me, and he started walking toward where I sat. My body stiffened, every muscle tensing involuntarily. There was no mistaking his intention. He stopped a few feet away, leaning slightly forward, as though inspecting me. "Excuse me," he said in a voice that was calm, but too deliberate. "Could you help me find the ICU? I seem to be… a little lost." The tone of his voice was polite enough, but there was something off about it, something that put me on edge. It was as though he was trying to mimic normal speech but wasn’t quite getting it right. I glanced around the waiting room, but no one else seemed to notice the man’s presence. The receptionist didn’t even look up. I shook my head, gripping the list tighter in my hand. "I’m sorry. I can’t help you," I stammered. The man didn’t move. He just kept staring at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice growing softer, almost coaxing. "It won’t take but a moment. It’s just down the hall… right?" I didn’t know what to say. A part of me felt guilty for not helping him. But the words on the list kept flashing in my mind: Do not help them. I forced myself to look away, hoping he would take the hint and leave. But instead, he took a step closer. "It’s not very kind to ignore someone who needs help," he said, his tone now edged with something darker. I glanced at his face, and for a split second, his features seemed to shift. His mouth stretched into a wide, unnatural grin, the kind that didn’t belong on a human face. The corners of his lips seemed to extend too far, the teeth behind them slightly jagged. I shot up from my chair, stumbling backward. The man’s smile didn’t waver as he turned his head slightly, like he was examining me from a different angle. Then, he turned towards the reception desk and started walking, slowly and unnatural. At one point, his head snapped towards me, unnaturally, the same grin on his face, as he continued walking. I froze, I couldn't look away. Then, as he reached the reception desk, he just passed thru it and then he suddenly disappeared. My gaze darted around the waiting room. The other visitors were still exactly where they had been moments ago, their expressions unchanged, their movements as mechanical as before. I glanced back at the receptionist. She was still at her desk, her face illuminated by the pale glow of the computer screen. My gaze flickered up to the clock on the wall, it was 1:58 AM, and Rule 1 flashed in my mind: Avoid making eye contact with the receptionist between 2:00 AM and 2:30 AM. After a few minutes, I glanced toward her, my eyes drifting out of habit. It was just for a second. The receptionist was staring straight at me, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. She wasn’t moving. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment. I tore my gaze away, my pulse quickening. As I turned my head, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her get up from her chair, her movements oddly stiff, as though her joints didn’t bend the right way. She walked forward, but not around the reception desk, she passed through it, like it wasn’t even there. I froze, not daring to look directly at her again. I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt the air grow colder, the chill pressing against my skin. It felt as if she were getting closer. I could hear the faintest rustle of fabric, the light creak of footsteps on the floor, growing louder with each passing second. Don’t look… just don’t look, I told myself, my hands gripping the edges of the chair. I sat there, tense and unmoving, my eyes squeezed shut as if I could will her away by sheer force of will. Then, everything went still. The room fell into an unnatural quiet, the buzz of the fluorescent lights the only sound left to ground me in reality. I opened my eyes slowly, half-expecting to see her standing inches away from me, her face contorted into something inhuman. But the receptionist was back at her desk, looking down at the monitor, her posture as unbothered as if she hadn’t moved at all. The other people in the waiting room seemed unchanged, as though nothing unusual had happened. I glanced at the clock. 2:40 AM. A wave of relief washed over me, my shoulders sagging as the tension finally started to leave my body. I forced myself to my feet, my legs still shaky beneath me. I couldn’t just sit there, feeling like a trapped animal. I needed to move, to clear my head. As I got up to walk around the room, I remembered Rule 2: Never walk past the reception desk without greeting the receptionist after 2:30 AM. I wasn’t about to take any more chances. I turned toward the receptionist and gave her a nod, trying to keep my voice steady. "Uh… hi," I mumbled awkwardly. She didn’t look up, didn’t react at all, just continued to type away on the keyboard. I took that as a good sign and began walking a slow circle around the waiting room, forcing myself to stay calm, to pretend that everything was normal. The chill in the air hadn’t entirely left. As I walked, I could feel a subtle shift in the temperature, a lingering cold that seemed to follow me. The overhead lights flickered faintly, casting brief shadows along the walls, giving the impression that the room was expanding and contracting with each pulse. As I rounded the corner, I felt the presence behind me, something that wasn’t there before. I didn’t hear footsteps, but I sensed it nonetheless, like the weight of unseen eyes pressing against my back. It was close, just out of reach. My instinct was to turn and look, to confront whatever was creeping up behind me, but I clenched my jaw and kept my gaze forward, remembering Rule 8: If you feel a sudden chill, do not look over your shoulder. I walked faster, my pulse quickening as the chill seemed to grow stronger with every step. The lights buzzed louder, the flickering more erratic. I felt something brush against the back of my neck, cold and light, like a breath. I didn’t stop until I reached the chairs again, sinking into one with a shuddering breath. The presence faded, though the air remained icy, and I rubbed my hands together to warm them. I glanced back toward the reception desk, half-expecting to see the receptionist watching me again, but she remained focused on her monitor, her face lit by the soft glow of the screen. I leaned back in the chair, my heart still racing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong, that the rules on that crumpled piece of paper weren’t just random scribbles left behind to scare people. Whatever game I’d found myself in, it wasn’t a joke. And now, the only way out seemed to be playing along. I sat there for a long moment, my body trembling, trying to calm my nerves and slow my breathing. That’s when I heard the automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss. I looked up, expecting to see another late-night visitor or a nurse making rounds, but my heart almost stopped when I saw who stepped inside. It was Chris. He looked perfectly fine, normal. His face had color, his clothes were clean. There wasn’t a single sign that anything had been wrong with him. Relief rushed through me, and I felt the tension in my muscles finally ease. Chris’s eyes found mine, and he broke into a small smile as he walked over. "Hey, Adam," he said casually, his voice the same as always. "They let me out early." The relief was so overwhelming that I laughed out loud. "Chris, man, you scared the hell out of me," I said, shaking my head. "Are you sure you’re okay? You looked pretty bad earlier." He shrugged, giving a dismissive wave of his hand as he settled into the chair next to me. "Yeah, I’m fine now. Whatever it was, I guess it passed. They ran a few tests and said there was nothing serious." He flashed that familiar grin, the one I’d seen a thousand times. "Guess I’m just too stubborn to stay sick." As we talked, something in the back of my mind itched. There was an unsettling quality to the conversation, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Chris was acting normal, too normal. He was speaking in a calm, deliberate tone, his words perfectly measured. I brushed it off, figuring it was just my nerves playing tricks on me after everything that had happened tonight. Still, as Chris continued to talk, a strange sense of déjà vu settled over me. It was as if the conversation was looping back on itself, repeating the same phrases. His voice had the same rhythm, the same inflection, almost like a recording on a loop. Suddenly. I turned to see a nurse walking briskly down the hallway, pushing a gurney. My stomach dropped when I saw who was lying on it, Chris. He was unconscious, hooked up to a heart monitor, an oxygen mask over his face. My gaze darted back to the seat next to me, but the chair was empty. The Chris who had been sitting beside me was gone, vanished as though he’d never been there at all. My skin prickled as a wave of cold panic spread through me. I stared at the empty chair for a long moment, my heart pounding in my ears. Then, I saw the nurse walking by the waiting room. She glanced over at me briefly, her expression neutral. I jumped up from my chair. "Wait," I called after her. "Is Chris okay? My friend, he was just sitting here. What’s going on?" The nurse slowed, turning to look at me with a small, tight-lipped smile. "Your friend is stable," she said. "But he hasn’t woken up yet." Her words hung in the air, leaving me cold and confused. I glanced back at the empty seat, then at the nurse as she continued down the ER hallway. My head was spinning. Had Chris really been here, or had I just imagined him? I sank back into my chair, my body heavy with fatigue and fear. I glanced at the clock again, 3 AM. Time was moving, but not in the way it should have. I felt trapped, as though the minutes were pulling me further into the unknown. I pulled the crumpled list of rules from my pocket and unfolded it with trembling hands, my eyes scanning the lines again, looking for answers that weren’t there. I needed to understand what was happening to me, what was happening in this place. But the rules only deepened the mystery, the words twisting in my mind like a riddle I couldn’t solve. Time seemed to move strangely now. I couldn’t tell how long I had been sitting in that chair, how long I had been wandering the room. The clock above seemed to skip minutes or stall entirely, and my sense of reality continued to blur. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to me like a shroud. I glanced at the clock again, it showed 5:55 AM. Almost there, I thought. Almost free. That was when a security guard appeared in the doorway, his silhouette casting a long shadow across the waiting room floor. He was a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a calm, almost reassuring presence. He walked toward me with an easy stride and stopped just a few feet away. "Sir, it's time to leave," he said in a deep, measured voice. "The ER is closing for non-patient visitors." I blinked, my thoughts catching up slowly. "But… my friend, Chris… is still…" Just then, I saw Chris walking out of the ER hallway. He waved to me, a tired but genuine smile on his face. Relief flooded through me, and I started to get up, then hesitated, the words from Rule 9 echoing in my head: If a security guard tells you it’s time to leave, check the clock before listening. I turned my gaze toward the clock above the reception desk, 6:01 AM. My shoulders sagged in relief. I was finally free of this place. I nodded and followed the security guard toward the exit, Chris walking beside me. As we stepped out into the cool morning air, I felt like I could finally breathe again. We got into my car, and I started the engine. I felt a small smile tug at my lips. I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, the tension in my chest slowly beginning to fade. But as I drove, a strange unease crept over me. The world outside the car windows seemed darker than it should have been. I glanced at the sky, it was still a deep, inky black, with no trace of the early morning light. It was too dark, too quiet. I squinted, peering between the trees lining the road, and my heart skipped a beat. In the shadows, I saw faint figures standing there, their forms barely visible, distorted as if they were made of mist. Panic surged through me. I glanced at the dashboard clock, and my stomach dropped, 4:30 AM. How was that possible? It had been well past 6:00 AM when we left the hospital. I turned to look at Chris in the passenger seat, my heart pounding in my ears. But it wasn’t Chris. There was a shadow there, sitting beside me. Its form was a vague silhouette, its face obscured, but I could feel it watching me, feel its eyes boring into my skin. I gasped, my grip on the steering wheel tightening as my vision blurred with fear. I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt in the middle of the road. Suddenly, I was back in the waiting room, seated in the same stiff plastic chair. The security guard stood in front of me, a grin spreading slowly across his face, his eyes unnaturally wide and gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light. "Time to leave," he said again, his voice echoing in my head like a taunt. I felt my mind start to unravel. Had I ever left the hospital at all? Was I trapped here, destined to relive these twisted events over and over again? I buried my face in my hands, my breathing ragged as a sense of hopelessness washed over me. It felt like hours passed, but it could have been minutes, or even seconds. I didn’t know anymore. I was dimly aware of a nurse standing in front of me, her voice calm and soothing, pulling me back from the edge. "Sir, your friend is stable," she said gently. "He’s going to be okay, but he needs rest. He’ll be transferred to a hospital room soon, and you can visit him during regular visiting hours." I looked up at her, my vision clearing slowly. The waiting room was just as it had been, no sign of the security guard or anything out of the ordinary. I glanced at the clock, it read 6:30 AM, and a soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the glass doors, filling the room with a warm light. The nightmare was over. I nodded to the nurse, murmuring my thanks, and stumbled out of the ER, the cool morning air a welcome relief. As I reached my car, I glanced back at the hospital, half-expecting to see something out of place. But it looked like any other hospital in the early light, mundane and unthreatening. I got in the car and drove home, the sun finally rising to chase away the last remnants of darkness. Later that day, I returned to the hospital to visit Chris. He was awake, sitting up in bed and looking surprisingly well for someone who had collapsed so suddenly the night before. "Hey," I said, my voice trembling slightly as I pulled a chair up to his bedside. "How are you feeling?" Chris chuckled weakly. "Better than I should, I guess," he replied. "But I had the weirdest dreams last night. It was like I was half-conscious the whole time." My heart skipped a beat. "What kind of dreams?" Chris frowned, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall. "One of them was… I came in the ER and saw you sitting in the waiting room. You looked pretty freaked out. And then there was another one… we were leaving the hospital together, just driving away into the night." A cold shiver ran down my spine, but I forced a smile and nodded. "Yeah… weird," I said quietly, my mind racing with the memory of the night’s events. As we sat there talking, I glanced at my shoulder, where a constant pain kept tugging at me, and saw the three scratch marks from last night. I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, out there in the darkness of the night I had just escaped, something was still waiting… and the rules of this place would not be so easily forgotten. submitted by /u/CreepyStoriesJR to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

I’m in need of some advice, but I don’t even know what kind of help I should be after. It started about 3 weeks ago. I got a call from my mom on a cold Monday. We talk often enough, and a phone call from her isn’t a strange occurrence at all. The only really strange part about it was that it was while I was on the clock at my job. I’m a nurse, so she usually would only call if something was important. I picked up the phone, fully expecting to hear that someone had died—only to be greeted by her familiar, gentle voice. She was casual. Sweet. Just asking about my day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, and I like talking to her. But I was at work, and it was a very busy day. I tried to politely excuse myself and get back to what I was doing. Before I could hang up, she said something that caught me off guard, “I’m glad you’re sleeping better. You looked so peaceful.” I was caught a bit off guard by this. You see, I’m in my 20’s and I’ve lived alone for almost 7 years now. What’s more, my mom lives about 200 miles away from me. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but as the day went on, for some reason, it bothered me more and more. After my shift, I called her again. And again she began a casual, cheery conversation with me. What she had said earlier was burning into my brain at this point so I asked her what she meant by that. Without missing a beat and in the same happy tone, she told me, “Well you’ve been tossing and turning. I was just happy to see you sleeping peacefully last night.” I didn’t know what to say. I asked her if she was making a joke. Her response sounded just as confused as I was. She told me she had tucked me in last night. I didn’t want to start an argument. My mother is not young, and there is a history of degenerative brain disease in some of our family. I was worried that maybe she was sick. I changed the topic again to her day and finished what turned into a relatively pleasant conversation, given the earlier confusion. I texted my brother immediately- he lives in the same town as my mom- and told him to check on her. Ever since then, I feel like I’ve been losing my mind. At first, I began to notice the smallest things- tiny instances that aren’t as they should be. That day when I got home, for example, the chair at the head of my dining room table was pulled out too far. I could’ve sworn I tucked it in, but reason tells me I must have forgotten. My bed was made when I knew for a fact I didn’t make it. It was folded and tucked under the mattress- the same way my mom did it when I was little. I called my brother. I had no idea what was going on. Maybe my mom had come to visit and was pranking me? It was unlike her, but what else could this be? He told me that he had just had tea with her. It’s been getting worse and worse. At night, I can hear footsteps. But when I get up to look for their source, they vanish- leaving me questioning if I really heard anything at all. A few nights ago, I woke up around three in the morning to the sound of humming. It was faint-barely audible-but I recognized the melody instantly. It was the lullaby my mom used to sing to me when I was little, the one she hummed when I had nightmares. I froze. It was coming from my bedroom doorway. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I just shut my eyes and lay there, stiff under the covers, trying not to breathe too loudly. Eventually, the sound faded. When I finally worked up the nerve to turn on the light, the room was empty. But the closet door, which I always leave open, was shut. I’ve been calling her during the day, but it’s no use. She either denies any of it, or simply speaks as if nothing was wrong. More often than not, she goes off on tangents that frustrate me to no end. I even recorded our last conversation, thinking maybe I could catch something- some slip, some change in her voice that would make sense of this. But when I played it back, the audio was crystal clear. Too clear. There was no background noise at all. No ambient hum, no shuffling, no clink of her spoon in her teacup like there always is. Just her voice, bright and cheerful, telling me she was proud of me. That I looked “so calm now.” I hadn’t told her I was recording. And yet, right before the call ended, she said, “You should stop doing that. It’s not polite.” I’ve grown paranoid. I don’t sleep in my bed anymore, I’ve taken to sleeping on the couch instead. But without fail I wake up in my bed, neatly tucked under the covers. Last night, I stayed awake as long as I could. I thought if I could catch it in the act, I could prove to myself that this wasn’t just in my head. I don’t remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up. And I remember the hand that pulled the blanket over me. It wasn’t hers. It was colder. Thinner. The fingers were too long, and they didn’t tremble the way hers used to. When it touched my forehead, there was no warmth-just a kind of pressure, like it was memorizing me. I kept my eyes shut. I don’t know why. I think I thought if I looked at it, it would look back. But it knew I wasn’t asleep. I can’t explain it, but I could feel that it knew. It leaned closer. I could feel it—the weight of it pressing into the mattress beside me, slow and deliberate. The sound it made was low and wet, like thick saliva pulling apart in strands. Something dragged across my cheek. Not fingers this time. Something softer. Frayed at the edges. Hair, maybe. But it smelled like meat left too long in the sun. Then it spoke. “You don’t cry anymore. Not like before.” Its voice was trying to be hers, but it wasn’t right. The words came out broken-halting and slow, like someone reading phonetics off a cue card. And underneath it, something else breathed. Something heavier. Labored. Excited. I opened my eyes. There was nothing there. But the blankets were rising and falling beside me-like someone invisible was still lying there, mimicking my breath. The indentation in the mattress was fresh. Deep. And smeared along the pillow next to mine was a thick, dark streak- brown-red and rotting at the edges, like old blood mixed with dirt. When I looked back at the mirror, there was something sitting on the edge of the mattress. At first, I thought it was her. The hair was the same length. Same part down the middle. But it was patchy- thin and coarse in some places, clumped like wet straw in others. Tufts were missing altogether, exposing skin that looked stitched, like burlap pulled too tight over something that wasn’t a skull. It tilted its head again. The motion was jerky, like a puppet on tangled strings. Then, slowly, it began to turn. I didn’t want to see. Every instinct screamed at me to look away. But I couldn’t. The face that met mine in the mirror was trying to be my mother. It had her eyes-at least, it had eyes where hers used to be. But they were cloudy, too wide, like glass marbles pressed into soft clay. The nose was flat, crushed like something broken and reset wrong. The mouth was the worst part. It stretched too far, like it had been cut at the corners. The lips were split and scabbed, peeled back in a permanent smile that showed rows of tiny, baby-like teeth. Dozens of them. Too white. Too clean. It was brushing its hand across the pillow, slow and tender. And then it looked up. Not at the bed. At the mirror. At me. And it smiled. I backed away from the mirror, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear myself think. I didn’t want to see it anymore. I didn’t want it to see me. But I couldn’t look away. The thing on the bed tilted its head. Slowly. Like it was curious. Then it raised one long, shaking arm- and waved. I turned. Nothing was there. When I looked back at the mirror, it was gone. The bed was empty again. Just rumpled blankets and silence. I stood there for a long time, barely breathing, too afraid to move. And then my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice was soft. Calm. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart,” she said. “We just miss you.” submitted by /u/Heinekie to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

Eliza looked so alive. The makeup artist did a great job. Her skin seemed sun kissed, even pinkish, as if blood still flowed within. There was a slight blush on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. I kept waiting for her to unshutter her eyes and spring up with a yell of “Boo!” I wouldn’t put it past her to craft a grand prank like that, complete with a funeral, just to mess with us. But her family was there, teary-eyed and forlorn. They weren’t the type to join in on such mischief. She was dead. I knew that. I had read the newspaper articles, texts from her family, and spoken to our friend, Lynn. Everyone and everything confirmed that she was dead. Someone cleared their throat behind me. Shit. I had been lingering too long. I took a last glance at Eliza, bowed my head in a silent goodbye, and moved along. The whole thing seemed incredibly macabre to me - having a line of people queue up to see your dead body on display. Only her face and torso were visible through the open top half of the coffin. They had to keep the lower half of her body hidden from view. I guess that’s just what happens when half your body gets crushed in a massive car wreck. I retreated to my place in the pew next to Lynn. We sat in silence, listening to the overlapping sobs that echoed in the chamber. I didn’t shed a single tear, and neither did Lynn. It’s not that I didn’t care for Eliza. Eliza had once been a dear friend. It had been 2 years since we last spoke, but I had many fond memories with her. I knew Lynn did too. I won’t speak for Lynn, but I just haven’t really been able to feel much in years. It might sound like a psychological condition, apathy, anhedonia, or something, but I know it’s not. I know the exact moment I lost the ability to feel anything more than a whisper of emotion. It was four years ago. A time when all five of us still hung out. We were in our early twenties then. We had been friends since our teens, and Lynn and I have been friends since childhood. There’s only Lynn and I left now. Sometimes I wonder how life could have turned out, if only we hadn’t torn up the floorboards. Or if we hadn’t broken into the decrepit house in the first place.. Four years ago, we were bored and drunk. As we often did while bored and drunk, we explored the town on unsteady legs, looking for a nice, secluded area to continue our drunken adventures. We joked about breaking into the old abandoned house, the one just a little outside the edge of town. It was a running joke, one we never dared to fulfill. But we had just a little too much liquid courage that day. So we made the fateful decision to finally walk the talk. We were going to break into the house, and make it our hangout spot. We were excited. We talked about how, if it turned out to be a cosy little space, and if we’re not found out, we could keep coming back, and slowly do up the place with cushions, blankets, bean bags, stuff like that. We began to paint the picture of a secret lair just for us, somewhere dingy enough to be cool, but comfortable enough to actually want to spend time at. We talked a good game right up until we finished clipping a sufficiently sized hole in the wire fence that surrounded the house. Once we had peeled the dislodged wires aside, we fell silent. I think none of us had really expected us to get that far. But buoyed by peer pressure and false bravado, I ignored the sudden chill that settled in the pit of my stomach. I followed them right through the hole we made, into the overgrown jungle of a garden. We pushed our way through the tall wild weeds to the front door, and hesitated. We should have turned back then, and run all the way home. But we didn’t have hindsight, or even foresight, as stupid dumb younglings. Joel smashed a window at some point, and we managed to unlock the door and make our way in. Joel bled from a cut on the broken glass, but waved it off in his typical gungho way. The last one of us had barely made it into the house when the door swung shut with a bang. We nearly leapt out of our skins. I think I screamed. As did someone else. Then, like the idiots we were, we laughed. We thought it was the wind, or that the door had those auto shutting mechanisms. The lights wouldn’t turn on, which wasn’t surprising. The house had been empty for as long as we had known it existed. It had probably been abandoned before any of us were even born. We had no clue why it was never purchased and occupied again, but now I have an idea. Anyway. We used the torch functions on our phones, and made our way to the stairs. The stairs were rotted, and even in our drunken state, we knew better than to try to make our way up. We were silent as we explored the house. My nerves were stretched taut. In all honesty, I was sobering up and ready to hightail it out of there. But the three girls weren’t running, and Joel was forging ahead, despite his bleeding hand. There was no way I was going to be the first to run. Joel would never let me live it down if I ran when none of the girls did. Thinking back, I can’t help but want to punch myself in the face. I was a full grown man even then. I should have known better than to be worried about dumb things like being mocked. Like wanting to be a manly man. I should have just dragged every last one of them out of there, pride and ego be damned. But I can’t change the past. We wandered through the various rooms, until we made our way to a room near the back of the house. Joel’s shoe made an odd hollow thud on one of the floorboards in the room. He stomped on it again, then stomped on another floorboard, creating a dull, flat thump. After he hopped around more, we ascertained that three of the floorboards had hollow spaces beneath them. It was Eliza who suggested tearing them up. I just wanted out. I didn’t want to be in the place. Something was off. There was a sick, heavy quality to the air itself. It wasn’t just the mustiness of old, rotting wood. It was as if I was breathing in ribbons of twisted energy draped across the entire space. Joel had seconded Eliza’s suggestion immediately. He seemed disappointed that he hadn’t been the first to bring it up. Lynn and Ali seemed hesitant. Joel and Eliza both looked at me, the thrill visible in their eyes even in the low light. I sighed, and nodded. It took us less than a couple of minutes to get all three floorboards up and away. They weren’t tightly tucked in at all. Joel angled his phone to cast its light down on the hollow space beneath, as Ali and Lynn backed away. “There’s…handprints,” he said, frowning. I took a closer look. He was right. There were five handprints. Above each, was a number. 1, 2, 4, 5, 7. “Huh,” Eliza crouched down, studying the prints. She read the numbers aloud. “Wonder what that’s about.” Joel pressed his hand against the first handprint, the one beneath the number ‘1’. “This handprint is tiny!” He flexed his fingers to show the difference. Ali knelt next to him. She placed her hand on the handprint beneath the number ‘2’. “It really is,” she murmured. Eliza pressed hers on the next handprint, under ‘4’. “I think the numbers are the ages of the kids who made these prints!” I stared at the two handprints left, and looked uneasily at Lynn. “Come on guys,” Joel said with a grin. He gestured towards the remaining handprints with his free hand. “This is like some Power Rangers shit.” “Or some Tomb Raider type of puzzle. Maybe we’ll open up something if we cover up all the handprints!” Eliza joined in. She smiled a crooked grin. I sighed and rolled my eyes. But I placed my hand on the handprint under ‘5’. Lynn chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then joined me, echoing my sigh as she placed her hand on the last handprint. A deafening crack punched through the air like a gunshot. It came from above. We all screamed then, and tore from the room. We barrelled towards the door, none of us bothering with any pretence of bravery. Joel was first to fling himself from the house, followed by Ali, Eliza, myself, then Lynn. Once we had struggled through the wire fence and sprinted a few streets down, I had the good grace to feel ashamed. I had shoved past Lynn in my desperation to get out of that damned house. Not the most gentlemanly thing to do. I didn’t know what to say to Lynn, so I left it. If I recall correctly, I apologised to her via text a few days later. She didn’t hold it against me. It’s only now, as I tell this story, that I realise we had escaped the house in the exact order that we had placed our hands on the handprints. We didn’t speak of what happened for a few days. It was only after a week had passed, that we were able to speak of and joke about it. We concluded that some faulty part of the house upstairs must have snapped while we were messing around downstairs. We teased each other for our cowardice, and I remember everyone piling on Joel for being the first to run. On the surface, life went on as usual. But something was different. I couldn’t pinpoint it until Ali vocalised it, a few weeks later. “Everything seems duller these days,” she had said, “muted.” She was right. That was what I had been feeling. It was as if I had been experiencing life through a thick velvet curtain. “I don’t feel much of anything,” Lynn had agreed. “Nothing gets me riled up, or scared, or happy.” Pretty soon, we had all admitted to feeling the same way, even Joel. We came up with many hypotheses, and settled on the most logical one. We had probably endured a much too heightened state of emotion that one night, and so everything else after just paled in comparison. We also agreed that perhaps, we were lightly traumatised, and that had messed with our moods. The thing about having flattened emotions is that socialising becomes a lot less enjoyable. It becomes harder to care about people, events, activities, hanging out, stuff like that. Over the next months, I felt the veil that suffocated my emotions thicken. I think the same happened with the others. We began to drift apart. I never regained my full capacity for emotions. In fact, my feelings still seem to deaden more with each passing day. Then Joel died. He died exactly one year after that night at the house. We didn’t realise it then, didn’t think much about the date of his death. We were more concerned with the how and why of it all. Joel’s throat had been sliced open. There was no sign of a struggle. No one was ever caught. The general consensus was that someone must have attacked him from behind, taking him by surprise. A quick slash to his throat, and that was it. His wallet and phone were still on him when his body was found, so it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. We all attended his funeral. But we didn’t shed a tear. I wanted to. I sure as hell tried. I wanted to feel something, to honour the loss of a good friend. I wanted to grieve, to cry, to wail. But there was only a heavy weight on my chest, and an all-encompassing numbness that soaked every fibre of my being. By the time Ali died, another year later, I had gotten out of town. Lynn had moved overseas as well. We didn’t keep in touch, not with each other, or with anyone else from our hometown. I only found out about Ali’s death when my parents texted. They thought I would like to know. She had been skydiving, and her parachute didn’t open. Neither did her spare parachute. It was only then that I realised that Ali and Joel had both died on the same date, just a different year. I hadn’t put it all together then, but I knew something was up with the dates. I didn’t care enough to look too much into it. I didn’t go back for the funeral, but I was told Lynn did. Two more years passed, and Eliza died. Her car had been crushed by an oncoming truck. By this time, I had an inkling as to what was going on. Much as I didn’t really feel the worry or fear, I knew I should care. That I should try to preserve my life. I called Lynn, and told her my theory. They were all dying according to the numbers. Joel, handprint number 1, dead in one year. Ali, handprint number 2, dead in 2 years. Eliza’s hand was on the handprint labelled 4. Dead in 4 years. I thought Lynn would laugh, tease me, or call me crazy. But she simply told me that she had figured that out as well. We agreed to attend Eliza’s funeral, and talk things through. See if there was anything we could do. Anything to save ourselves. After our unfeeling goodbyes towards Eliza, after leaving the funeral home, we sat at the bar we used to frequent. I didn’t know what to say. Lynn talked about various possibilities. Exorcists, priests, monks, crystals, sage, we considered them all. We didn’t really know what else we could do. I think we didn’t have the motivation to try harder, to search more extensively. Life was pretty meaningless by then. Every experience brought nothing but the ashy taste of pointlessness. But even through my lack of sentiment, I felt an intellectual respect and admiration for Lynn. Having been stripped of much of my feelings, I had spiralled and gone down the path of nihilism. I worked a minimum wage job, spent what money I had left after rent and fast food on games, and just stayed in the shitty room I rented blistering my hands on the controller, whenever I wasn’t working. That was it. Wake, eat, work, home, game, sleep. Sometimes, I would shower. Sometimes, I would drop by the supermarket and buy frozen food in bulk. That was my miserable routine. But Lynn, despite her apathy and steamrolled emotions, had done something meaningful with her life. She had joined some humanitarian organisation, and spent most of her time in wartorn, poverty-stricken, warlord ruled places all over the world, helping to build or rebuild communities, run education programmes, work on securing clean water, stuff like that. She told me about her recent project, which was helping to secure and deliver medical aid to the wounded in a warzone. She talked about working while bullets whizzed and explosions erupted closeby. “It is kind of a blessing, the lack of emotion. I don’t feel scared, so I can think clearly. I can better see what needs to be done, in those situations,” she said. I would have felt shame then, and maybe I did, just a tiny prickle of it. I would have been grateful to feel shame. To properly experience shame. I would have loved to have had any emotion that was more intense than a tiny prickle in my chest. We parted ways after another day hanging out. She was needed back on her humanitarian project. Over the next months, I carried out the plans we had made, though I honestly didn’t really want to. It was just so much effort, and I cared so little. I saw the gamut of spiritual aides, from priests to bomohs to self-proclaimed witches. I also gathered a bunch of spiritual herbs and a large collection of crystals. But I knew, deep down, that those wouldn’t help. It was only last week that I lighted upon the solution. I would break the curse. 1, 2, 4, 5, 7. If I died before year 5, the exact date being only three months more to go, I would break the curse. Lynn would live. Or could have a chance to. It was an easy choice. I didn’t feel much fear, if any at all, of death. I didn’t feel much sorrow for my life. I didn’t feel any regret. It would, in fact, be the easy way out of a bland and gloomy life. In ending my life, I would get to save Lynn. Someone who, despite being afflicted with the same emotionless nightmare of a life, had made something of herself. Had contributed to the world. Had sought to use the lack of emotions for good. In saving her, I would too be doing good. I planned it all out. Got my affairs in order. Quit my job, told my housemate I was moving out. Donated my stuff to charity or to my housemate. Then I went to the tallest building in the city, climbed to the roof. I texted Lynn, told her to live a good life, and that I hoped I ended the curse. I didn’t even hesitate before I jumped. I remember smacking hard into the ground, pain tearing through every cell, then all was black. Until someone shook me awake. I was still on the sidewalk where I was sure I had pancaked myself. But I was whole, well, without a single broken bone. Not even a scratch could be found. Meanwhile, my phone was smashed to bits. A passerby had thought I was passed out drunk, and wanted to make sure I was okay. I tried a few more times to end the curse. I’m still here, typing this. I have a few more months to go. I could keep trying to break the curse, or I could try to be of use to someone, make a positive impact on the world before I go. Especially since I can’t seem to die before my doomsday date. Any ideas? submitted by /u/SignedSyledDelivered to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

Synopsis: Carlos was an ordinary software engineer on Earth, up until he died and found himself in a fantasy world of dungeons, magic, and adventure. This new world offers many fascinating possibilities, but it's unfortunate that the skills he spent much of his life developing will be useless because they don't have computers. Wait, why does this spell incantation read like a computer program's source code? Magic is programming? ___ After several seconds of staring forward, Carlos closed his mouth and glanced to either side. "I suppose all the roots and moss in the tunnel walls should have been my first clue. This dungeon's theme is nature, or maybe forest, isn't it?" "Sure looks like it to me, boss!" Trinlen piped up from a few feet behind. Lorvan just let the sight of what lay before them speak for itself. The tunnel of dirt and roots suddenly transitioned into a vast open area. Trees and undergrowth blanketed the ground everywhere Carlos could see. There's a whole damn forest down here, underground? How far down did we go? Carlos cautiously walked out of the tunnel and looked up. The wall behind them extended up as far as he could see, but that wasn't very far with layers of leaves and branches blocking his view. He couldn't spot any sign of a ceiling, either. The luminescent moss was ubiquitous, growing in small patches on nearly every tree trunk and some of the bushes as well, but it was no longer the only light source. Streaks of bright greenish light shone down from high above, their paths highlighted by drifting dust. And is that actual sunlight filtering down through the canopy? It certainly looks like it. Carlos hesitated for a moment, then found a tiny spot where a beam of light reached the ground, walked over to it, and tried to look toward its source. He immediately winced and looked away, blinking spots out of his vision. "Is this place open to the sky?" Lorvan shook his head, keeping a commendably straight face. "It is not. If you fly above the dungeon from outside, you will not find the canopy of this forest there. The dungeon's magic merely imitates the appearance of the sky, including the brightness of the daytime sun." Carlos looked around, scanning with mana sense as well. There were no visually obvious trails, and the stream of aether coming in from the tunnel just kind of… dissipated into the forest. The forest's aether was calm and orderly, as usual for in a dungeon, but its movements seemed to lack purpose. Currents of aether went in every direction. They interleaved with no clashes or disruptions, almost like the currents were threads in a woven tapestry, but they didn't seem to have any particular destination. The currents heading away from the tunnel exit were thicker and more numerous than the currents heading towards it, but that just balanced out the influx from the tunnel itself. "So… Where do we go from here?" Lorvan shrugged. "That depends on what you want from this delve. If you want to go directly to the core, that's still below us. The fastest way would be if I clear a tunnel into the ground straight to it. If you'd rather not break the dungeon's structure, the natural path down is hidden near the far side of this forest; I brought a map that's recent enough that it's probably still accurate and can lead you to it. If you want to gain as much as possible and help maintain the dungeon's strength, you should explore and try to test yourselves against the dangers and challenges this dungeon can offer. Your protective force bubbles will interfere with at least some of that, but there may still be some suitable challenges." Carlos exchanged a look with Amber and declared his decision. "Let's explore. How about… that direction." He pointed ahead and to the right, at a spot where the undergrowth looked slightly thinner, and started walking. The dungeon's probably already scared by how powerful our escorts are, and tunneling directly would terrify it. We need to calm it down and reassure it. As Carlos got close to the small bushes that covered most of the ground between tree trunks, he started feeling some resistance to his forward movement. A lot of rustling, plus a few louder cracks and snaps, sounded from in front of him as the force bubble around him pushed back the leaves and branches that were in his way. Amber laughed from behind him. "If we aim to play fair and challenge our own abilities, using an overpowered spell from Lorvan to beat the first barrier hardly seems appropriate, don't you think?" Carlos hesitated. "Wait, does this thick undergrowth really count as a barrier and dungeon challenge?" Haftel spoke up from the back. "Your inexperience is really showing, kid." He idly tossed a dagger, then flicked it forward into the dirt a few feet ahead and to the left of Carlos. A few leaves moved, disturbed by the impact, revealing a large scorpion hidden underneath. The dagger was so precisely in the center of one of the scorpion's open pincers, a hair's breadth short of touching the joint, that it was clearly deliberate. The scorpion jerked backwards, then turned and fled, disappearing from sight in moments. "Take a closer look at those plants." Carlos looked intently at the branches splayed out against his force bubble. "They're certainly prickly. It'd be painful to walk through without protection. That doesn't seem serious enough for how you're acting, though?" "Hmph. That force bubble is preventing you from getting a properly close look." Haftel shook his head. "There are thorns mixed in. Tiny ones. Hard to spot, but really sharp. And they have poison. Nothing truly dangerous, not by itself and this close to the entrance, but if you got pricked and ignored it, you'd find yourself getting weaker and more tired a lot faster than normal. Nature can be nasty like that." "Oh." Carlos took a step back and regarded the tangle of greenery more warily. "Hmm. I think I could levitate myself over it. There's plenty of clearance between the bushes and the lowest tree branches, and I can see open areas to land in." "Way ahead of you on that, Carlos." Amber took a few steps back, then jogged forward and jumped. She soared much higher than the apparent effort of her jump could explain, then kept drifting forward at the same height, several feet in the air. "Whee!" Just after she crossed the line of bushes, she abruptly dropped back down and landed in a crouch. She turned back to face Carlos, grinning ear to ear. "That was fun! Now your turn." Carlos laughed. "I'm glad you're enjoying this. Now then…" He started casting his own Levitate spell. She must have cast a prepared Levitate while I was considering the idea. I have several copies of it prepared myself, but there's no time pressure here. Might as well do it the long way, speaking the whole incantation on the spot. Right after he cast the spell, but before he could actually start his jump, Trinlen interrupted. "That's not the version of Levitate that I wrote out for you at the academy. You modified it?" Trinlen was staring at Carlos with a raised eyebrow and cocked head. Carlos smiled back at him. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I made the target changeable after casting it. Switching from levitating one thing to levitating something else has been useful." "I see, indeed." Trinlen nodded and rubbed his chin. "And you did that without anyone teaching you how? Is this part of the same house secret as for, ah, discovering new simple spells?" Carlos hesitated. "It involved a house secret. This isn't the time to discuss more details." Without further ado, he jumped and let the Levitate spell adjust to its default of neutralizing his weight. A second later, he carefully adjusted it downward to stop ascending, then back up to not descend just yet. A spell controller could probably handle that bit of fiddling, but that's a workaround. I'd rather fix the problem at the source - the spell itself has poorly designed control mechanisms. A good design would let me specify the path I want the movement to follow, then calculate the needed force on its own. Just as he finished that thought, Carlos looked down and saw he was across the bushes and above a good landing spot. He dropped down to stand on the ground. Trinlen called after him. "How about you demonstrate that custom feature by levitating me over? Lifting a whole person is still a bit of a strain for me." Carlos smirked. "Sure." With only a purely mental push on the spell, he lifted Trinlen off the ground. The young man's eyes widened and he wobbled a bit in mid-air. "Hey now! You didn't give me warning to jump!" He narrowed his eyes at Carlos. "Oooh, good one. I'll get you back for this sometime, you know." He grinned. "I'm not as helpless here as you might have thought, though. spell activate = push;" Trinlen gently accelerated forward, still drifting several feet above the ground. Carlos waited for him to clear the bushes, then gently lowered him to the ground. That prank's played out now. Continuing it would just be mean. He turned back to the rest of the group. "Ressara, how do you want to handle this? The rest of you, I'm sure you all have your own ways." "Oh, um." Ressara fidgeted. "You can levitate me over, but please prompt me to jump for it." She floated over without issue, followed by Esmorana flying by her own power. Haftel did an impressively acrobatic leap to join them. Lorvan simply walked right through, his armor preventing anything dangerous from touching him. Carlos looked around from his new vantage point. There were still bushes and vines and other vegetation all over the place, but in most places they weren't nearly so tightly clustered as in that first barrier line. "Alright, let's see what else this place has." ___ They trekked through miles of trackless jungle, taking care at every step to avoid touching anything that might be poisonous, and encountered several other kinds of dangers along the way. Vines and roots crisscrossed the ground in many places, and while most of them were innocently harmless, a few were disguised snare traps. To Carlos's embarrassment, while carefully avoiding one such snare he almost stepped into a magical quicksand trap, saved from having to be extracted from the mud only by Amber calling out a warning just in time. The real danger, though, was the vicious beasts that set upon them at several points. Most of the dungeon's monsters were various ambush predators, often lying in wait next to a trap, plus a fair amount of venomous skirmishers that harassed them with hit-and-run attacks. Ressara asked for a force bubble of her own after the first brief fight. Carlos offered one to Trinlen as well, but he declined. A whole pack of wolves surrounded and attacked them after about an hour and a half, and most of the wolves ended up focusing on Trinlen as the only person they had a chance of actually hurting. It turned into several minutes of Trinlen frantically dodging and running while he, Carlos, and Amber struggled to throw back or drive off every wolf that got too close to him. Any one of their guards could have slaughtered the whole pack in moments, but they followed the stated plan of holding back to let the newer combatants gain some experience, just watching to intervene if needed. The Distant Cut spell, which used to barely make a bear's snout bleed, now cut great bloody gashes in the wolves' hides, but it was clearly still nowhere near an outright kill, and it took a few hits with it on the same wolf to even get a wolf to withdraw from the fight. Carlos and Amber were both nearly out of mana when the last of the pack quit the fight and ran off, and Trinlen was breathing hard and had a few nasty wounds on his arms and legs. They spent several minutes resting and recovering after that. Carlos winced in sympathy just looking at the dried blood on Trinlen's skin and clothes, even knowing that Lorvan had already healed the injuries that the blood came from. "Are you sure you still don't want a force bubble?" Trinlen looked at Carlos like he'd grown an extra head. "What, just because I got a few painful scrapes? This is exactly the kind of excitement I came here for! Why would I ever want to make it boring?" "If that's really how you feel, I suppose…" Carlos shook his head and laughed quietly. He took a deep breath and turned to Lorvan, who still wasn't showing the slightest sign of exertion or discomfort. "Think that's enough to satisfy the dungeon? Help it grow more than a typical wish costs it?" Lorvan hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I cannot be certain, but I believe so, yes. Should I get out the map?" "Hmm. Not just yet, I think." Carlos looked at Trinlen. "You mentioned a pathfinding spell. Could you cast it to find a path to the dungeon's core?" "Maybe. I'd need to know the location of the destination. I might be able to divine that separately, but I don't think I have enough mana right now to cast both that and Find Path. Not with the dungeon resisting the spells and having 4 more levels than me." Lorvan raised his right arm across his chest. "I can handle that part. Should I?" At Carlos's nod, Lorvan triggered one of the myriad enchantments in his armor, and a potent spell formed and launched into the distance faster than Carlos could examine it. "The dungeon core is located 2134.2 feet east, 788.6 feet south, and 46.9 feet down from the current location of the center of my right palm." Trinlen stared at him and blinked a few times. "That is… a considerably more helpful way of stating it than I expected. Thank you." Lorvan tweaked something, and the distance measurements he'd just stated appeared in writing above his arm. "It's part of standard royal guard protocol for working with mages. If a mage needs a location specification for casting a spell, give it as a coordinate triplet." "Ah. Right. Well then." Trinlen looked at Carlos and chuckled. "Part of why you asked is that you want to hear the whole incantation yourself, right, boss?" Carlos nodded, smiling. "Absolutely." "Then settle in and listen. Here we go…" spell begin; use mana = … Royal Road | Patreon | Discord Royal Road and free Patreon posts are 1 chapter ahead. Please rate the story on Royal Road! Thank you to all my new patrons! Special thanks to my Mythril patron Barbar, and my Orichalcum patron United Federation! Patreon has 2+ advance chapters if you want to read more. submitted by /u/Douglasjm to r/HFY [link] [comments]

I am not OP. That is u/prankthrowaway5780 who posted to r/AmItheAsshole and their own page TW: home invasion, murder, death of a parent, death of a pet, emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, domestic abuse, threats, verbal abuse Mood spoiler: depressing but hopeful for OP Original boru Original Post Oct 14th, 2021 AITA for yelling at and ignoring my girlfriend over a prank? I’ve (22M) been with Nicole (25F) for a couple years now and she’s always liked survival stuff and weaponry and all that. I absolutely don’t. Really, really bad experiences with knives when I was younger, and Nicole knows about them. We both love Halloween and usually throw a party and dress up and goof around, cook up pumpkin seeds and watch movies. Anyway the point is Nicole loves doing tricks with her knives (like five finger fillet, flicking it open and closed, twirling it etc) and she’ll do it when we’re watching a show or movie together - forgetting that I’ve asked her please not to. Or she’ll buy a new one and show it off, asking if I wanted to give it first bite(??) and pout when I say no. Two days ago she was playing with it again and I asked her why she keeps forgetting and she said “wow okay don’t insult my intelligence again” and then that it was just a knife and therefore not a big deal and therefore not that important to remember. After that, she put away the knife and we continued to have an okay night, but I was on edge and jumpy whenever she touched me. Yesterday she called me into the kitchen. Only she was playing five finger filet... and I startled her and she “messed up”. Badly. I lost my cool. Screamed my head off, tried shouting what I knew about first aid at her while I raced to grab my phone, complete panic, dialing 911, only for her start laughing and show me that it was a “prank” involving red food dye and a carrot. She had a nice laugh about how I would have known it was a joke if I wasn’t so squeamish about knives, that it’s proof I need to get more comfortable, that anyone with passing knowledge knows that it doesn’t look like that when something like that happens. She kept explaining how she did it, how she practiced, how she could show me, but I didn’t even answer her, it was like my head was underwater and my heart was beating out of my chest. Just moved on autopilot and grabbed my keys and drove a few blocks away before pulling over to breath. Nicole tried to call me and the first thing I said was “it wasn’t funny at all”, and she asked “are you crying?” Then I hung up on her. She kept texting me, saying she was sorry, that she didn’t think I’d react so badly to a joke, that it was just meant to be good fun in the Halloween spirit. I ignored her. I texted her after that I was home but ignored everything else. This morning she sent the picture of the props to the group chat with a few of our mutual friends, and they chimed in saying “It doesn’t even look real”. I’ve muted the chat since and I’m wondering if I have a leg to stand on before I go back and apologize. Edit 10/15 5:30pm Further update here:here It’s... overwhelming how much of a response this got, and I tried to read all of your comments. Some of them made me laugh, some warmed my heart, others had very hard truths that I still needed to hear, no matter how raw it left me. There are a lot of repeating questions and assumptions. First: we don’t live together. At this point I don’t think we ever will. Second: I stayed primarily because the good seemed to outweigh the bad. You remember the negatives more than the positive, so obviously I just had to remember her positive qualities instead of being swayed by my focus on the bad times. Plus it was always almost perfect after we had a fight, and I just assumed the boom and bust cycle was normal. I didn’t know Nicole liked knives at first. A mutual friend (“Crystal”, who was in the group chat, and I met Crystal during a community college course) introduced us as I was new to the area and at first Nicole and I hit it off as we had a lot of shared interests - music, art, outdoors activity, going antiquing, wine, food and cooking... just a lot of things. We started dating and eventually went on a camping and hiking trip, where she used a knife to split some kindling and she was pointing it toward herself. I remember telling her to watch out and she had me to relax because she did it all the time, she asked me if I wanted to do it myself and I admitted I didn’t like knives. Later in the trip we drank by the fire and talked and that’s when I told her about my trauma. She promised to protect me and I remember that exactly because I had the mental image of her fending off a mugger and I joked that she was “my hero”. (My trauma has been brought up after that point, and neither of us were drunk at the time) My knife issues typically don’t impact my daily life except to make me more apt to be very slow in the kitchen when chopping things. It doesn’t seem like abuse, especially when we’re good. When it’s bad, it’s really rough. I don’t have really any other baseline as I was a late bloomer dating wise. My dad always said that you should both give 110% in a relationship but everyone argues. I thought working through the rough patches was normal. That’s also why I was preparing to apologize: because it takes two in an argument so I am responsible as well and need to apologize for my part. In this case, ruining the night with my reaction. I did go through therapy to help cope with the initial incident surrounding my aversion to knives. I was a lot worse when it happened - to the extent where I couldn’t have anyone point the knife in the direction of another living being, or certain songs on the radio that were playing at the time, or certain smells. I’ve made progress, but clearly not enough to stay with her and deal with her fidgeting with the knives. (I will admit to backsliding a bit in that I seem a lot more anxious when I stay the night and can’t stay asleep, or having more nightmares, which is why I believed her when she said I was overreacting) Also concerning the fidgeting, it’s not a constant thing. Sometimes she’d go weeks without pulling the knife out. Sometimes she’d complain that I only focus on the fact she had used the knife, versus how long she had abstained, which seems reasonable to point out. The Verdict was not enough info Update 1 Oct 15th, 2021 A lot of the conversation is paraphrased with quotes that stuck in my mind. I also kept adding to this as things developed and I’m running on zero sleep, so I’m sorry if it’s not very clear. I did reach out to Nicole again yesterday to talk and I went with the intention of standing my ground and explaining things so she could understand my side. She greeted me with “thanks for gracing me with your presence” and asked if I was here to act my age and talk like an adult. She slammed the door behind me and pointed to the couch so we could discuss things. Nicole opened with my reaction was unreasonable and completely out of line considering the situation. I said that things need to change because that prank wasn’t okay at all and she knows I have issues with knife violence and I asked “what was funny about the prank?” She interrupted and said that ultimatums aren’t part of any relationship so I said “I don’t think this is working out for us, I don’t think we’re happy together.” Nicole froze at first and I started to explain that the knife thing and our respective stances being so different is not fair to either of us. But she repeatedly asked “so you’re going to break up nearly three years just because of this?” I tried to tell her it was more than just this, it was everything else, it was that she keeps forgetting and triggering me, that she loves playing with them but it upsets me, but she started talking over me and yelling that apparently I think she’s an idiot and that I’m the best actor in the world because she never knew I felt so horrible, and that maybe I should call the cops on her for abuse. She grabbed her cellphone and offered it to me again and again, saying “go on, call” but when I said we just need to talk, she interrupted with “no you won’t because you know, I know, we both know, no cop is going to arrest me for a joke”. Also I’m not very tall- 5’9 and she’s only 5’6 but she was standing right in front of me while I was seated, so I couldn’t get up without moving her. After throwing her phone on the couch next to me, she stormed into the kitchen shouting that she should get rid of all her knives because I’m so terrified. She threw a few into the sink and then the whole block of knives into the trash, the whole time asking “what about this one? Too sharp? Too scary?” When I flinched at the noises she said “oh do you feel threatened? How do you think I feel when I have to defend myself against your feelings?!” Nicole told me to quit crying, that I can’t just use tears to manipulate her, and mocked me when I said “please stop”. She said she has to walk on eggshells because she has to deal with a boyfriend that can’t handle a single joke without running off into the night. “It’s not hard to not overreact - literally just think before you go crazy, it’s that simple” and that it’s ridiculous that a grown man can’t handle a knife or a gun and I refuse to let go of my victimhood because “anyone normal would have gotten over it by now, it’s been nearly 9 years!” She called me stubborn and childish for picking this hill to die on, that I’m not innocent, it’s not fair that I’m allowed to ignore her for hours but she can’t have a little fun, and is my ego really that big? It’s sickening that I don’t trust her or think she’s smart or skilled enough to handle a knife properly and it’s sexist, infantilizing and insulting. At some point I said I think I need to go home and it was like a switch, and she said “Please stop crying, I hate when you cry”, joked (I think, because she laughed?) “I guess hibachi dates are off the table, huh?” and “I should probably take the knives out of the trash now, shouldn’t I?” She apologized and said since it means so much to me she’ll put in more effort. She admitted that I’m such a sensitive guy that if she stopped doing everything that made me uncomfortable she wouldn’t be able to do anything. She pointed out that I cried watching My Girl the other day as proof that I’m overly emotional and it made sense that she thought I was just being my normal self, but she was sorry for not realizing sooner it was really upsetting me. She promised she would do her best not to bring the knives out when I’m around. Nicole hugged me and told me to “let go, we can get through this, there’s nothing we can’t get over”, and asked for a chance to start over, fresh start tomorrow, no more jokes. It’s stupid but I just said yes. I wanted to go home, get out of her house and leave while she was still acting nice, and I didn’t hold my ground. I feel like an idiot and a coward. I got home and puked and couldn’t get to sleep again. Today Nicole came and dropped off lunch and coffee for me, gave me a kiss and said she loved me, and all the old ladies in the office were gushing about how cute we are together. I’m going to reach out to one of the guys I’m closer to and the friend who set us up to find out when Nicole got so into knives. (Because I remember about 7-8 months in it was shortly after the camping trip and it was Nicole’s birthday that she asked for a specific knife as her present, so at least then, but I can’t really remember there being anything major before then). I’m going to break up officially with her tomorrow with one of the guys if possible, so I can get my stuff from her place. Update 2 June 16th, 2024 3 year later There's previous information in my profile concerning a post I made on AITA a few years ago. I came to Reddit about my girlfriend and her knife prank. It's been a long while since, and I was uncertain if I could update here or there or wherever. Roll this back over a decade ago for more background. When I was a preteen we experienced a home invasion that resulted in my mother and dog dying and left me with a lifelong phobia of knives and anxiety surrounding blood and break-ins. Directly following the break-in, I was unable to handle a knife being pointed at another living creature. My brain caught on to stupid things and connected them to the events and made them into triggers. Mom's perfume. The sound of glass shattering or a door banging open. A song that was playing at the time. Even now I still hate the song but at least it doesn't trigger a flashback anymore. Blood on beige carpet featured prominently in my nightmares. I worked extensively with a therapist to process what happened and what I'd seen. Recovery took years of therapy, weeks of inpatient care, medication to help with the nightmares, PTSD, depression and anxiety. We sold the house as soon as we could. I moved out of state as soon as I could. I kept up with therapy and continued to take my medication. My aversion to knives became something minor in how it impacted my life. I was careful in the kitchen and I certainly didn't search out knife throwing competitions, but it was under control in my normal daily life. It helped that everything seemed to be coming together. I made new friends, I was balancing work and school, I'd just met the girl who'd become my first long term adult girlfriend. I know now it was just the honeymoon phase but it felt like we were progressing well even once infatuation wore off. We stood together through highs and lows and the mediocre middle ground where there's nothing exciting, just the mundane. I thought that was the marker of a steady relationship, to be able to stick together even after the excitement of a new relationship has faded. We went on a few trips together, driving across state lines to meet her family or flying back to see my dad. On one of our trips we went camping and my fear of knives got brought up. That lead to the break-in getting brought up. She seemed to care at the time, even promising to protect me if something ever happened and offering to help install a camera in my apartment. After the camping trip, I don't know if it was always there and I noticed it more after or what, but she started to be more obviously into knives. Practicing tricks in front of me, showing videos to me, starting a collection. She even asked for a knife for her birthday that year, showing me exactly which one she wanted. Before, she was into camping, into guns (which ironically I have zero issue with) and how to forage, make shelter, purify water, basic survival stuff, and artillery and tanks. She did multiple courses about military history in college and busted out the textbooks sometimes if she remembered something she thought I would find interesting. But suddenly it seemed like her focus was on carving and skinning animals, on knife wounds and tricks and collecting and displaying knives. She started doing the tricks more often, in front of me, even when sitting next to me on the couch or at the dinner table. She would gesture with the knife "without thinking" and even point it at me- again, one of my major triggers being knives pointed at people or animals. She started sending me videos of news clips of other break ins, or news reports of robberies ending in murder, between a bunch of other funny videos or pictures, so checking snapchat became a game of Russian roulette. If I didn't check the links sent through text, she'd keep sending them and ask what I thought. She'd forget she had the knife in hand when she came up to me, sometimes from behind. My nightmares came back. My anxiety got worse. No matter how often I reminded her to please stop playing with the knife in front of me, or at least not next to me, she would always forget after a little bit. Some part of me refuses to believe there's no way she risked bodily harm just to unnerve me. It came to a head when she pulled a prank where she pretended to cut off a finger. We had a huge fight, our biggest one yet. I wish I'd acted differently and hadn't stormed out but I did. There is a lot about my time with Nicole I would do differently in hindsight. I was so sure I'd just break up with her for good. I don't know why I didn't stay broken up with her. When I did at first, I did it alone because my friend Jack rolled his eyes and called me a p-ssy for wanting back up. So I did it in a coffee shop instead, hoping the public eye could be my backup. Nicole stared at me with this affronted expression and it was like I couldn't find the words anymore. Her eyes were huge and wide and hateful. Like I've never seen anyone glare at me like that. She gripped onto the cup like she was going to throw it at me, I had it in my head to bolt the second she moved because I could see it so clearly. But then she started crying, loudly, and kept asking why I would do this to her and that she hoped I found happiness with someone better since she clearly wasn't enough for me despite doing everything to be a good girlfriend. I felt like shit and people were staring so I wished her well and asked if she wanted me to call a friend but she told me to leave her the fuck alone so I did. I hate how I handled the break up but it felt in the moment like autopilot. In short order I lost the support of our mutual friends who had become my only friends during my relationship with Nicole, which I understand as they knew her for much longer. Jack actually confronted me and called me a piece of shit for embarrassing her like that in public, calling me trash for leaving her sobbing alone and not even offering her a ride home; he wouldn't listen to my explanations and said I could excuse myself but everyone now knew what kind of guy I really am. People at work mentioned how sad it was that we broke up. I didn't feel like it was the place to explain my reasoning and after the confrontation with Jack I didn't feel like I had a right to. I felt like crap, like a shit person, and I felt numb. I tried to move on, to find a new normal. After about a month of us being broken up, she called me and begged for me to come over to help her, she was scared she'd hurt herself. I went to her immediately. I held her all night, helped her wash her hair after days of not being able to bring herself to. She admitted she'd done a horrible thing and that she couldn't stand how she'd treated me, that she wished she could go back and change so we could still be together. Didn't know how to address that, so I just stayed with her the whole night, and the next day at work she came by to drop off a homemade lunch and to thank me for being there for her. I stupidly let myself get sucked back in. I get that it's my fault. Coffee in the morning became dinner and drinks out became movie nights and going to shows and flea markets together because we still had similar interests. One time she even noticed a booth with knives and directed us away, and while yes it wasn't necessary as I could see a knife display and not be freaked out, it was a nice gesture because before she would have gone there and either bought one herself or asked me to buy it for her, one of multiple changes that made me think maybe she was truly making an effort. That at the least maybe we could be friends again. I started to get invited back into the group somewhat. Two months later she kissed me. We were both drunk and it didn't go any further. I didn't talk to her about it because I thought she didn't remember, but then she approached me to ask if there was any salvaging "Us", if she'd proven that she was different now and things would be better. I thought maybe. I stayed, because she really had been so sweet, it was like starting over, and we got back together. I was permitted back into the friend group in full (though Crystal had stopped talking to everyone and Jack still refused to talk to me) and while it was awkward at first, soon enough we were acting like we'd never stopped being friends for even a minute. It felt so good to go back to normal, it was like a weight off my chest and like I could breathe again. It was nice for a while. She was so careful about the knives thing and it really did feel so normal and steady. Sure we had small fights but we always made up shortly after and she'd be overwhelmingly loving after the fact. It felt like it was before, so it felt normal. I can't pinpoint when it started to creep back but maybe when she started watching documentaries on her phone with the sound up high while sitting next to me, or when she'd poke or grab me while I was cutting up dinner then laugh at my startle response. Or she'd scoff if I teared up watching or reading something then tell me later that it was out of fondness not exasperation and I really needed to stop reading so much into it. Or she'd yell at me for forgetting something that she never even told me about and then the next day she'd get frustrated that I didn't "insist properly" that she was mistaken. Like it was all small things that on their own weren't even that big of a deal and I didn't feel like I could just speak up about it or else I was nitpicking her. In hindsight I was making excuses and clinging to when she was nice to me, trying to do anything to make sure we just stayed happy and without bumps. Part of it was that I knew now that I'd be alone, that no one would understand why I'd throw away a good relationship, that being with her was the best thing that could ever happen to me. We moved in together four months after our getting back together. She was hinting around that it was the only way to prove to her that I'd forgiven her and that way we could move on and be happy. She insisted I move into her place because it was easier to move an apartment into a house than the other way around. It constantly felt like she was dangling that night where she was suicidal over me, like one wrong move from me and maybe the next time she wouldn't call for help. When we had fights, she paced through the house flicking a knife, looping from the bedroom to the living room to the office, or said every single argument was really due to the fact I was holding a grudge over the prank and that we wouldn't be arguing if I just "grew up" and stopped taking out my trauma on her. She'd tell me not to piss her off because it would be too easy for her to "make a mistake" and no one would think twice about what happened. A few times she'd gone on a rampage and overturned tables and threw glasses into the sink and dishwasher and said we were done for good— only for the next day to blow up my phone begging me to talk this out or have her friends encourage me to swallow my pride and go back to her because she's miserable without me and she's trying so hard, or she'd just wake me with a kiss after making me sleep on the couch as if the night before never happened. If I asked about the night before, the fight would start all over yet this time it'd be my fault because she was trying to move on but I was holding a grudge. The following nearly ten months were the most terrifying, anxiety riddled period of my life, and I only had myself to blame. Coming home from work I puked my guts out more than a few times on the way just because I didn't want to go back to her. I felt trapped. She threw away the blanket my mother had knitted me for my crib because it was "dirty". It wasn't dirty, it was a knit blanket that had been repaired repeatedly and hand washed frequently; so she'd "accidentally" put it through the wash and destroyed it, then bought a completely different throw blanket as a replacement and got mad when I didn't consider the matter resolved. She pulled another prank, this time with a fake positive pregnancy test, and berated me for not being overjoyed because I immediately started panicking about the cost, bringing up a child in our dysfunction, and handling the stress, rather than being excited. I feel like she wanted me to be happy so that she could crush my joy, and so was angry that I didn't play to her expectation. That night she threatened me with the knife, pointing it at me and saying she should just snip me right then since I didn't want to have kids with her, and then held me as I sobbed because I went into a panic. I didn't want her touching me, but I didn't know what else to do but let her and to apologize to her. Another time she put the knife to her own throat during a fight and said I clearly want her to kill herself and didn't stop until I screamed at her begging her to stop. Sometimes when driving she'd start speeding and swerving, or closing her eyes while on the highway, and saying my fear meant I didn't trust her. Nicole just kept getting worse by the day. I remember waking up one morning with a moment of clarity. I knew she'd eventually kill me, I was sleeping next to my murderer. It still wasn't enough to push me away. Escaping her orbit seemed like too much, more than I could handle. Everything I had in me was focused on just surviving day to day. I never knew if she'd break up with me on a whim or pick a fight or be constantly pushing me closer to a panic attack all night or if she'd flip and be so sweet and caring. I felt like every day was Russian roulette hour to hour, every word I said or action I did or didn't do a chance to start a raging fight. She'd tossed out my anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication one night and then during the resulting argument she made a big show of forgiving me for raising my voice (I shouldn't have done that, I have no excuse) and then helping me call in an emergency refill. For weeks after, because I said I wanted to break up during the argument, she would ask if I was going to "try to run away" every time that something went wrong. Takeout order wrong? I spilled a cup of water? Streaming service not working immediately? "Oh don't get your panties in a twist and run off" and "do I have to worry about you leaving me over this mistake, too?" Eventually that tapered off but maybe once a month during a fight she would tearfully go to our friends and ask them to mediate then during the meetings say that I kept threatening to leave her again over "nothing" and how scared she was of losing me when she "didn't know what set me off". More than a few times she showed me texts from them where her friends were saying how she deserved better and didn't need to put up with me, but she'd tell me "I don't listen to them because I love you anyway". She'd slap me and push me during arguments. I could never do anything right, because even doing what she wanted without argument or not looking her in the eye could be enough to send her off the rails. Sometimes as a joke just in general one of our friends would pull out a little pack of tissues and hand it over to me "in case I'd run out" or make a production of hiding the butter knife at dinner under the napkin. It was humiliating but if I spoke up, suddenly I was oversensitive, an embarrassment, no fun, and I had to learn how to deal with adult friendships and jokes, and they'd ask her how she could stand it. As a result I didn't spend much time with them either. Usually Nicole would just go out with them and I'd stay home, which was the most relaxing I've ever felt during that time, except for when she started randomly coming home without any notice or timeline (like saying she'd be home at 6 but then not coming back til midnight or early morning, or saying she'd be gone until 10 and coming early back at 2 or 3) or randomly calling the house phone to make sure I was home and getting angry if she even thought I sounded breathless, accusing me of having left. She started hinting around that marriage would be the logical next step and I was insulting her by not having proposed yet. Then she bought an engagement ring with my credit card and started showing off to all her friends how perfect "my" choice was. I didn't want to marry her. I felt bad for not wanting to marry her. I wanted us to be happy, and maybe giving her the wedding she wanted would help. I didn't want to marry her. In all those months I never went to sleep feeling safe. I lied awake in bed hyper aware of how close she was and trying to go over in my head if I had behaved well enough to keep her happy and what I could do to prevent another explosion. In hindsight it's sickening how long I let this go on. In the moment it was just about all I could think to do. I often woke up with nightmares which would in turn piss her off and set her off in a mood for the next day but if I suggested sleeping separately she would rage about how I was calling her a shitty girlfriend/fiancee/etc. I started to keep a notebook at work and just writing shit down. Things she'd done or said, incidents and what I'd done to set her off. It helped me feel more sane, and also more like a fucking moron because I could read back on times she actually hurt me and I still hadn't left. Every time I thought about leaving I felt sick inside. I'd lose every social contact I had. I would have to find a new place to live. I'd have to bar her from my workplace but they can't do anything without a restraining order and that itself felt like a hurdle too. I dropped all my old friends in favor of her and felt like they'd refuse to even talk to me again. I was the idiot that let her back into my life and rekindled the relationship, despite overwhelming feedback. I was stupid enough to deserve every bit of what was happening, and too dumb to deserve to escape after wasting my previous chances. I hated myself and had frequent fantasies of just ending it all. The worst part wasn't the anxiety and terror though. It was when she was sweet and caring. For example she always went all out for my birthday or anniversaries or Christmas, with thoughtful gifts, except for the year where she kicked me out for the evening after throwing some decorations at the wall because they stopped working (for which she blamed me because I put them up). She was sweet and gentle one day, or even for a week or two, only to slowly start ramping up the tension until she exploded yet again. She had an uncanny ability to blame me in ways that made me feel responsible for her emotions and for forcing her to react violently. When we drove out to visit my dad for Easter things started to change. Dad was concerned about how quiet I'd become and that I hadn't come for Thanksgiving or Christmas or even called on NYE like I used to. That I looked tired, unhappy and thin. Nicole was on her best behavior the whole time and even left her knives in the car, even tried to get everyone to focus on the engagement ring, but Dad still saw something was wrong. For three weeks after he kept trying to contact me, but she wouldn't let me talk without her in the room and she checked my phone anytime she left me alone and checked the records online to see if I had deleted any calls. Eventually I managed to get a burner phone and hid it at work, which allowed me to talk to my dad freely. He flew over with my uncle and they helped me gather my stuff from her house. When Nicole started sobbing and begging me to stay, my uncle kept her from the kitchen knives and had his phone ready to call 911 if she tried to hurt herself or us. When Nicole started to insist I was taking her stuff too even though I was only taking things either I brought with me or I bought for me, I just let it go. She got to keep a few sentimental items of mine and the loss hurts still but the most important ones I was able to take, like I was able to get all my documentation and cards out of her house. I didn't even bother with the ring. It was just money and she was already acting up. Uncle drove my car home while Dad had me fly with him. I'm ashamed to admit that the months directly following the breakup were almost worse than the time I spent with her, because I was out of survival mode and I couldn't force myself to function the way I used to. I felt like a parasite on my father, unable to get my shit together, falling apart over nothing, being so volatile it frightened me. I'm in therapy again. Sometimes I feel better, like I can see a way forward, but then I feel like I'm back in the thick of it and I'll never go back to normal and I'm permanently broken. Worse, every time I cry or get triggered or have a flashback, I can still hear her voice in my head calling me over emotional and too sensitive, that I'd be fine by now if I just got over myself, that what I went through wasn't that bad. She sent mail to my dad's house for a while, threatening letters and pleas for me to see reason and stop overreacting, pictures of us that were sentimental, guilt trips. At first I couldn't get a restraining order right away against her because I moved, something about the jurisdictions and courts, but when she sent those letters it helped at least make sure she couldn't continue to contact me. I found my old laptop a while ago and it had the password prepopulated. It wouldn't leave my mind, especially when I read what people were saying. Right now I'm just rambling to get my head straight, to be honest, but my dms were full of people saying how the sex must be amazing, how stupid guys get when they want to stick their dick in something, that I don't have balls or a backbone clearly and I just need to man up. Basically everything I told myself to remind me of what I did to deserve being stuck with her. I don't know if I can muster the courage to address any responses to them but I really just want to tie up this lose end in my life so maybe I can stop rehashing it mentally and finally move on. I might also give my therapist the notebook I kept of Nicole's abuse but I haven't wanted to even look for it. There's still a box of shit that I haven't opened up because it's all fucked with my head so much. What I wish I knew at the start of all this shit was that any amount of genuine discomfort isn't an acceptable price in a relationship and you're allowed to stop giving them more chances even if they're trying and seem sorry. You're not obligated to help people change, even if you love them, even if they do slightly better. I am not the original poster. Please don't contact or comment on linked posts submitted by /u/secure-raspberry-763 to r/BestofRedditorUpdates [link] [comments]

I am not the OOP. The OOP is u/prankthrowaway5780 posting in r/AmItheAsshole and his user account Concluded as per OOP Content warning - murder, PTSD, abusive behaviour, domestic violence 2 updates - Long Original - 14th October 2021 Update1 - 15th October 2021 Update2 - 16th June 2024 ​ AITA for yelling at and ignoring my girlfriend over a prank? ​ Not enough info I’ve (22M) been with Nicole (25F) for a couple years now and she’s always liked survival stuff and weaponry and all that. I absolutely don’t. Really, really bad experiences with knives when I was younger, and Nicole knows about them. We both love Halloween and usually throw a party and dress up and goof around, cook up pumpkin seeds and watch movies. Anyway the point is Nicole loves doing tricks with her knives (like five finger fillet, flicking it open and closed, twirling it etc) and she’ll do it when we’re watching a show or movie together - forgetting that I’ve asked her please not to. Or she’ll buy a new one and show it off, asking if I wanted to give it first bite(??) and pout when I say no. Two days ago she was playing with it again and I asked her why she keeps forgetting and she said “wow okay don’t insult my intelligence again” and then that it was just a knife and therefore not a big deal and therefore not that important to remember. After that, she put away the knife and we continued to have an okay night, but I was on edge and jumpy whenever she touched me. Yesterday she called me into the kitchen. Only she was playing five finger filet... and I startled her and she “messed up”. Badly. I lost my cool. Screamed my head off, tried shouting what I knew about first aid at her while I raced to grab my phone, complete panic, dialing 911, only for her start laughing and show me that it was a “prank” involving red food dye and a carrot. She had a nice laugh about how I would have known it was a joke if I wasn’t so squeamish about knives, that it’s proof I need to get more comfortable, that anyone with passing knowledge knows that it doesn’t look like that when something like that happens. She kept explaining how she did it, how she practiced, how she could show me, but I didn’t even answer her, it was like my head was underwater and my heart was beating out of my chest. Just moved on autopilot and grabbed my keys and drove a few blocks away before pulling over to breath. Nicole tried to call me and the first thing I said was “it wasn’t funny at all”, and she asked “are you crying?” Then I hung up on her. She kept texting me, saying she was sorry, that she didn’t think I’d react so badly to a joke, that it was just meant to be good fun in the Halloween spirit. I ignored her. I texted her after that I was home but ignored everything else. This morning she sent the picture of the props to the group chat with a few of our mutual friends, and they chimed in saying “It doesn’t even look real”. I’ve muted the chat since and I’m wondering if I have a leg to stand on before I go back and apologize. ​ Edit 10/15 5:30pm Further update here ​ It’s... overwhelming how much of a response this got, and I tried to read all of your comments. Some of them made me laugh, some warmed my heart, others had very hard truths that I still needed to hear, no matter how raw it left me. There are a lot of repeating questions and assumptions. ​ First: we don’t live together. At this point I don’t think we ever will. ​ Second: I stayed primarily because the good seemed to outweigh the bad. You remember the negatives more than the positive, so obviously I just had to remember her positive qualities instead of being swayed by my focus on the bad times. Plus it was always almost perfect after we had a fight, and I just assumed the boom and bust cycle was normal. ​ I didn’t know Nicole liked knives at first. A mutual friend (“Crystal”, who was in the group chat, and I met Crystal during a community college course) introduced us as I was new to the area and at first Nicole and I hit it off as we had a lot of shared interests - music, art, outdoors activity, going antiquing, wine, food and cooking... just a lot of things. We started dating and eventually went on a camping and hiking trip, where she used a knife to split some kindling and she was pointing it toward herself. I remember telling her to watch out and she had me to relax because she did it all the time, she asked me if I wanted to do it myself and I admitted I didn’t like knives. Later in the trip we drank by the fire and talked and that’s when I told her about my trauma. She promised to protect me and I remember that exactly because I had the mental image of her fending off a mugger and I joked that she was “my hero”. (My trauma has been brought up after that point, and neither of us were drunk at the time) My knife issues typically don’t impact my daily life except to make me more apt to be very slow in the kitchen when chopping things. It doesn’t seem like abuse, especially when we’re good. When it’s bad, it’s really rough. I don’t have really any other baseline as I was a late bloomer dating wise. My dad always said that you should both give 110% in a relationship but everyone argues. I thought working through the rough patches was normal. That’s also why I was preparing to apologize: because it takes two in an argument so I am responsible as well and need to apologize for my part. In this case, ruining the night with my reaction. I did go through therapy to help cope with the initial incident surrounding my aversion to knives. I was a lot worse when it happened - to the extent where I couldn’t have anyone point the knife in the direction of another living being, or certain songs on the radio that were playing at the time, or certain smells. I’ve made progress, but clearly not enough to stay with her and deal with her fidgeting with the knives. (I will admit to backsliding a bit in that I seem a lot more anxious when I stay the night and can’t stay asleep, or having more nightmares, which is why I believed her when she said I was overreacting) Also concerning the fidgeting, it’s not a constant thing. Sometimes she’d go weeks without pulling the knife out. Sometimes she’d complain that I only focus on the fact she had used the knife, versus how long she had abstained, which seems reasonable to point out. ​ Comments ​ 0biterdicta INFO: Why are you dating someone who repeatedly exposes you to something you're traumatized by and doesn't care how hurt you are by it? ​ LuvtheBees It really sounds like OP and girlfriend are just not compatible. NTA ​ 1890rafaella She sounds like a nightmare and enjoys tormenting OP. Why is he still with her? That prank should be a deal breaker. It wasn’t a prank - it was a cruel act. ​ PouncingFox She sounds awful. OP should ask her to explain the joke, and precisely why it was funny. Certainly doesn't deserve a relationship where he isn't respected and constantly demeaned. I feel awful for him ​ Vos-loves-Ventress15 "I had a horrible, disturbing prank played on me by the person I love. AITA?" NTA OP. God, that wasn't a prank, that sounds terrifying. ​ Update - 1 day later ​ A lot of the conversation is paraphrased with quotes that stuck in my mind. I also kept adding to this as things developed and I’m running on zero sleep, so I’m sorry if it’s not very clear. I did reach out to Nicole again yesterday to talk and I went with the intention of standing my ground and explaining things so she could understand my side. She greeted me with “thanks for gracing me with your presence” and asked if I was here to act my age and talk like an adult. She slammed the door behind me and pointed to the couch so we could discuss things. Nicole opened with my reaction was unreasonable and completely out of line considering the situation. I said that things need to change because that prank wasn’t okay at all and she knows I have issues with knife violence and I asked “what was funny about the prank?” She interrupted and said that ultimatums aren’t part of any relationship so I said “I don’t think this is working out for us, I don’t think we’re happy together.” Nicole froze at first and I started to explain that the knife thing and our respective stances being so different is not fair to either of us. But she repeatedly asked “so you’re going to break up nearly three years just because of this?” I tried to tell her it was more than just this, it was everything else, it was that she keeps forgetting and triggering me, that she loves playing with them but it upsets me, but she started talking over me and yelling that apparently I think she’s an idiot and that I’m the best actor in the world because she never knew I felt so horrible, and that maybe I should call the cops on her for abuse. She grabbed her cellphone and offered it to me again and again, saying “go on, call” but when I said we just need to talk, she interrupted with “no you won’t because you know, I know, we both know, no cop is going to arrest me for a joke”. Also I’m not very tall- 5’9 and she’s only 5’6 but she was standing right in front of me while I was seated, so I couldn’t get up without moving her. After throwing her phone on the couch next to me, she stormed into the kitchen shouting that she should get rid of all her knives because I’m so terrified. She threw a few into the sink and then the whole block of knives into the trash, the whole time asking “what about this one? Too sharp? Too scary?” When I flinched at the noises she said “oh do you feel threatened? How do you think I feel when I have to defend myself against your feelings?!” Nicole told me to quit crying, that I can’t just use tears to manipulate her, and mocked me when I said “please stop”. She said she has to walk on eggshells because she has to deal with a boyfriend that can’t handle a single joke without running off into the night. “It’s not hard to not overreact - literally just think before you go crazy, it’s that simple” and that it’s ridiculous that a grown man can’t handle a knife or a gun and I refuse to let go of my victimhood because “anyone normal would have gotten over it by now, it’s been nearly 9 years!” She called me stubborn and childish for picking this hill to die on, that I’m not innocent, it’s not fair that I’m allowed to ignore her for hours but she can’t have a little fun, and is my ego really that big? It’s sickening that I don’t trust her or think she’s smart or skilled enough to handle a knife properly and it’s sexist, infantilizing and insulting. At some point I said I think I need to go home and it was like a switch, and she said “Please stop crying, I hate when you cry”, joked (I think, because she laughed?) “I guess hibachi dates are off the table, huh?” and “I should probably take the knives out of the trash now, shouldn’t I?” She apologized and said since it means so much to me she’ll put in more effort. She admitted that I’m such a sensitive guy that if she stopped doing everything that made me uncomfortable she wouldn’t be able to do anything. She pointed out that I cried watching My Girl the other day as proof that I’m overly emotional and it made sense that she thought I was just being my normal self, but she was sorry for not realizing sooner it was really upsetting me. She promised she would do her best not to bring the knives out when I’m around. Nicole hugged me and told me to “let go, we can get through this, there’s nothing we can’t get over”, and asked for a chance to start over, fresh start tomorrow, no more jokes. It’s stupid but I just said yes. I wanted to go home, get out of her house and leave while she was still acting nice, and I didn’t hold my ground. I feel like an idiot and a coward. I got home and puked and couldn’t get to sleep again. Today Nicole came and dropped off lunch and coffee for me, gave me a kiss and said she loved me, and all the old ladies in the office were gushing about how cute we are together. I’m going to reach out to one of the guys I’m closer to and the friend who set us up to find out when Nicole got so into knives. (Because I remember about 7-8 months in it was shortly after the camping trip and it was Nicole’s birthday that she asked for a specific knife as her present, so at least then, but I can’t really remember there being anything major before then). I’m going to break up officially with her tomorrow with one of the guys if possible, so I can get my stuff from her place. ​ Comments ​ robindastore op that is a completely unstable reaction, also her toxic masculinity is over the top and you do not deserve to be treated that way. im so sorry she scared you like that and that she thought it was okay and you just "over reacted". You did not overreact, your feelings and trauma associated with them are completely valid, and she sounds like a hateful, unkind person. please do not go back to her unless someone else is there with you, and stay safe. sending you hugs, you got this tomorrow you are a strong person ​ Update - 3 years later ​ There's previous information in my profile concerning a post I made on AITA a few years ago. I came to Reddit about my girlfriend and her knife prank. It's been a long while since, and I was uncertain if I could update here or there or wherever. Roll this back over a decade ago for more background. When I was a preteen we experienced a home invasion that resulted in my mother and dog dying and left me with a lifelong phobia of knives and anxiety surrounding blood and break-ins. Directly following the break-in, I was unable to handle a knife being pointed at another living creature. My brain caught on to stupid things and connected them to the events and made them into triggers. Mom's perfume. The sound of glass shattering or a door banging open. A song that was playing at the time. Even now I still hate the song but at least it doesn't trigger a flashback anymore. Blood on beige carpet featured prominently in my nightmares. I worked extensively with a therapist to process what happened and what I'd seen. Recovery took years of therapy, weeks of inpatient care, medication to help with the nightmares, PTSD, depression and anxiety. We sold the house as soon as we could. I moved out of state as soon as I could. I kept up with therapy and continued to take my medication. My aversion to knives became something minor in how it impacted my life. I was careful in the kitchen and I certainly didn't search out knife throwing competitions, but it was under control in my normal daily life. It helped that everything seemed to be coming together. I made new friends, I was balancing work and school, I'd just met the girl who'd become my first long term adult girlfriend. I know now it was just the honeymoon phase but it felt like we were progressing well even once infatuation wore off. We stood together through highs and lows and the mediocre middle ground where there's nothing exciting, just the mundane. I thought that was the marker of a steady relationship, to be able to stick together even after the excitement of a new relationship has faded. We went on a few trips together, driving across state lines to meet her family or flying back to see my dad. On one of our trips we went camping and my fear of knives got brought up. That lead to the break-in getting brought up. She seemed to care at the time, even promising to protect me if something ever happened and offering to help install a camera in my apartment. After the camping trip, I don't know if it was always there and I noticed it more after or what, but she started to be more obviously into knives. Practicing tricks in front of me, showing videos to me, starting a collection. She even asked for a knife for her birthday that year, showing me exactly which one she wanted. Before, she was into camping, into guns (which ironically I have zero issue with) and how to forage, make shelter, purify water, basic survival stuff, and artillery and tanks. She did multiple courses about military history in college and busted out the textbooks sometimes if she remembered something she thought I would find interesting. But suddenly it seemed like her focus was on carving and skinning animals, on knife wounds and tricks and collecting and displaying knives. She started doing the tricks more often, in front of me, even when sitting next to me on the couch or at the dinner table. She would gesture with the knife "without thinking" and even point it at me- again, one of my major triggers being knives pointed at people or animals. She started sending me videos of news clips of other break ins, or news reports of robberies ending in murder, between a bunch of other funny videos or pictures, so checking snapchat became a game of Russian roulette. If I didn't check the links sent through text, she'd keep sending them and ask what I thought. She'd forget she had the knife in hand when she came up to me, sometimes from behind. My nightmares came back. My anxiety got worse. No matter how often I reminded her to please stop playing with the knife in front of me, or at least not next to me, she would always forget after a little bit. Some part of me refuses to believe there's no way she risked bodily harm just to unnerve me. It came to a head when she pulled a prank where she pretended to cut off a finger. We had a huge fight, our biggest one yet. I wish I'd acted differently and hadn't stormed out but I did. There is a lot about my time with Nicole I would do differently in hindsight. I was so sure I'd just break up with her for good. I don't know why I didn't stay broken up with her. When I did at first, I did it alone because my friend Jack rolled his eyes and called me a p-ssy for wanting back up. So I did it in a coffee shop instead, hoping the public eye could be my backup. Nicole stared at me with this affronted expression and it was like I couldn't find the words anymore. Her eyes were huge and wide and hateful. Like I've never seen anyone glare at me like that. She gripped onto the cup like she was going to throw it at me, I had it in my head to bolt the second she moved because I could see it so clearly. But then she started crying, loudly, and kept asking why I would do this to her and that she hoped I found happiness with someone better since she clearly wasn't enough for me despite doing everything to be a good girlfriend. I felt like shit and people were staring so I wished her well and asked if she wanted me to call a friend but she told me to leave her the fuck alone so I did. I hate how I handled the break up but it felt in the moment like autopilot. In short order I lost the support of our mutual friends who had become my only friends during my relationship with Nicole, which I understand as they knew her for much longer. Jack actually confronted me and called me a piece of shit for embarrassing her like that in public, calling me trash for leaving her sobbing alone and not even offering her a ride home; he wouldn't listen to my explanations and said I could excuse myself but everyone now knew what kind of guy I really am. People at work mentioned how sad it was that we broke up. I didn't feel like it was the place to explain my reasoning and after the confrontation with Jack I didn't feel like I had a right to. I felt like crap, like a shit person, and I felt numb. I tried to move on, to find a new normal. After about a month of us being broken up, she called me and begged for me to come over to help her, she was scared she'd hurt herself. I went to her immediately. I held her all night, helped her wash her hair after days of not being able to bring herself to. She admitted she'd done a horrible thing and that she couldn't stand how she'd treated me, that she wished she could go back and change so we could still be together. Didn't know how to address that, so I just stayed with her the whole night, and the next day at work she came by to drop off a homemade lunch and to thank me for being there for her. I stupidly let myself get sucked back in. I get that it's my fault. Coffee in the morning became dinner and drinks out became movie nights and going to shows and flea markets together because we still had similar interests. One time she even noticed a booth with knives and directed us away, and while yes it wasn't necessary as I could see a knife display and not be freaked out, it was a nice gesture because before she would have gone there and either bought one herself or asked me to buy it for her, one of multiple changes that made me think maybe she was truly making an effort. That at the least maybe we could be friends again. I started to get invited back into the group somewhat. Two months later she kissed me. We were both drunk and it didn't go any further. I didn't talk to her about it because I thought she didn't remember, but then she approached me to ask if there was any salvaging "Us", if she'd proven that she was different now and things would be better. I thought maybe. I stayed, because she really had been so sweet, it was like starting over, and we got back together. I was permitted back into the friend group in full (though Crystal had stopped talking to everyone and Jack still refused to talk to me) and while it was awkward at first, soon enough we were acting like we'd never stopped being friends for even a minute. It felt so good to go back to normal, it was like a weight off my chest and like I could breathe again. It was nice for a while. She was so careful about the knives thing and it really did feel so normal and steady. Sure we had small fights but we always made up shortly after and she'd be overwhelmingly loving after the fact. It felt like it was before, so it felt normal. I can't pinpoint when it started to creep back but maybe when she started watching documentaries on her phone with the sound up high while sitting next to me, or when she'd poke or grab me while I was cutting up dinner then laugh at my startle response. Or she'd scoff if I teared up watching or reading something then tell me later that it was out of fondness not exasperation and I really needed to stop reading so much into it. Or she'd yell at me for forgetting something that she never even told me about and then the next day she'd get frustrated that I didn't "insist properly" that she was mistaken. Like it was all small things that on their own weren't even that big of a deal and I didn't feel like I could just speak up about it or else I was nitpicking her. In hindsight I was making excuses and clinging to when she was nice to me, trying to do anything to make sure we just stayed happy and without bumps. Part of it was that I knew now that I'd be alone, that no one would understand why I'd throw away a good relationship, that being with her was the best thing that could ever happen to me. We moved in together four months after our getting back together. She was hinting around that it was the only way to prove to her that I'd forgiven her and that way we could move on and be happy. She insisted I move into her place because it was easier to move an apartment into a house than the other way around. It constantly felt like she was dangling that night where she was suicidal over me, like one wrong move from me and maybe the next time she wouldn't call for help. When we had fights, she paced through the house flicking a knife, looping from the bedroom to the living room to the office, or said every single argument was really due to the fact I was holding a grudge over the prank and that we wouldn't be arguing if I just "grew up" and stopped taking out my trauma on her. She'd tell me not to piss her off because it would be too easy for her to "make a mistake" and no one would think twice about what happened. A few times she'd gone on a rampage and overturned tables and threw glasses into the sink and dishwasher and said we were done for good— only for the next day to blow up my phone begging me to talk this out or have her friends encourage me to swallow my pride and go back to her because she's miserable without me and she's trying so hard, or she'd just wake me with a kiss after making me sleep on the couch as if the night before never happened. If I asked about the night before, the fight would start all over yet this time it'd be my fault because she was trying to move on but I was holding a grudge. The following nearly ten months were the most terrifying, anxiety riddled period of my life, and I only had myself to blame. Coming home from work I puked my guts out more than a few times on the way just because I didn't want to go back to her. I felt trapped. She threw away the blanket my mother had knitted me for my crib because it was "dirty". It wasn't dirty, it was a knit blanket that had been repaired repeatedly and hand washed frequently; so she'd "accidentally" put it through the wash and destroyed it, then bought a completely different throw blanket as a replacement and got mad when I didn't consider the matter resolved. She pulled another prank, this time with a fake positive pregnancy test, and berated me for not being overjoyed because I immediately started panicking about the cost, bringing up a child in our dysfunction, and handling the stress, rather than being excited. I feel like she wanted me to be happy so that she could crush my joy, and so was angry that I didn't play to her expectation. That night she threatened me with the knife, pointing it at me and saying she should just snip me right then since I didn't want to have kids with her, and then held me as I sobbed because I went into a panic. I didn't want her touching me, but I didn't know what else to do but let her and to apologize to her. Another time she put the knife to her own throat during a fight and said I clearly want her to kill herself and didn't stop until I screamed at her begging her to stop. Sometimes when driving she'd start speeding and swerving, or closing her eyes while on the highway, and saying my fear meant I didn't trust her. Nicole just kept getting worse by the day. I remember waking up one morning with a moment of clarity. I knew she'd eventually kill me, I was sleeping next to my murderer. It still wasn't enough to push me away. Escaping her orbit seemed like too much, more than I could handle. Everything I had in me was focused on just surviving day to day. I never knew if she'd break up with me on a whim or pick a fight or be constantly pushing me closer to a panic attack all night or if she'd flip and be so sweet and caring. I felt like every day was Russian roulette hour to hour, every word I said or action I did or didn't do a chance to start a raging fight. She'd tossed out my anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication one night and then during the resulting argument she made a big show of forgiving me for raising my voice (I shouldn't have done that, I have no excuse) and then helping me call in an emergency refill. For weeks after, because I said I wanted to break up during the argument, she would ask if I was going to "try to run away" every time that something went wrong. Takeout order wrong? I spilled a cup of water? Streaming service not working immediately? "Oh don't get your panties in a twist and run off" and "do I have to worry about you leaving me over this mistake, too?" Eventually that tapered off but maybe once a month during a fight she would tearfully go to our friends and ask them to mediate then during the meetings say that I kept threatening to leave her again over "nothing" and how scared she was of losing me when she "didn't know what set me off". More than a few times she showed me texts from them where her friends were saying how she deserved better and didn't need to put up with me, but she'd tell me "I don't listen to them because I love you anyway". She'd slap me and push me during arguments. I could never do anything right, because even doing what she wanted without argument or not looking her in the eye could be enough to send her off the rails. Sometimes as a joke just in general one of our friends would pull out a little pack of tissues and hand it over to me "in case I'd run out" or make a production of hiding the butter knife at dinner under the napkin. It was humiliating but if I spoke up, suddenly I was oversensitive, an embarrassment, no fun, and I had to learn how to deal with adult friendships and jokes, and they'd ask her how she could stand it. As a result I didn't spend much time with them either. Usually Nicole would just go out with them and I'd stay home, which was the most relaxing I've ever felt during that time, except for when she started randomly coming home without any notice or timeline (like saying she'd be home at 6 but then not coming back til midnight or early morning, or saying she'd be gone until 10 and coming early back at 2 or 3) or randomly calling the house phone to make sure I was home and getting angry if she even thought I sounded breathless, accusing me of having left. She started hinting around that marriage would be the logical next step and I was insulting her by not having proposed yet. Then she bought an engagement ring with my credit card and started showing off to all her friends how perfect "my" choice was. I didn't want to marry her. I felt bad for not wanting to marry her. I wanted us to be happy, and maybe giving her the wedding she wanted would help. I didn't want to marry her. In all those months I never went to sleep feeling safe. I lied awake in bed hyper aware of how close she was and trying to go over in my head if I had behaved well enough to keep her happy and what I could do to prevent another explosion. In hindsight it's sickening how long I let this go on. In the moment it was just about all I could think to do. I often woke up with nightmares which would in turn piss her off and set her off in a mood for the next day but if I suggested sleeping separately she would rage about how I was calling her a shitty girlfriend/fiancee/etc. I started to keep a notebook at work and just writing shit down. Things she'd done or said, incidents and what I'd done to set her off. It helped me feel more sane, and also more like a fucking moron because I could read back on times she actually hurt me and I still hadn't left. Every time I thought about leaving I felt sick inside. I'd lose every social contact I had. I would have to find a new place to live. I'd have to bar her from my workplace but they can't do anything without a restraining order and that itself felt like a hurdle too. I dropped all my old friends in favor of her and felt like they'd refuse to even talk to me again. I was the idiot that let her back into my life and rekindled the relationship, despite overwhelming feedback. I was stupid enough to deserve every bit of what was happening, and too dumb to deserve to escape after wasting my previous chances. I hated myself and had frequent fantasies of just ending it all. The worst part wasn't the anxiety and terror though. It was when she was sweet and caring. For example she always went all out for my birthday or anniversaries or Christmas, with thoughtful gifts, except for the year where she kicked me out for the evening after throwing some decorations at the wall because they stopped working (for which she blamed me because I put them up). She was sweet and gentle one day, or even for a week or two, only to slowly start ramping up the tension until she exploded yet again. She had an uncanny ability to blame me in ways that made me feel responsible for her emotions and for forcing her to react violently. When we drove out to visit my dad for Easter things started to change. Dad was concerned about how quiet I'd become and that I hadn't come for Thanksgiving or Christmas or even called on NYE like I used to. That I looked tired, unhappy and thin. Nicole was on her best behavior the whole time and even left her knives in the car, even tried to get everyone to focus on the engagement ring, but Dad still saw something was wrong. For three weeks after he kept trying to contact me, but she wouldn't let me talk without her in the room and she checked my phone anytime she left me alone and checked the records online to see if I had deleted any calls. Eventually I managed to get a burner phone and hid it at work, which allowed me to talk to my dad freely. He flew over with my uncle and they helped me gather my stuff from her house. When Nicole started sobbing and begging me to stay, my uncle kept her from the kitchen knives and had his phone ready to call 911 if she tried to hurt herself or us. When Nicole started to insist I was taking her stuff too even though I was only taking things either I brought with me or I bought for me, I just let it go. She got to keep a few sentimental items of mine and the loss hurts still but the most important ones I was able to take, like I was able to get all my documentation and cards out of her house. I didn't even bother with the ring. It was just money and she was already acting up. Uncle drove my car home while Dad had me fly with him. I'm ashamed to admit that the months directly following the breakup were almost worse than the time I spent with her, because I was out of survival mode and I couldn't force myself to function the way I used to. I felt like a parasite on my father, unable to get my shit together, falling apart over nothing, being so volatile it frightened me. I'm in therapy again. Sometimes I feel better, like I can see a way forward, but then I feel like I'm back in the thick of it and I'll never go back to normal and I'm permanently broken. Worse, every time I cry or get triggered or have a flashback, I can still hear her voice in my head calling me over emotional and too sensitive, that I'd be fine by now if I just got over myself, that what I went through wasn't that bad. She sent mail to my dad's house for a while, threatening letters and pleas for me to see reason and stop overreacting, pictures of us that were sentimental, guilt trips. At first I couldn't get a restraining order right away against her because I moved, something about the jurisdictions and courts, but when she sent those letters it helped at least make sure she couldn't continue to contact me. I found my old laptop a while ago and it had the password prepopulated. It wouldn't leave my mind, especially when I read what people were saying. Right now I'm just rambling to get my head straight, to be honest, but my dms were full of people saying how the sex must be amazing, how stupid guys get when they want to stick their dick in something, that I don't have balls or a backbone clearly and I just need to man up. Basically everything I told myself to remind me of what I did to deserve being stuck with her. I don't know if I can muster the courage to address any responses to them but I really just want to tie up this lose end in my life so maybe I can stop rehashing it mentally and finally move on. I might also give my therapist the notebook I kept of Nicole's abuse but I haven't wanted to even look for it. There's still a box of shit that I haven't opened up because it's all fucked with my head so much. What I wish I knew at the start of all this shit was that any amount of genuine discomfort isn't an acceptable price in a relationship and you're allowed to stop giving them more chances even if they're trying and seem sorry. You're not obligated to help people change, even if you love them, even if they do slightly better. ​ Comments ​ Fish__Fingers Glad you got out, OP. Wish you all the best and remember- it wasn’t and isn’t your fault. She used every trick she could. You survived and got out, that’s a lot. I think there are support groups. Maybe worth looking into it, talk with the people who had similar experiences. Hope you’ll find recourses and support you need for recovery and will live happy life from now on. Best of wishes to you OOP: I appreciate that. It's hard to remember how to keep on sometimes, so thank you. ​ I am not the OOP. Please do not harass the OOP. Please remember the No Brigading Rule and to be civil in the comments submitted by /u/SharkEva to r/BORUpdates [link] [comments]

There's previous information in my profile concerning a post I made on AITA a few years ago. I came to Reddit about my girlfriend and her knife prank. It's been a long while since, and I was uncertain if I could update here or there or wherever. Roll this back over a decade ago for more background. When I was a preteen we experienced a home invasion that resulted in my mother and dog dying and left me with a lifelong phobia of knives and anxiety surrounding blood and break-ins. Directly following the break-in, I was unable to handle a knife being pointed at another living creature. My brain caught on to stupid things and connected them to the events and made them into triggers. Mom's perfume. The sound of glass shattering or a door banging open. A song that was playing at the time. Even now I still hate the song but at least it doesn't trigger a flashback anymore. Blood on beige carpet featured prominently in my nightmares. I worked extensively with a therapist to process what happened and what I'd seen. Recovery took years of therapy, weeks of inpatient care, medication to help with the nightmares, PTSD, depression and anxiety. We sold the house as soon as we could. I moved out of state as soon as I could. I kept up with therapy and continued to take my medication. My aversion to knives became something minor in how it impacted my life. I was careful in the kitchen and I certainly didn't search out knife throwing competitions, but it was under control in my normal daily life. It helped that everything seemed to be coming together. I made new friends, I was balancing work and school, I'd just met the girl who'd become my first long term adult girlfriend. I know now it was just the honeymoon phase but it felt like we were progressing well even once infatuation wore off. We stood together through highs and lows and the mediocre middle ground where there's nothing exciting, just the mundane. I thought that was the marker of a steady relationship, to be able to stick together even after the excitement of a new relationship has faded. We went on a few trips together, driving across state lines to meet her family or flying back to see my dad. On one of our trips we went camping and my fear of knives got brought up. That lead to the break-in getting brought up. She seemed to care at the time, even promising to protect me if something ever happened and offering to help install a camera in my apartment. After the camping trip, I don't know if it was always there and I noticed it more after or what, but she started to be more obviously into knives. Practicing tricks in front of me, showing videos to me, starting a collection. She even asked for a knife for her birthday that year, showing me exactly which one she wanted. Before, she was into camping, into guns (which ironically I have zero issue with) and how to forage, make shelter, purify water, basic survival stuff, and artillery and tanks. She did multiple courses about military history in college and busted out the textbooks sometimes if she remembered something she thought I would find interesting. But suddenly it seemed like her focus was on carving and skinning animals, on knife wounds and tricks and collecting and displaying knives. She started doing the tricks more often, in front of me, even when sitting next to me on the couch or at the dinner table. She would gesture with the knife "without thinking" and even point it at me- again, one of my major triggers being knives pointed at people or animals. She started sending me videos of news clips of other break ins, or news reports of robberies ending in murder, between a bunch of other funny videos or pictures, so checking snapchat became a game of Russian roulette. If I didn't check the links sent through text, she'd keep sending them and ask what I thought. She'd forget she had the knife in hand when she came up to me, sometimes from behind. My nightmares came back. My anxiety got worse. No matter how often I reminded her to please stop playing with the knife in front of me, or at least not next to me, she would always forget after a little bit. Some part of me refuses to believe there's no way she risked bodily harm just to unnerve me. It came to a head when she pulled a prank where she pretended to cut off a finger. We had a huge fight, our biggest one yet. I wish I'd acted differently and hadn't stormed out but I did. There is a lot about my time with Nicole I would do differently in hindsight. I was so sure I'd just break up with her for good. I don't know why I didn't stay broken up with her. When I did at first, I did it alone because my friend Jack rolled his eyes and called me a p-ssy for wanting back up. So I did it in a coffee shop instead, hoping the public eye could be my backup. Nicole stared at me with this affronted expression and it was like I couldn't find the words anymore. Her eyes were huge and wide and hateful. Like I've never seen anyone glare at me like that. She gripped onto the cup like she was going to throw it at me, I had it in my head to bolt the second she moved because I could see it so clearly. But then she started crying, loudly, and kept asking why I would do this to her and that she hoped I found happiness with someone better since she clearly wasn't enough for me despite doing everything to be a good girlfriend. I felt like shit and people were staring so I wished her well and asked if she wanted me to call a friend but she told me to leave her the fuck alone so I did. I hate how I handled the break up but it felt in the moment like autopilot. In short order I lost the support of our mutual friends who had become my only friends during my relationship with Nicole, which I understand as they knew her for much longer. Jack actually confronted me and called me a piece of shit for embarrassing her like that in public, calling me trash for leaving her sobbing alone and not even offering her a ride home; he wouldn't listen to my explanations and said I could excuse myself but everyone now knew what kind of guy I really am. People at work mentioned how sad it was that we broke up. I didn't feel like it was the place to explain my reasoning and after the confrontation with Jack I didn't feel like I had a right to. I felt like crap, like a shit person, and I felt numb. I tried to move on, to find a new normal. After about a month of us being broken up, she called me and begged for me to come over to help her, she was scared she'd hurt herself. I went to her immediately. I held her all night, helped her wash her hair after days of not being able to bring herself to. She admitted she'd done a horrible thing and that she couldn't stand how she'd treated me, that she wished she could go back and change so we could still be together. Didn't know how to address that, so I just stayed with her the whole night, and the next day at work she came by to drop off a homemade lunch and to thank me for being there for her. I stupidly let myself get sucked back in. I get that it's my fault. Coffee in the morning became dinner and drinks out became movie nights and going to shows and flea markets together because we still had similar interests. One time she even noticed a booth with knives and directed us away, and while yes it wasn't necessary as I could see a knife display and not be freaked out, it was a nice gesture because before she would have gone there and either bought one herself or asked me to buy it for her, one of multiple changes that made me think maybe she was truly making an effort. That at the least maybe we could be friends again. I started to get invited back into the group somewhat. Two months later she kissed me. We were both drunk and it didn't go any further. I didn't talk to her about it because I thought she didn't remember, but then she approached me to ask if there was any salvaging "Us", if she'd proven that she was different now and things would be better. I thought maybe. I stayed, because she really had been so sweet, it was like starting over, and we got back together. I was permitted back into the friend group in full (though Crystal had stopped talking to everyone and Jack still refused to talk to me) and while it was awkward at first, soon enough we were acting like we'd never stopped being friends for even a minute. It felt so good to go back to normal, it was like a weight off my chest and like I could breathe again. It was nice for a while. She was so careful about the knives thing and it really did feel so normal and steady. Sure we had small fights but we always made up shortly after and she'd be overwhelmingly loving after the fact. It felt like it was before, so it felt normal. I can't pinpoint when it started to creep back but maybe when she started watching documentaries on her phone with the sound up high while sitting next to me, or when she'd poke or grab me while I was cutting up dinner then laugh at my startle response. Or she'd scoff if I teared up watching or reading something then tell me later that it was out of fondness not exasperation and I really needed to stop reading so much into it. Or she'd yell at me for forgetting something that she never even told me about and then the next day she'd get frustrated that I didn't "insist properly" that she was mistaken. Like it was all small things that on their own weren't even that big of a deal and I didn't feel like I could just speak up about it or else I was nitpicking her. In hindsight I was making excuses and clinging to when she was nice to me, trying to do anything to make sure we just stayed happy and without bumps. Part of it was that I knew now that I'd be alone, that no one would understand why I'd throw away a good relationship, that being with her was the best thing that could ever happen to me. We moved in together four months after our getting back together. She was hinting around that it was the only way to prove to her that I'd forgiven her and that way we could move on and be happy. She insisted I move into her place because it was easier to move an apartment into a house than the other way around. It constantly felt like she was dangling that night where she was suicidal over me, like one wrong move from me and maybe the next time she wouldn't call for help. When we had fights, she paced through the house flicking a knife, looping from the bedroom to the living room to the office, or said every single argument was really due to the fact I was holding a grudge over the prank and that we wouldn't be arguing if I just "grew up" and stopped taking out my trauma on her. She'd tell me not to piss her off because it would be too easy for her to "make a mistake" and no one would think twice about what happened. A few times she'd gone on a rampage and overturned tables and threw glasses into the sink and dishwasher and said we were done for good— only for the next day to blow up my phone begging me to talk this out or have her friends encourage me to swallow my pride and go back to her because she's miserable without me and she's trying so hard, or she'd just wake me with a kiss after making me sleep on the couch as if the night before never happened. If I asked about the night before, the fight would start all over yet this time it'd be my fault because she was trying to move on but I was holding a grudge. The following nearly ten months were the most terrifying, anxiety riddled period of my life, and I only had myself to blame. Coming home from work I puked my guts out more than a few times on the way just because I didn't want to go back to her. I felt trapped. She threw away the blanket my mother had knitted me for my crib because it was "dirty". It wasn't dirty, it was a knit blanket that had been repaired repeatedly and hand washed frequently; so she'd "accidentally" put it through the wash and destroyed it, then bought a completely different throw blanket as a replacement and got mad when I didn't consider the matter resolved. She pulled another prank, this time with a fake positive pregnancy test, and berated me for not being overjoyed because I immediately started panicking about the cost, bringing up a child in our dysfunction, and handling the stress, rather than being excited. I feel like she wanted me to be happy so that she could crush my joy, and so was angry that I didn't play to her expectation. That night she threatened me with the knife, pointing it at me and saying she should just snip me right then since I didn't want to have kids with her, and then held me as I sobbed because I went into a panic. I didn't want her touching me, but I didn't know what else to do but let her and to apologize to her. Another time she put the knife to her own throat during a fight and said I clearly want her to kill herself and didn't stop until I screamed at her begging her to stop. Sometimes when driving she'd start speeding and swerving, or closing her eyes while on the highway, and saying my fear meant I didn't trust her. Nicole just kept getting worse by the day. I remember waking up one morning with a moment of clarity. I knew she'd eventually kill me, I was sleeping next to my murderer. It still wasn't enough to push me away. Escaping her orbit seemed like too much, more than I could handle. Everything I had in me was focused on just surviving day to day. I never knew if she'd break up with me on a whim or pick a fight or be constantly pushing me closer to a panic attack all night or if she'd flip and be so sweet and caring. I felt like every day was Russian roulette hour to hour, every word I said or action I did or didn't do a chance to start a raging fight. She'd tossed out my anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication one night and then during the resulting argument she made a big show of forgiving me for raising my voice (I shouldn't have done that, I have no excuse) and then helping me call in an emergency refill. For weeks after, because I said I wanted to break up during the argument, she would ask if I was going to "try to run away" every time that something went wrong. Takeout order wrong? I spilled a cup of water? Streaming service not working immediately? "Oh don't get your panties in a twist and run off" and "do I have to worry about you leaving me over this mistake, too?" Eventually that tapered off but maybe once a month during a fight she would tearfully go to our friends and ask them to mediate then during the meetings say that I kept threatening to leave her again over "nothing" and how scared she was of losing me when she "didn't know what set me off". More than a few times she showed me texts from them where her friends were saying how she deserved better and didn't need to put up with me, but she'd tell me "I don't listen to them because I love you anyway". She'd slap me and push me during arguments. I could never do anything right, because even doing what she wanted without argument or not looking her in the eye could be enough to send her off the rails. Sometimes as a joke just in general one of our friends would pull out a little pack of tissues and hand it over to me "in case I'd run out" or make a production of hiding the butter knife at dinner under the napkin. It was humiliating but if I spoke up, suddenly I was oversensitive, an embarrassment, no fun, and I had to learn how to deal with adult friendships and jokes, and they'd ask her how she could stand it. As a result I didn't spend much time with them either. Usually Nicole would just go out with them and I'd stay home, which was the most relaxing I've ever felt during that time, except for when she started randomly coming home without any notice or timeline (like saying she'd be home at 6 but then not coming back til midnight or early morning, or saying she'd be gone until 10 and coming early back at 2 or 3) or randomly calling the house phone to make sure I was home and getting angry if she even thought I sounded breathless, accusing me of having left. She started hinting around that marriage would be the logical next step and I was insulting her by not having proposed yet. Then she bought an engagement ring with my credit card and started showing off to all her friends how perfect "my" choice was. I didn't want to marry her. I felt bad for not wanting to marry her. I wanted us to be happy, and maybe giving her the wedding she wanted would help. I didn't want to marry her. In all those months I never went to sleep feeling safe. I lied awake in bed hyper aware of how close she was and trying to go over in my head if I had behaved well enough to keep her happy and what I could do to prevent another explosion. In hindsight it's sickening how long I let this go on. In the moment it was just about all I could think to do. I often woke up with nightmares which would in turn piss her off and set her off in a mood for the next day but if I suggested sleeping separately she would rage about how I was calling her a shitty girlfriend/fiancee/etc. I started to keep a notebook at work and just writing shit down. Things she'd done or said, incidents and what I'd done to set her off. It helped me feel more sane, and also more like a fucking moron because I could read back on times she actually hurt me and I still hadn't left. Every time I thought about leaving I felt sick inside. I'd lose every social contact I had. I would have to find a new place to live. I'd have to bar her from my workplace but they can't do anything without a restraining order and that itself felt like a hurdle too. I dropped all my old friends in favor of her and felt like they'd refuse to even talk to me again. I was the idiot that let her back into my life and rekindled the relationship, despite overwhelming feedback. I was stupid enough to deserve every bit of what was happening, and too dumb to deserve to escape after wasting my previous chances. I hated myself and had frequent fantasies of just ending it all. The worst part wasn't the anxiety and terror though. It was when she was sweet and caring. For example she always went all out for my birthday or anniversaries or Christmas, with thoughtful gifts, except for the year where she kicked me out for the evening after throwing some decorations at the wall because they stopped working (for which she blamed me because I put them up). She was sweet and gentle one day, or even for a week or two, only to slowly start ramping up the tension until she exploded yet again. She had an uncanny ability to blame me in ways that made me feel responsible for her emotions and for forcing her to react violently. When we drove out to visit my dad for Easter things started to change. Dad was concerned about how quiet I'd become and that I hadn't come for Thanksgiving or Christmas or even called on NYE like I used to. That I looked tired, unhappy and thin. Nicole was on her best behavior the whole time and even left her knives in the car, even tried to get everyone to focus on the engagement ring, but Dad still saw something was wrong. For three weeks after he kept trying to contact me, but she wouldn't let me talk without her in the room and she checked my phone anytime she left me alone and checked the records online to see if I had deleted any calls. Eventually I managed to get a burner phone and hid it at work, which allowed me to talk to my dad freely. He flew over with my uncle and they helped me gather my stuff from her house. When Nicole started sobbing and begging me to stay, my uncle kept her from the kitchen knives and had his phone ready to call 911 if she tried to hurt herself or us. When Nicole started to insist I was taking her stuff too even though I was only taking things either I brought with me or I bought for me, I just let it go. She got to keep a few sentimental items of mine and the loss hurts still but the most important ones I was able to take, like I was able to get all my documentation and cards out of her house. I didn't even bother with the ring. It was just money and she was already acting up. Uncle drove my car home while Dad had me fly with him. I'm ashamed to admit that the months directly following the breakup were almost worse than the time I spent with her, because I was out of survival mode and I couldn't force myself to function the way I used to. I felt like a parasite on my father, unable to get my shit together, falling apart over nothing, being so volatile it frightened me. I'm in therapy again. Sometimes I feel better, like I can see a way forward, but then I feel like I'm back in the thick of it and I'll never go back to normal and I'm permanently broken. Worse, every time I cry or get triggered or have a flashback, I can still hear her voice in my head calling me over emotional and too sensitive, that I'd be fine by now if I just got over myself, that what I went through wasn't that bad. She sent mail to my dad's house for a while, threatening letters and pleas for me to see reason and stop overreacting, pictures of us that were sentimental, guilt trips. At first I couldn't get a restraining order right away against her because I moved, something about the jurisdictions and courts, but when she sent those letters it helped at least make sure she couldn't continue to contact me. I found my old laptop a while ago and it had the password prepopulated. It wouldn't leave my mind, especially when I read what people were saying. Right now I'm just rambling to get my head straight, to be honest, but my dms were full of people saying how the sex must be amazing, how stupid guys get when they want to stick their dick in something, that I don't have balls or a backbone clearly and I just need to man up. Basically everything I told myself to remind me of what I did to deserve being stuck with her. I don't know if I can muster the courage to address any responses to them but I really just want to tie up this lose end in my life so maybe I can stop rehashing it mentally and finally move on. I might also give my therapist the notebook I kept of Nicole's abuse but I haven't wanted to even look for it. There's still a box of shit that I haven't opened up because it's all fucked with my head so much. What I wish I knew at the start of all this shit was that any amount of genuine discomfort isn't an acceptable price in a relationship and you're allowed to stop giving them more chances even if they're trying and seem sorry. You're not obligated to help people change, even if you love them, even if they do slightly better. submitted by /u/prankthrowaway5780 to u/prankthrowaway5780 [link] [comments]

For most of my years, I'd been dragged around by the twin steeds of addiction and crime without a thought beyond my next fix. Then I was arrested. That was the wake-up call I needed. Once I was inside, I had to deal with my addiction with both therapy and forced sobriety. It wasn't easy. During my lowest moment, vomiting into a prison toilet, I found something I thought I had lost – hope. I came out the other side of my stint healthier and ready to take my life in a new direction. Prison had been the tough love I needed. I was ready for the free world again. I soon discovered the free world wasn't ready for me. Part of my release agreement was that I needed to find steady employment. I thought that sounded simple enough, but I had no idea how cruel the world could be to anyone who colored outside life's lines. Despite being capable, willing, and reformed, no one wanted to hire me. My parole officer told me not to stress because he knew a few people who might be able to help. He saw that I was trying and made a few phone calls. He hooked me up with Pete, a good dude who owned a junk removal company named "Moving Buddies." "Been out long?" he asked when I sat with him. "About a month." "How did the family take it?" "Don't have one to lean on anymore," I said. "Part of the reason I ended up where I ended up, ya know?" "I understand," Pete said, "We all deal with grief in our own way." "Most of those ways don't end in jail time," I said. "No, they do not. But, it brought you back from the dead and to my doorstep. I'd say that's a win/win." Less than two days later, Pete hired me, and I was ready to go. Despite the name, Moving Buddies was not a moving company in the traditional sense. It was a junk removal company that specialized in cleaning up evictions and hoarder homes. It was long, backbreaking work, but it kept me busy. I welcomed the distraction. I wasn't even the only former con on the team. My partner and driver, Devon Baker, or D, as he liked to be called, had also done time in his past. We chatted about it the first day, and it bonded us. Like me, he had gone in for armed robbery, but he had received more time. Like me, he struggled once he got out. He took this job out of desperation, too, but he said it saved his life. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it sucks," he said as we drove to our new job, "but it's better than fuckin' jail, ya know? Plus, Pete's not a bad guy. Tight as a dolphin's asshole with money, but he gets the life. He'll cut you some slack." "I was starting to think people like that didn't exist." "Nobody loves ex-cons," he said. "Wait until you start up with the dating apps. You're gonna really feel the hate then." I laughed, "Who'd hate a cuddly teddy bear like you, D?" He laughed, "That's what I'm saying. But it's cold out there, brother. Ice cold." We were headed out to our gig for the day. Some old fart had passed and left a mess for his kids. I hated hoarder homes because there was always some extra bullshit hidden in the piles. You could not imagine smells. They stick with you hours after your shift. We've found dead pets and living wild animals in some homes. Never a dull moment. We arrived and were greeted by an exhausted-looking man in his late forties. He was the son of the dead guy and told us what we already knew from the work order. I felt sympathy for him – he inherited a huge mess. "Sorry about how it looks. Dad went, well, crazy in the last few years. All he talked about was conspiracies and people out to get him and...and." He caught himself. "He changed, ya know? Then he let this place turn into this." "Not unusual in our line of work," I said, trying to comfort him. "Believe it or not, this isn't even the worst we've ever seen," D added. That seemed to ease the man's mind, and he left us to do our work. D sidled up to me as he left and nodded at the house. "Yo, this is the worst fucking house I've ever seen. Easy." When we finally cracked the tomb's seal, the full brunt of the smell hit us like the concussive wave of an atomic bomb. A potent combination of death, rotting food, and vomit stung our nostrils. D wasn't lying – this was the worst ever. "Let's have a smoke before we get hip deep in this shit," D said, pulling out his vape. "Agreed," I said, pulling out my crinkled pack of Marlboro Reds and naked lady Bic. "Those'll kill you, man," D said, nodding at my pack of cigarettes. "Those chemicals won't?" "Shit," he said, exhaling a massive puff of vapor, "I didn't say all that now." We finished our smokes and steadied ourselves. We wiped Vapo rub under our noses and opened the door. The entryway was crammed with old garbage. The house had so many flies that I thought it might get yanked from its foundation and take to the air. The old man may have died, but there was still some life inside this place. "Goddamn," D said, "How did the city not condemn this place?" "Maybe he knew people in high places?" "Should've met a garbage man," he said, getting to work. Hoarders were the worst. What they all have in common is some sort of mental break that sets them on this course. I've found it's often associated with some kind of loss—a job, a spouse, a child. They compensate for their loss by trying to save anything that "could be important" or that "they could use later." They never do. Thus, you get homes stuffed with towering monuments to our disposable culture. "The hell?" D said from a corner of the living room. I walked over to him and looked down at the ground where he was pointing. "It's trash," I said. "Under the bag, man!" I moved the bag and nearly vomited. Under the bag were the remains of two very dead cats. They looked like they'd recently died but were under a few ancient garbage bags. I saw a wrapper for a McDLT in one bag, and they stopped selling that in the 90s. "You didn't know those were cats?" "I know they're cats! Look at their backs." I did, and that's when I saw what looked like a bite mark on the remains. Something with razor-sharp teeth had chomped some of the spines away. You'd miss it if you quickly glanced at the remains, but when you looked at them, you could clearly see the bite marks. "What the hell did that?" I asked. "That looks like a lion bite, bro," D said, shaken up. "If we find a lion in here, I'm gone," I joked. "It may not be hungry, though, considering he seemed to have recently had a snack." "Shit's not funny," D said, "I have two cats. Scooby and Shaggy." "My bad," I said. "Did this old man put them there?" D asked, "Because this is some old-ass garbage, and those are recently dead." "Maybe whatever ate them dragged them here.+ Want me to remove them?" I asked but didn't wait for his response. As I went to bag up the cats, we heard something skitter on the floor behind us. We both turned around, and a few trash bags rolled off a pile and spilled on the floor. "If there is actually a fucking lion in here, I swear to God," I whispered. "Shh," D said, his eyes scanning the room. We both looked around for the source of the noise but didn't see anything. I was about to say something when we heard more scrambling off to our left. I rushed over, moved away a few bags, and let out a terrified, high-pitched scream. After the initial shock, I started laughing. "What?" D asked. I reached down and pulled up a beat-up jester doll buried in the stacks. Its porcelain face had split down the middle at some point, and the left side was gone. The right side's painted face had worn away with time and exposure to garbage juice, but one unblinking eye stared out at us. Its long limbs hung toward the ground, hunched over like it had a bad back. "Who would want this?" I asked. "Weird fucking hoarders." We heard skittering again, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a massive rat run from under some old cardboard boxes and back towards the bedrooms. I dropped the doll and chased after it, but it was gone before I could do anything. D shook his head. "Be careful when we're grabbing shit," he said, "those things will take off the tip of your fingers." I grabbed the doll and propped it up on the pile of trash so it looked like it was sitting on a throne of garbage. "I'll hire the jester to look out for us. It needs a name. What about Trashley?" As soon as I said it, the doll's heavy limbs made it slump to its side. D laughed. "Trashely already sleeping on the job!" We went back to work. We set about clearing out the living room and kitchen before we moved on to the closets and pantries in those rooms. Closets were the worst part of a hoarder's home. They crammed closets full of the weirdest shit known to man. Once, we pulled eight taxidermied animals out of a living room closet. It was a nativity scene. Baby Jesus was a stuffed dormouse. We played rock, paper, scissors, and D lost. He had "won" closet duty. I set back to clearing out the living room leading towards the hallway and let D work on the closet. D had moved out three garbage bags when I heard him yell and fall out of the closet. I ran over to him as he was scooting away from the closet door. He was genuinely spooked. I helped him up and asked him what happened. It took him a second to put his thoughts together. "Something touched me." "What?" "I swear to god, man. Something reached out and touched my hand." "It was probably," I said before he cut me off. "Bitch, I know what a hand feels like. A fuckin' hand touched my arm." "Okay," I said, "Gonna let the bitch comment slide." "My bad, man," he said, shaking his head, "but that shit ain't never fucking happened to me before." "You gotta a flashlight? Let's take a look." "In the truck," he said. "I'll go grab it." He left, and I shook my head. I was working under the belief that he had touched a rat's tail or something. Rats loved the stink of trash, but people tended to avoid it. The smell in this place would keep Oscar the Grouch at arm's length. From behind me, I heard the rats scrambling around. I went over to where I had heard the noise but didn't see anything. D came back into the house and saw me looking for the rat. "Heard something?" he asked. "I think we may have a few friends watching us," I said, glancing through the garbage piles. "Can I see that flashlight?" He handed it to me, and I shined the beam into the sea of living room trash bags. Nothing jumped out at me, so I assumed the rats were adept at hiding from humans. Something did catch my eye, though – Trashley. The doll wasn't in the place where I had left it. Maybe it had fallen during the closet panic, and I hadn't noticed. I plucked up the doll again. "It might've been our jester friend here," I said, "and not the rats." "I don't like that doll," D said. "Reminds me of Poltergeist, the fuckin' clown thing. Man, that messed me up good." "Maybe we should put a tracker on it," I joked. D didn't laugh. "Good idea." He eyed something on the ground and grabbed it, "Put this on it." He handed me an old cat collar with a little bell on it. I gave him a look, but he insisted. I dutifully put it around Trashley's neck and gave it a shake. The bell jingled, and D looked satisfied. I put Trashely back on the trash pile throne and handed D back the flashlight. "Let's go see about your closet hand." I walked over and pulled the closet door back open. "Hey," I said to the potential person in the closet, "we're gonna empty that closet. If you wanna get out of here without the two of us stomping you, I'd leave now." Nothing happened. I wasn't surprised. It's not that I doubted D—if anything, the dude was honest to a fault—but the story was so far-fetched. There's no way anyone could be in there. But still...D is honest. If he felt a hand, he might've felt a hand. "You gonna feel around in there or what?" he asked me. "I said let's look." "You gotta feel too. I felt." "I didn't agree to that," I protested. "Neither did I, but here we are," he said, "don't make me pull rank." I wasn't going to win. The only thing left to do would be to stick my arm into the garbage closet, hoping that a phantom hand wouldn't grab my arm. What the fuck even was this job? D shined the light into the darkness. Two bags fell and split open on the floor. One was filled with maggots. I looked back at D, "If I'm sticking my hand in there, you're picking up the creepy crawlies." "Fine," he said. "Now, come on, man. Let's do this." I sighed and reached into the closet. It was packed with smelly garbage bags, and the old owner had also heaped in a bunch of raggedy blankets to fill the gaps between the bags. I slid my arm into a tar-black opening and felt around in the darkness. "How long do I need to feel around for a hand?" "Bro, just do me a solid, huh? I need to know I'm not crazy." I pushed my arm deeper into the hole and felt around the trash bags. I half expected D to laugh and tell me this was some elaborate prank he was pulling. But, when I glanced back at him, he intently watched me. There was real fear in his eyes – a thing I didn't think I'd ever see out of him. "I don't think…" My hand brushed against something long and pointy, like a finger. My eyes bugged open because D ran closer with the flashlight. "You feel it, don't you?!" I did feel it. It was a hand. I reached around, found the wrist, and pulled as hard as possible. All the bags around me started to roll, and before I knew it, my force sent me falling back on my ass. The rank garbage rained all over me, but I still held onto that arm. I pushed the bags off myself, maggots landing on my face and hair, and stood up. D dropped the flashlight and was doubled over with laughter. I looked down at my hand and saw why. I was holding an arm, but it didn't belong to a man or some creature. It was a mannequin arm. I threw it down with disgust and shook all the creepy crawlies off me. D had dropped to the floor, barely able to breathe. I was hot. This job was bad enough, and now this? "Did you fuckin' know it was a mannequin arm?" "I swear...I swear I didn't, man. But that shit is funny as fuck." D has the kind of laugh that can bring anyone around to join him. Not long after, I fell under the spell of his piped-piper chuckles. I threw the arm at him, and he caught it. He helped me off the ground and apologized between the laughs. He patted my back with the arm and started cracking up again. I hurled the arm across the room. That's when we heard Trashey's bells ringing. We looked to where I had left the Jester, but it wasn't there anymore. D and I locked eyes. We both wanted to speak but found our ability to do so gone as if we had violated an agreement with Ursula, the sea witch. We heard the little bell jingling again, this time coming from one of the back rooms. "How?" was all D could push out. "Rats," I said. "Has to be." "Why are the rats taking the doll?" BOOM! The closet door behind us slammed shut. We both jumped, and when D's feet hit the ground, he sprinted out the front door. I wanted to join him, but I caught a shadow moving along the wall leading to the kitchen and turned to it. In my peripheral vision, it looked like something with long limbs skulking into the kitchen. The bell started ringing again. It was still in the bedrooms. "He..hello?" I called out. Nobody answered. I took a step toward the crowded hallway that led to the back bedrooms. "Is anyone there?" This time, there was the sound of something moving in the kitchen. Unlike the quick skittering we had heard previously, this was someone moving slowly and deliberately. Someone trying not to make any noise. They were either trying to hide from me or stalk me. Neither idea sparked joy. "Bro, I'm sorry," D said, peering in from the front door. "I didn't mean to run like away like a little kid, man." I turned to him and put my fingers to my lips to shush him. He nodded, and I pointed toward the kitchen. He wearily inched back into the house, whipping his head around to see if anything around him was out of the ordinary. Feeling assured he was safe, he crept in but kept the flashlight in his hand, cocked and ready to swing. The bell started dinging again in the back room. I pointed towards myself and then the backrooms. D nodded, but he wasn't going to join me back there. I wasn't even sure I could make my way back there as quietly as I wanted. There was a small path between the piles of trash, and I was too big for it. I was sure I'd make a racket cutting through, giving whoever was back there a fair warning that someone was coming. Regardless, I was going to try. As I took my first step, we heard something moving in the kitchen again. This time, D saw the same shadow I had. He mimed to me that he thought a man was in there and that he was going to head that way. I delayed my trip to the back bedrooms and hung back just in case he needed some help. Still, after the adrenaline of the moment passed, I had second thoughts about going to the back bedrooms alone. It seemed like the kind of decision a dumb character would make in a slasher movie. I may not be smart, but I ain't that dumb, either. I quietly stepped toward the kitchen, flanking D as he approached. We heard the cabinet doors open and slam close. There was more movement on the floor as well. It sounded like more than one rat. Then the strangest noise came out of there...the jingling of a bell. Someone threw a trash bag toward the living room as we stood there. It landed with a wet splat and spilled the rotten innards across the floor. The food in the bag was so old it had melted into a putrid, black ooze. It sprayed onto D's pants. "You about to get fucked up!" D yelled. He rushed into the kitchen, flashlight held high, ready to crown the bag tosser. I ran behind him, believing a show of force might deter whoever was in there. But when we entered the room, there wasn't a person in there. We saw two rats running along the counters but no lanky-limbed person. The rats squealed, dove into the trash pile, and disappeared from our view. D looked over at me and shook his head. "There was someone in here, man. Those damn rats didn't throw that bag." "Can I help you, gentlemen?" came a voice from the front door. D and I turned to see a nicely dressed middle-aged white guy standing there. His fake but friendly smile was plastered on his face and didn't present any immediate threat. With this job, you always get looky-loos who want to see how demented their neighbor had been, but they rarely walk into the house. Considering everything that had happened up to this point, the Pope could show up, and we'd be leery. "You can't be in here, man," D said. "I'm always here," the man said. "Well, then your streak ends today," D said, keeping calm, "this is a job site now and isn't safe for the general public." The man started laughing. "I'm not the general public." "Did you know the man that lived here?" I asked. "In a sense. I watched him for years," the stranger said. "He made many poor decisions. Strange person." "Well, he's not even a person anymore," D said, his tone shifting. "He's passed on and left us this mess to clean up. Since we're in control of the site, we can ask you to leave. If you get hurt, we can get sued. If we get sued, I get fired. I get fired, my landlord kicks me out of my place, and I have to live in my car. Since I'm not trying to live out of my beater, you have to go, sir." "You live off Baltimore Avenue, right?" D's face dropped. He did live near there, but how did this guy know that? D squared up and took a more aggressive posture. "Who are you?" D asked. "You work with Pete?" "I know Pete," he said, "but he's never met me." "What the hell does that mean?" "Yeah," I said, "you're speaking in riddles. Just tell us who you are and what you want." Before the man could speak, we heard Trashley's bell jingling again. This time, it was coming from inside the kitchen despite my having heard it in the back bedroom just minutes earlier. How did it get into the kitchen? D and I turned back and saw a rat run across the floor with a cat collar around its neck. "Was that the collar on Trashley?" I asked. "Yeah," D said. We heard the jingling as the rat dove into the sea of trash bags and disappeared from sight. Then, it went quiet again. "Where is the doll?" I asked. We returned to where the stranger had been standing, but he was gone. I glanced back toward the front door and saw it swinging on its hinges. I looked at D and shrugged. As weird as that dude was, he was gone now. "Who the fuck was that?" "How did he know where I lived?" D said. "What the hell is going on, man?" There was more jingling in the kitchen again. We turned away from the open front door and back to the noise. D and I entered the garbage-stuffed room and scanned for the bell's location. It rang a few more times but stopped as suddenly as it started. I elbowed D in the ribs and nodded at the kitchen window. It was mostly covered with old shoe boxes and a ratty old curtain, but you could see shadows moving outside. We saw the stranger pass by the window, heading toward the back door. We waited a beat, and then the door handle started shaking like he was trying to get in. The door must've been locked because he didn't open it. D was beginning to get frustrated and yelled out, "Hey man, you gotta get the fuck out now. Okay?" The man stopped but didn't walk away. You could still see him outside in the curtain. D, thoroughly annoyed at this point, marched through the trash and ripped open the curtain on the back door. Instead of seeing the man standing there, though, we saw nothing but the waist-high grass in the backyard. "What the…" D mumbled and let go of the curtain. You could see the stranger's outline again when it swung back into place. I audibly gasped, and D grabbed the curtain and yanked it away again. Again, there was nothing but grass waving in the breeze. "How?" I said. Before D could respond, one of the cabinet doors swung open, and Trashley spilled out. The doll landed with a thud on the counter. We watched the lifeless ragdoll as it lay on the ugly formica and waited for it to move again. As if it read our thoughts, the doll's left arm fell and dangled off the edge. That was enough to drive us both out of the kitchen. As we returned to the living room, the front door opened again. The stranger had come back. D walked up to him and got into the man's face. I ran over and put an arm on D's shoulder, but he shrugged me off. "Who the hell are you, man? What are you doing here?" "I came to check on this place and see if things were in order. You two seem to be the perfect men for the job." "Did Pete send you?" I asked. "Did you know the guy that owned this place?" "He was one of the people we monitored. He was meddling with things beyond his control, and he paid for that curiosity." "You killed him?" "No. He awakened something he shouldn't have. He paid for that decision. I came to witness this."" "Witness what?" "Maybe we should call Pete," I said. "Get this straightened out. "I didn't know dolls could stand like that," the stranger said, pointing toward the kitchen. We both snapped our heads back toward the kitchen and saw Trashley standing tall on its thin fabric legs. It didn't move, but it was clear it had moved at some point. It was in a small pile on the counter when we last saw it. The whole energy in the house had changed in an unnatural direction, like seeing watch hands run backward. D's eyes were so wide I was afraid they'd pop out. He was gripping the flashlight so tight I thought he might shatter it. Drops of sweat formed on his bald head and rolled down his face. He wasn't a tiny man, and I was worried these scares might cause his heart to stop. Confusion is too weak a word to describe what we felt in the moment—befuddlement, maybe—like discovering there had been aliens on Earth this whole time, and your boss was one of them. As we stared, the stranger said, "I think now you have a real mess on your hands." "I think I'm about to beat your ass," D said, turning to confront the man but not finding him standing there. "What the hell? Where did he go?" There was a rumble of thunder, and it shook the house. D and I both ducked like something was going to fall on us. I felt the thunderclap's vibrations in my guts. I glanced at the windows and noticed the sun still peaking through the edges of the blackout curtains. There were no clouds overhead, and I realized that the thunderclap didn't come from above us but from below. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat when we heard something knocking inside the closed closet door. It was quiet initially, but each successive thump was louder than the last. Soon, the knocks were so loud and so violent the door knob rattled with each rap. I glanced back into the kitchen. The Jester was gone. It had either fallen behind some of the bags or had moved away. Neither option made me feel too good. If this thing could skulk through the trash without making a sound, it could sneak right up behind us without us knowing. I didn't know if it was violent, and I had no intention of finding out, but the thought nested in my brain and set up shop. "D, the doll is gone." "Man, fuck this place," he said, nodding toward the door, "let's get the hell out of here." "Best idea I've heard today," I said, heading toward the door. D got there first, and when he grabbed the handle, he let out a painful yelp. I didn't need to ask what happened because I had heard the sizzle. He pulled his hand back, and the mark had already reddened and started to swell. "What the hell?" he said, blowing on his hand as if his breath would cure it. The knocking in the closet started up again. It was loud from the jump, but the noise that bothered me was hearing the doorknob turn and the closet door squeak open. I ran out of the vestibule and back into the living room to discover the Jester hanging from the handle. Its half face was turned up into a crooked smile. "D," I said, my voice trailing. He walked over to me, and when he saw Trashley hanging from the door, all the blood ran from his face. "H-hello?" I offered to the open door. Nothing but silence was coming from the closet. I was happy for the silence. Loved every sweet second of it. Maybe it meant that all this hoo-doo voodoo shit was over, and we could get back to normal. It wasn't over. The closet door flew open, sending the jester doll flying into the kitchen and out of sight. We heard something breathing inside the darkness of the closet. Across the living room, there was a movement in the trash piles. I looked over to see the mannequin hand flying through the air and back into the closet. "We gotta go," I said. D slapped at the front door handle again, which was still hot. He shook his head. "I can't go this way." We burst back into the living room and heard more rumbling from the closet. Keeping a wide berth, we stayed away from the closet and eyed the back door in the kitchen. Before we could step in that direction, there was another bone-shaking thunderclap. This time, though, all the piles of trash from the back bedrooms flooded into the living room and created a wall of garbage blocking access to the back of the house. There was a growl from the closet, and we both looked over and saw that mannequin's hand reach out and grip the door frame. Whatever was in there had attached the arm to its body and was pulling into the living room. That was our signal to get the hell out. We turned to run, and all of the kitchen trash rushed forward. Like the back room trash, the bags formed a wall trapping us inside the living room. There was another growl from the closet, and a second arm reached out and grabbed the door frame. This arm looked organic but not well. The flesh was gray and ripped. You could see muscles and bones as the arm flexed on the door. "Fuck this," D said. He ran at the wall of trash blocking the kitchen and threw his whole massive frame into it. Like the Kool-Aid man, he burst through and landed with a thud on the filthy floor. His plan worked, and even though he was covered in foul-smelling shit juice and in a living nightmare, he turned back to me with a smile so wide you would've thought he'd just won the Powerball. The smile quickly faded. From the top of the refrigerator, Trashley uncoiled like a spring and launched itself at D with an old rusty knife in its tiny hands. It landed with a chaotic thud but quickly scrambled to its feet and sunk the blade into D's calves. D screamed, but the doll just kept slashing at his legs. Blood was pouring out of a dozen wounds and mixing in with the rotten garbage on the floor. D tried grabbing the Jester, but it quickly jabbed the knife forward and clean through D's hand. It tried pulling the blade out but was stuck on the gristle and tendons. I leaped through the wall and landed on the slick floor like Bambi stepping on ice. Unlike the deer, though, I kept my balance. D screamed at me to help him. I took one good step and booted Trashley in the face, sending it violently flying across the room. It landed against the stove like the ragdoll it was, and I heard it's porcelain face crack even further. I reached down and pulled D up. He screamed in pain, and blood was gushing from his wounds, but he knew enough to get to stepping. There was a roar from the closet, and I peeked over my shoulder long enough to see a set of bull horns trying to wedge through the narrow closet door. "We gotta move," I said, shouldering D's weight under my own. He was struggling to walk, and the pain was exquisite, but to his credit, he was not letting the oozing wounds slow him down. I'm convinced he would've just ripped that leg off at the knee and hobbled out the door if he could've. We got to the back door, and I slapped at the handle. Like the front door, it was hot as well. I looked around for anything to cover my hand and spied an old rag in a nearby trash bag. With my free hand, I ripped it open and grabbed the rag. It was wet and smelled like death, but I didn't care. I touched the rag to the handle – it sizzled, and I could still feel the intense heat on my skin – but it worked well enough to try to open the door. The handle wouldn't budge. I dropped the rag and tried to boot the door open, but all that did was send pain up my leg and back. I swore, but it was drowned out by the crashing coming from the living room. I glanced back and saw the closet door frame being ripped from the walls. "Look out!" D yelled. I turned in time to see Trashley leaping through the air with a fork in their hands. It landed on my leg and sunk the fork's tines into the back of my knee. I screamed in pain and lost my footing, sending both D and I to the ground. I had collapsed onto the doll and could feel it jabbing my shoulders with the fork. I sat up, and the Jester lept for my face. D, without hesitation, plucked the doll out of the air like he was snagging a line drive. In one fluid motion, he turned and hurled it hard against the stove again. I scrambled to my feet, my knees burning, and tried to bash the door open. I hit it three times as hard as my body could handle, and all I did was damage my shoulder. I went to slam into it a fourth time when I felt D's hand grab the waist of my pants and yank me down. I landed hard on top of him, but he didn't mind. As I slammed into his chest, I turned to see Trashley grab the bottom of the stove with its stringy felt arms and easily lift it off the ground. With the ease of an ace pitcher hurling a fastball, the doll threw the stove in our direction. My old duck and cover drills came into practice, and I covered my neck and head as the stove flew over our bodies. The stove slammed into the back door, cracking it in half and knocking it off its hinges. Daylight streamed in, and our salvation was a mere few feet away. I could see our way out to freedom. But it was just an oasis. The stove bounced off the wall, nicked my back, and landed square on D's right arm. It shattered under the weight. He let out a scream like a wounded wild animal. The way we were tangled up sent his painful hollering directly into my ear. He thrashed under me, trying to get away from the weight of the stove, but was only making the break worse. I rolled off of him, grabbed the stove, and pushed it off his mangled arm. I reached down and helped D up, but he could barely move. I was afraid he was in shock, and if we lingered any longer, the thing pulling itself out of the closet would be out and after us. I didn't know what it had planned for us, but I didn't think it would invite us to a potluck or anything. "I know it hurts, bro, but we have to…" Then I smelled the gas. I looked over to where the stove had been and saw the telltale wavy vision of leaking gas. At that moment, like divine inspiration, a plan came to me. I reached into my pocket and found my lighter. "I can't move," D said, "Just leave me, man." "Told you I wasn't a bitch," I said. "Give me twenty feet of hustle, and I can get us out of this mess." I showed him the lighter, and he knew the plan. D nodded, gritted his teeth, and leaned his weight on me. He was in so much pain, but he bit his lip and moved. I spied an old paper towel roll and grabbed it in my free hand. I managed to help D get out of the house and walked him about fifteen feet into the backyard. I placed him on the ground. He grabbed his arm and let out a whimper but didn't want to slow me down. "Take cover," I said, and he scooted away. I headed back to the house, but he called my name. I turned and saw his painful, sweaty face. "Toast these motherfuckers," he spat out. I nodded and headed back toward the house. I held the paper towel roll firmly and pulled out my lighter. I didn't know how fast the gas would ignite, but I knew I wouldn't be able to dawdle. I also realized this might be the last thing I ever did, but I was okay with that decision. It was worth it if I could send these two things back to hell. When I got to the door, the smell of gas was strong. This entire house was an accelerant, and everything would light up like a city's Fourth of July celebration. I stepped inside, and it was surprisingly quiet. I looked over at where the closet door had been and only saw a massive hole. The thing had gotten out, but I didn't know where (or how) it was hiding. When I turned my attention back to the gas, I saw the Jester. It was standing on the counter. As soon as I turned, it leaped at me. It landed on my neck and coiled its limbs around it like an anaconda. I struggled to breathe and fought with everything I had left in the tank. The Jester's hands, previously soft and cotton-filled, were now tipped with razor-sharp claws. It raked those Kruger-esque daggers across my face. Blood gushed from my wounds and dripped into my eyes, blurring my vision. I screamed and pulled as hard as I could, but this little monster was velcroed to my body. I had dropped the lighter and paper towel roll in the struggle, but that was a secondary concern. I needed to get free before attempting to light this place up. I felt the doll's legs growing as it tried to wrap up my arms. I was face to face with its blinking, drawn-on eye. It opened its half-mouth, and inside was row upon row of porcelain daggers. It lunged for my face to bite my cheek, but I held it off as best as I could. The arms around my neck started to tighten, and around the edges of my eyes, the world began to dim. I was afraid I was done for. I felt my knees buckle, and I fell onto my back. The black edges of the vision were starting to tunnel. I had seconds to do something, or I'd be toast myself. I moved my thumbs under the Jester's tightening arms and pushed with all my might. At first, it didn't budge, but then I felt the pressure lessen and could breathe again. "Fuck you," I spat and funneled all my stored-up anger and resentment, and strength into pushing this little clingy bitch off me. It snapped at my hands and caught my knuckles, but I kept going until its spindly arms were off my throat. I ripped its legs off my body and threw the Jester right towards the gas leak. It crashed against the wall, its half-face shattering on impact. I searched around for my lighter and found it. I flicked the spark wheel so hard I feared it'd break. There were a few sparks, but nothing caught. I urged it on, taking a peek at where the monster was. As I looked up, I saw the Jester's new face. The porcelain had broken away to reveal a red and black pulsating mass of muscle, blood, and gore that dripped from the wound. There was a bellow from the living room, and a massive creature that looked strikingly like a Minotaur, albeit with one mannequin arm, came stomping into view. It must've sensed my presence because it roared again and charged at the wall. The wall shuttered and cracked but held for the time being. I knew it'd come down easy the next time it ran at the wall. I was running out of time. I pressed my thumb down hard on the spark wheel and gave it a skin-ripping spin. It worked! There was finally a dancing orange flame at the edge of the Bic. I held it against the paper towel roll and waited for it to catch. The wait felt painstakingly long. The Minotaur bellowed again and slammed into the wall. It's massive head came through. I looked at the Jester, getting down in a crouch to leap at me again. "Light, goddamn it, LIGHT!" I screamed. The temperature finally hit four hundred fifty-one degrees, and the flame transferred from the lighter to the towel roll. I threw the roll at the Jester as it took to the air. The roll hit him, and the impact sent them both to the floor. They landed right near the gas line. I managed to get about seven feet outside before the flame caught the gas and sent the entire house sky-high. My body was thrown like a rag doll twenty feet into the neighbor's backyard. I landed on my shoulder with a sickening thud and blacked out. Hours later, I woke up in a hospital room. A dozen or so machines around me were beeping and keeping me going. Pain racked my entire body, and each breath was a world of discomfort I'd never been to before. But I was alive. Officially, the cause of the explosion was a gas leak. The fire department said it might've been leaking for years, but it was hard to determine because of all the stuff crammed into the home. D was in the hospital for about two weeks before being released. I was stuck for a few more weeks, as the explosion had rocked my brain and gave me post-concussion symptoms. We shared a smoke outside on D's last day in the hospital. We talked about what happened and thought it best not to be totally honest with everyone. This was mainly because we were sure everyone hadn't been honest with us, especially Pete. The stranger had name-dropped him specifically, and Pete acted very strangely in the explosion's aftermath. He was surprised we had survived and asked a lot of odd questions, some of which seemed to suggest he knew more than he was letting on. D has slyly started looking for a new job, and I'll follow him when I get out. I'm counting down the days not only because I'm sick of hospital food but also because I don't feel safe here. Pete keeps popping in, and I swear I saw the stranger hanging around the lobby. But what really concerns me and makes me think I might not make it out of here is what happened last night. At about three in the morning, when everyone on the floor was sleeping, I heard a bell jingling in the corridor outside my room. When I went out to look, I saw the shadow of a short, long-limbed person turn the corner and disappear. submitted by /u/SunHeadPrime to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

First | Previous | Next Patreon | Official Subreddit | Series Wiki There was a clear stark difference between the encounter at the garden, and the circumstances currently unfolding here in the workshop. With the former, the overwhelming mood was dominated by fear, all stemming from a lack of control. Of being hunted down whilst being on the defensive. With the latter, with how things were currently taking shape, it was the exact opposite. As the armorer immediately took to the offensive, locking everything down and tackling the situation with a vice grip, making sure to maximize the one key advantage he had over anything or anyone else here: control. As the workshop was the armorer’s domain, a space that he had complete dominion over. And it showed… just by the way he walked, as he strutted about the room with a menacing aura generating an equally menacing series of cold metallic footsteps. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sharp, hollow, metallic clacks of empty metal boots on solid stone was in equal measures ominous as it was deafening, especially without any other sounds to really drown or dampen them out. As all of the whooshing of self-igniting furnaces, the sizzling of quenching steel, and any other ambient noise had all but been put on hold as the room was placed into lockdown. Taken in a completely different context, the sound was nothing more than the footfalls of a grandfatherly figure, one who spent his pastimes busying himself by painting faces on melons. Taken in this context however? The sounds were nothing short of doom incarnate, as everything down to the man’s stance had changed drastically from the lackadaisical persona that had dominated most of our hours-long interactions. “Emma.” Sorecar announced loudly, ushering me along as he made his slow, meticulous scope of the now-barricaded room. It was only after I got within earshot of him did he finally speak freely. ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 300% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS But not before establishing what I assumed to be another sound-dampening privacy screen. “Stay close to me, and allow me to make the first maneuvers once we find this interloper.” The man announced calmly. “Rest assured, this trickster-in-hiding is less of a threat than their advanced magic may lead you to believe. Indeed the reason why I’m requesting that you remain close by is not because I foresee myself needing to protect you from the harm they may incur, but rather, I foresee a greater need to protect them from your strength and personal initiative.” The man announced with a certain level of cockiness coated in a layer of excitement. It was definitely a much more long-winded way of saying, I’m not protecting you from them, but I’m protecting them from you. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve been able to use one of my creations against a live target.” Sorecar announced ominously, as we made our way around the workshop, and towards the set of workstations from the weapons demonstration just a few hours earlier. He reached for the sword, picking it up, stopping to admire its craftsmanship as he craned his head back towards me with a single hand placed cheekily above where his mouth should’ve been. “Too much?” I knew not to respond to a rhetorical question when I heard one. “Hah! Of course it is. Wouldn’t want to slice up what could well be a student during the grace period after all now would we?” The man admitted slyly, as he placed the sword back down carefully, only to take a few steps forward towards the only non-lethal object here: the polearm. “Ah yes, this will do very nicely!” He beamed out as we continued our careful, methodical pacing through the room. This time however, the armorer decided to break up the overbearing silence with a series of slow, rhythmic, marching-cadence-like taps; tapping the polearm’s blunt end against the stone floor. It felt like he was just toying with the would-be prankster at this point, but while I would generally be sympathetic towards the plight of someone who just wanted to goof around, this situation was the stark exception. The sheer dread that still lingered from the fabricated encounter with the fake-null was still alive and well at the forefront of my mind, invalidating what little sympathies I normally would have to the trickster responsible. Whoever this was, they had more than Sorecar to answer to. Because the implications of this prank went far beyond just how they managed to trick all of my sensors. Although that was also a very concerning issue to be addressed. It also begged the question of just how they even learned of the null’s existence in the first place. Moreover, it also brought into question how much they knew about the whole null situation. Which just opened up an entire can of worms that I just wasn’t ready to deal with this late into the night, and early into the morning. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife at this point, as it was clear Sorecar had to be doing these little taps for some purpose other than freaking the prankster out. Or at least I hoped so. Because whilst I hated to admit it, I did have to rely on him, and his judgment alone, given that none of my sensors could pick up on any other signatures in the room other than the both of us. “EVI, quick status report on sensors?” I spoke to my only other reliable companion here. “I have run a total of 2,793 separate, distinct diagnostics on every sensor and sub-system involving the active and passive sensor suites, Cadet Booker. All systems are operating nominally.” The implications of the unknown perp’s ability to evade my sensors were worrying, but I put those thoughts aside from now as I awaited the inevitable end to this entire fiasco. Because there was only one way this could end. And when you had not one, but two armored beasts hunting you down… it was no longer a matter of if, but when you were found. Especially when one of these armored beasts was a five thousand year-old legendary armorer. The only question now was just how it would all play out. “Hold.” The armorer stopped in his tracks, but maintained the constant tapping. He slowly craned his head downwards towards a seemingly empty patch of bare stone in front of us, ceased his tapping, raised his polearm, then- ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 430% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS WARNING MOTION DETECTED. -all hell broke loose. The workbench closest to us was abruptly, and violently, pushed to the wayside. Causing all manner of tools and equipment to crash against the stone floor with a series of sharp, distinct, metallic clangs. The cacophony of a thousand different pieces of metal all slamming into a hard solid surface was deafening. However, it only got worse from there. As another innocent workbench became the target of this invisible assailant. Then another. And another. And another. Soon, it became clear where the invisible perp was, as they were leaving a very visible trail of telekinetically-upturned workbenches in their wake. Each row of benches being forcibly ripped from their moorings, and haphazardly flung into the central aisle as if to act as cover for whatever last-gambit mad-dash they were attempting. As it became abundantly clear where their intended destination was: the main entryway. It didn’t take too long for Sorecar to act with this newfound insight, as he lifted the polearm in the general direction of the rapidly forming mess- ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 590% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS -and lobbed it forward with the strength and ferocity of an olympic javelin thrower out for fucking blood. So visceral was that throw that I genuinely thought the poor invisible fool at the end of the business-end of the weapon was definitely done for. But of course, this being a Sorecar-grade weapon, something far different happened. A flurry of tendrils flared out from the central shaft of the polearm, as the sharpened blade at the very end of it reformed to resemble something blunt and non-lethal. This culminated in a spectacular display of puddy-like netting coming into contact with something, eventually hugging and highlighting the outline of a body. ALERT: [1] NEW ENTITY (HUMANOID) DETECTED WITHIN THE A/O. The suit’s notifications pinged, followed just moments later by a dull painful thud as the unknown interloper slammed face-first into the barricaded entryway. Whatever magic had been used to obscure them from the suit’s sensors had clearly failed after the net had made contact. This meant that the rest of the sensors and the massive database of cataloged names and faces were quick to make short work of the identity of this trickster. And the results… was someone I should’ve seen coming from a mile away. ENTITY IFF CODE CONFIRMED: A09. FRIENDLY. ILUNOR RULARIA. To say that my blood was boiling at this point would’ve been the understatement of the century, because if it wasn’t for the suit’s helmet, I would be baring my nonexistent fangs at the blue-scaled prick right about now. “AGH! RELEASE ME! RELEASE ME!” The blue thing hissed, yelled, and yapped out loudly. So loud in fact that my suit’s audio systems actually had to compensate for the high frequencies being used that could’ve very well sent my ears ringing. “UNTANGLE ME FROM THESE UNDUE BINDS, THESE DEPLORABLE TENDRILS OF INJUSTICE! YOU HAVE OVERSTEPPED YOUR BOUNDS, TREATING ME IN SUCH A DEPLORABLE MANNER BEFITTING OF COMMON GAME! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!” He prattled on, and would’ve more than likely committed to a whole Shakespearean bit if it wasn’t for the armorer quickly stepping in. Which was probably for the best, since I would’ve more than likely just pushed the discount kobold’s buttons with what I had to say. “First year?” The armorer began with a nonplussed sigh. “CORRECT! I AM A STUDENT OF THE TRANSGRACIAN ACADEMY, AN ESTEEMED PEER WITH RIGHTS TO SCHOLARSHIP, AND YOU HAVE JUST DISGRACED BOTH MY PERSONAL, AND, THE ACADEMY’S HONOR BY THIS ONE ACT!” The discount kobold continued, struggling in place as he thrashed this way and that, looking more like a confused and frustrated dog who’d just managed to tangle themselves underneath a blanket several times their size. “YOU SHALL PAY FOR THESE TRANSGRESSIONS, I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND THAT!” “I’m afraid I’m simply following the Academy's decorum, my lord.” The armorer continued, standing tall, and completely unphased by all of Ilunor’s threats and accusations. “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF DECORUM, YOU ARE BUT A CREATURE, A THING-” “Indeed, and you could say I am a creature of habit, my lord. As a result, I adhere strongly to the Academy’s codes of conduct. By passing orientation, you will have already acknowledged your commitment to the upholding of both the rules and the expectations of an Academy student, correct?” “THE RULES SAY NOTHING ABOUT BEING BOUND LIKE A HOG!” “The rules explicitly mention the areas of the academy with restrictions for each respective year-group, and the repercussions that come with violating those restrictions.” The armorer continued calmly. “WELL I HAVE SPECIAL PER-” Ilunor stopped in his tracks, then just as quickly backtracked and shifted his angle of attack. “WELL WE ALL HAVE SPECIAL PERMISSION TO ENTER THE WORKSHOP TODAY! IT IS THE WEAPONS INSPECTION IS IT NOT?!” “Correct.” The armorer spoke without hesitation. “However it is now past the stroke of midnight.” He pointed to a timepiece on the far corner of the room. “And as such, the grounds for that claim have since become moot. Unless, of course, you wish to claim the rights to carry-over the prior day’s unique permission?” Ilunor seemed to completely freeze as soon as Sorecar made his play, as his eyes began darting around the room, staring at anything but the armorer. “Carry-over will imply that you have exercised the right to be here, prior to the stroke of midnight.” Sorecar clarified, as if to hammer home how much he was able to effectively corner Ilunor. “Do you wish to plead that case, my lord?” He quickly added with just the slightest hint of that overzealous confidence that he’d so freely used with me, but kept away from this particular interaction. “I will say nothing further.” Ilunor began with a sooty huff. “Only that I demand to be released, immediately.” And despite Sorecar having effectively cornered him into an admission by omission, and despite all of the back and forths clearly proving him to be in the right, the man still complied to this request with only the slightest hints of hesitation. He held his hand out, calling forth the polearm back as the magical netting that had kept Ilunor contained was removed almost instantaneously. Given how much of a gremlin he was, I half-expected him to skitter away just as quickly as he was freed. Thankfully, or perhaps regrettably, he didn’t, as he stood up and dusted himself off without so much as saying a word. “You understand that I will have to write you up for a disciplinary violation and a transgression of Academy codes of conduct, correct?” Sorecar spoke as soon as Ilunor got up. “I still stand by my refusal to speak further on this topic, and as such, I refuse to accept such petty attacks at my character from someone as unbefitting to judge my moral character as the Academy’s armorer.” The Vunerian continued without so much as a hint of nervousness to his voice. “I am still bound by Academy codes of conduct to request that this issue be investigated further, and that the appropriate disciplinary measures are taken as a result.” Sorecar stated plain and simple. “Then we are at an impasse.” The small thing yelped out something fierce. “As such, I will request that you defer my case and this supposed transgression to a higher disciplinary authority.” Ilunor stated plainly, which seemed to take the armorer by genuine surprise. “You understand that the next appropriate disciplinary authority are the Black and Blue-Robed professors?” Sorecar spoke with a tone of disbelief. “Correct, and I am more than happy to exercise that right.” The Vunerian stood ‘tall’, or as tall as he could given how he barely reached the man’s thighs. “I am unwilling to continue this charade, of being belittled by an entity with such a clear degree of bias that it is only capable of structured, unintuitive thought. A being separated from a lowly golem just by a scant few trivial steps.” Ilunor practically spat out. The armorer paused for a few seconds, and during that time, I half assumed he would unexpectedly punt the smug little thing straight across the room. The workshop was the size of a football stadium after all, and it could be argued that compared to the armorer, Ilunor was roughly football-sized as well. What I got instead, however, was the exact opposite of justified retribution. As the armorer simply took that verbal assault, and just toughed it out. “Then you shall be receiving a notice for disciplinary review by the likes of the black-robed tomorrow.” He stated sternly. “I’ll be looking forward to it.” The Vunerian grinned, clearly taking that as a win, before snapping his head sharply towards the main entryway. “Ahem.” He cleared his throat loudly, not even granting the armorer the dignity of a worded request. Sure enough, all of the bolts and chains that had held the door shut began receding or outright vanishing altogether. This prompted the Vunerian to make his getaway, as he pushed forward with a certain satisfaction in his step. And he would’ve walked out there scott-free as well… if I hadn’t had a few things I needed to clear with him first. The blue thing’s little legs were completely outmatched by my strides, as I barely had to do more than to briskly walk for a few short seconds in order to overtake him. I planted myself in front of the Vunerian just a few feet outside of the entryway, but much to no one’s surprise, he simply ignored me and merely attempted to skirt right by me. But I wasn’t having any of it. I scooted over to block him at every turn, keeping up the non-confrontational war of attrition by tiring him out just by pacing either to my left or right, making short work of his desire to just wordlessly walk out of here without any repercussions. Soon enough, the little thing relented, and with the pitter patter of his claws shaking in place from frustration, he finally craned his head upwards to acknowledge me. “WHAT IS IT, EARTHREALMER?! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” He yelled loudly. “Really?” I shot back with disbelief. “Do you honestly have the nerve to ask that after the stunt you pulled?” “Stunt?” The Vunerian looked straight at me, directly into my lenses, and didn’t so much as flinch as he maintained near-perfect eye-contact. “You will have to be either more discrete with regards to your wild-realmer proclivities for bombastic over exaggerations, or more forthcoming with evidence should you wish to direct such petty accusations at me for situations and circumstances beyond my awareness and control.” He spoke as if nothing had happened. His tone, the way he spoke, the way he regarded me at this point in time, all of it felt like one big well rehearsed act. There was lying through one’s teeth. Then… there was whatever this was. Ilunor’s expert ability to skirt past the truth in a manner that was borderline self-delusional, and it was beyond frustrating to deal with. “Ilunor. Look at me.” I breathed in and out, steadying myself as I crouched down to at least partially meet him at eye-level. However, despite this being the greatest extent of my crouch, I still found myself a solid foot above him. “Are you hearing yourself right now? Can you really be saying this with a straight face? We both know what happened in there, and we both know who’s responsible. You can’t just skirt past simple logic by substituting reality with your own narrative. So please, just compromise with me here, just tell me why you did what you did.” There was a distinct pause now, as it was clear that there was some intimidation factor to be had with me shifting my weight like that. “Earthrealmer, are you hearing yourself right now? Are you this socially daft?” Ilunor regarded me just a bit differently now, as if he was genuinely taken aback at my attempt at a straightforward conversation. “Excuse me-?” “Newrealmer.” He interrupted me before I could get my point across, as he gestured straight for the workshop with both arms. “The alleged transgression has been deferred to a higher authority for further deliberation of truth. And until the higher authority decrees the extent of the validity of said truth, the matter is completely moot.” I had to pause, as I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you’re willing to just ignore fundamental reasoning, deferring reality to someone else just to clear your-” “I am willing to abide by the rules of standard social convention.” The Vunerian stated plainly. “And I suggest you do the same, should you wish to integrate with civilized society.” He spoke with that same level of confidence and cockiness from before. It was at that point as I shifted back to my full height, that the discount kobold’s actions all finally fell into place. Everything about the small blue thing finally clicked. It wasn’t so much the fact that they made any coherent or logical sense by traditional metrics, but rather, that they made perfect sense in the very specific set of circumstances that governed Nexian social conventions. Letting out another long sigh, I realized there was only one correct way to really address this whole situation, and that was by speaking the Vunerian’s language. A language which had been touched on several times during SIOP training, and one that I wasn’t too excited to be diving into. The language that was political double-speak. “But we’re not currently in the public eye now are we?” I stated plainly, with little in the way of frustration or vitriol. “There’s little use for pretense outside of the established narrative.” I continued, before I pulled out my little trump card that I didn’t realize I’d be using this quickly. “So we can continue talking like we’re in the public eye, amongst our peers, and under the gaze of the faculty. Or…” I paused for effect, pulling the solid-gold library card out, twirling it in between my fingers. “We can talk like the adults that we are.” I didn’t even allow the lizard more than a solid few seconds to lay his eyes on the card, as I flicked it back into one of my pockets as soon as he’d had enough time to realize just what it was. ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 300% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS “Alright, newrealmer...” Ilunor’s tone shifted now, the previous pretenses of shock and indignation were smothered just as another privacy screen came up. “You understand the basics of the game.” He admitted under a strained breath of defeat. “But whether or not you’re ready to play it is another matter unto itself. So I ask you now: are you willing to let bygones be bygones, forget everything that has transpired within the confines of the sanctuary of that forsaken golem you’ve clearly taken a liking to, and start anew? Or… do you insist on pursuing this matter further?” “You ask this as if you were the one setting up the rules.” I spoke plainly, calling Ilunor’s bluff. “And we both know that’s not the case.” Ilunor shifted in place, his gaze drifting nervously to the side for the first time out of any of our interactions, as it was clear something had struck a nerve in him. “We’ll touch on this matter later.” The Vunerian spoke sheepishly. “This is neither the time nor the place for such discussions.” He continued, as he once again attempted to scurry off. But he wasn’t going anywhere until I got at least one thing straightened out. “Answer me this first: you chose that creature on purpose, didn’t you?” The Vunerian paused before the privacy screen fully dissipated. As he stood in place for what felt like an entire minute before deflating. “There are an untold number of creatures I could’ve pulled from, newrealmer. Yet I chose that one. Do with that knowledge as you will.” This was perhaps the closest I could get to a yes from Ilunor. So I considered that a win in my book. Especially since it opened up so many more implications to the discount kobold’s involvement in all of this. As I watched him skittering down the long corridor back into the Academy, I started to realize even more palpably now, what kind of a society the Nexus and the Academy were. SIOP had touched on this eventuality, as humanity was not new to this whole game of political doublethink. A game that redefined reality to a set of multiple conflicting narratives existing concurrently, running parallel, yet never touching. Except for when it did, for those in charge of dictating the narrative. It took a lot of effort to navigate that backwards-logic. Because really, there was no logic to it to begin with. As everything was dictated instead by narrative, politics, and the wishy washy world of what was most convenient to whoever was at the top at the time. This was perhaps why Sorecar was so completely removed from it all. I can only imagine how much of this crap one person could take before they went completely nuts. Speaking of Sorecar… I turned back towards the workshop now, as it was about time I bid him my proper goodbyes. Walking back into the expansive room, I was once more hit with a faceful of mana-radiation alarms. ALERT: LOCALIZED SURGE OF MANA-RADIATION DETECTED, 300% ABOVE BACKGROUND RADIATION LEVELS The source of this became clear enough, as I took note of how the various workstations were somehow being rearranged back into their original state. All without Sorecar’s direct involvement; a result of some magical spells no doubt. It took me a few moments before I spotted the man, as he seemed entirely transfixed on what looked to be one of the many suits of armor that adorned the walls. This particular one I recognized as the same design as those target dummies from the earlier demonstration with the knock-off hunter-killer. Sorecar seemed completely out of it, not even acknowledging me as I walked towards him. Though it soon became clear why he'd become so distracted, and what exactly it was that distracted him. As I got closer, I noted how the armorer’s gaze was locked onto a specific part of the suit of armor. More accurately, on a part that had been blown straight through. As right there, on what I assumed was one of the thickest parts of the armor, was a thumb-sized hole which probably wasn’t there before. “Emma Booker, I assume this is your weapon’s doing?” The man finally spoke, tilting his head towards me as he raised a single finger, gesturing towards the gaping hole in question. With hesitation, I nodded sheepishly, confirming the man’s suspicions. “So that’s what you meant by ranged.” The armorer announced in short order, letting out a series of slow chuckles that gradually culminated into a hardy chortle. “And to think, I thought it was a boomerang.” First | Previous | Next ​ (Author’s Note: Hey guys! I honestly can’t believe this, but we’ve actually reached our 30th chapter! I’d like to take the time to just tell you guys how much I’m just so thankful and grateful of all of you guys being here and still sticking around for the story. I’ve always wanted to write a story that people would enjoy, and it’s always been a dream for me to have people actually willing to read the silly stories I have to tell. So thank you guys for being here, and I really hope you guys stick around for more because there’s a lot more I already have planned and charted for this series! :D The next Chapter is already up on Patreon if you guys are interested in getting early access to future chapters!) [If you guys want to help support me and these stories, here's my ko-fi ! And my Patreon for early chapter releases (Chapter 31 of this story is already out on there!)] submitted by /u/Jcb112 to r/HFY [link] [comments]

Save them to your Phone and always have witty jokes at the palm of your hand. 3.14 percent of sailors are pi-rates. 5/4 of people admit they’re bad at fractions. A bartender broke up with her boyfriend, but he kept asking her for another shot. A brain walks into a bar and takes a seat. “I’d like some wings and a pint of beer, please,” it says. “Sorry, but I can’t serve you,” the bartender replies. “You’re out of your head.” A cheeseburger walks into a bar. The bartender says, 'Sorry, we don't serve food here.' A college education now costs $100,000, but it produces three very proud people: the student, his mama, and his pauper. A couple of cups of yogurt walk into a country club. “We don’t serve your kind here,” the bartender says. “Why not?” one yogurt asks. “We’re cultured.” A friend of mine didn’t pay his exorcist. He got repossessed. A friend of mine is known for sweeping girls off their feet. He’s an extremely aggressive janitor. A guy walks into a bar, and there’s a horse serving drinks. The horse asks, “What are you staring at? Haven’t you ever seen a horse tending bar before?” The guy says, “It’s not that. I just never thought the parrot would sell the place.” A guy walks into a bar...and he was disqualified from the limbo contest. A pirate walks into a bar with a paper towel on his head. The bartender says, “What’s with the paper towel?” The pirate says, “Arrr! I’ve got a Bounty on me head!” A turtle is crossing the road when he’s mugged by two snails. When the police ask him what happened, the shaken turtle replies, “I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” Armed robbers—some say they’re a drain on society, but you’ve got to give it to them. Barbers…you have to take your hat off to them. Can February March? No, but April May! Cooking out this weekend? Don’t forget the pickle. It’s kind of a big dill. Dad, can you put my shoes on? No, I don't think they'll fit me. Dad, can you put the cat out? I didn't know it was on fire. Dad, did you get a haircut? No, I got them all cut! Dad: Did you hear about the kidnapping at school? Son: No. What happened? Dad: The teacher woke him up. Daughter: I have a lot of friends named Nathan. There’s Nathan Miller, Nathan Radcliff, Nathan Lewis… Me: When they are together, do you call them the United Nathans? Dear Math, grow up and solve your own problems. Did I tell you the time I fell in love during a backflip? I was heels over head! Did you hear about the aquatic sea mammals that escaped from the zoo? It was otter chaos. Did you hear about the circus fire? It was in tents. Did you hear about the guy who froze to death at the drive-in? He went to see Closed for the Winter. Did you hear about the guy who invented the knock-knock joke? He won the 'no-bell' prize. Did you hear about the guy who stole 50 cartons of hand sanitizer? They couldn’t prosecute—his hands were clean. Did you hear about the kidnapping at school? It’s fine, he woke up. Did you hear about the nurse who was chewed out by the doctor because she was absent without gauze? Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon? Great food, no atmosphere. Did you hear about the surgeon who enjoyed performing quick surgeries on insects? He did one on the fly. Did you hear the one about the kid who started a business tying shoelaces on the playground? It was a knot-for-profit. Did you hear the rumor about butter? Well, I’m not going to spread it! Did you hear they arrested the devil? Yeah, they got him on possession. Did you know corduroy pillows are in style? They're making headlines. Do I enjoy making courthouse puns? Guilty. Do mascara and lipstick ever argue? Sure, but then they makeup. Do you wanna box for your leftovers? No, but I'll wrestle you for them. Dogs can’t operate MRI machines. But catscan. Don't trust atoms. They make up everything! Have you ever tried to catch a fog? I tried yesterday but I mist. Have you heard about the chocolate record player? It sounds pretty sweet. How can you tell if a tree is a dogwood tree? By its bark. How did the dad prank his daughter using fake dog poop on April Fools Day? He told her to look out for her new sham-poo in the shower. How do celebrities stay cool? They have many fans. How do lawyers say goodbye? We'll be suing ya! How do you follow Will Smith in the snow? You follow the fresh prints. How do you get a country girl’s attention? A tractor. How do you get a good price on a sled? You have toboggan. How do you get a squirrel to like you? Act like a nut. How do you make 7 even? Take away the s. How do you make a Kleenex dance? Put a little boogie in it! How do you make a tissue dance? You put a little boogie in it. How do you make holy water? You boil the hell out of it. How do you row a canoe filled with puppies? Bring out the doggy paddle. How do you tell the difference between an alligator and a crocodile? You will see one later and one in a while. How do you weigh a millennial? In Instagrams. How does a penguin build his house? Igloos it together. How does a taco say grace? Lettuce pray. How does the man in the moon get his hair cut? Eclipse it. How long should socks be? Twelve inches, so you can fit in one foot. How many DIY buffs does it take to change a light bulb? One, but it takes two weeks and four trips to the hardware store. How many mystery writers does it take to change a light bulb? Two: One to screw it in most of the way and another to give it a surprise twist at the end. How many narcissists does it take to screw in a light bulb? One. The narcissist holds the light bulb while the rest of the world revolves around him. How many paranoids does it take to change a light bulb? Who wants to know? How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh? Ten tickles. How much does it cost Santa to park his sleigh? Nothing, it's on the house. How was the handsome runner described? “Dashing.” I asked my dog what's two minus two. He said nothing. I began to read a horror novel in braille. Something bad is about to happen—I can feel it. I can guess what people do for a living just by looking at their hands. I mean, I’m usually wrong, but I can guess. I could tell a joke about pizza, but it's a little cheesy. I decided to sell my vacuum cleaner—it was just gathering dust! I didn’t get a haircut, I got them all cut. I don’t trust stairs. They are always up to something. I don't play soccer because I enjoy the sport. I'm just doing it for kicks! I don't trust those trees. They seem kind of shady. I got carded at a liquor store, and my Blockbuster card accidentally fell out. The cashier said never mind. I got hit in the head with a can of Coke today. Don’t worry, I’m not hurt. It was a soft drink. I had a date last night. It was perfect. Tomorrow, I’ll try a grape. I had a neck brace fitted years ago and I've never looked back since. I have a joke about chemistry, but I don't think it will get a reaction. I know a bunch of good jokes about umbrellas, but they usually go over people’s heads. I know a lot of jokes about retired people, but none of them work. I know a surgeon who puts organs back in upside down. I told him that’s not funny, but he said it was an inside joke. I like telling Dad jokes. Sometimes he laughs! I lost my job at the bank on my first day. A woman asked me to check her balance, so I pushed her over. I made a pencil with two erasers. It was pointless. I once got fired from a canned juice company. Apparently I couldn't concentrate. I once had a dream I was floating in an ocean of orange soda. It was more of a fanta sea. I only know 25 letters of the alphabet. I don't know y. I ordered a chicken and an egg from Amazon. I'll let you know... I read that by law you must turn on your headlights when it’s raining in Sweden, but how am I supposed to know when it’s raining in Sweden? I recently went to the “World’s Tiniest Wind Turbine” exhibit. Honestly, not a big fan. I searched for a lighter on Amazon, but all I could find were 6,000 matches. I signed up for a marathon, but how will I know if it’s the real deal or just a run through? I sold our vacuum cleaner; it was just gathering dust. I spent a lot of time, money, and effort childproofing my house, but the kids still get in. I tell dad jokes, but I don’t have any kids. I’m a faux pa. I thought the dryer was shrinking my clothes. Turns out it was the refrigerator all along. I told my doctor I heard buzzing, but he said it’s just a bug going around. I told my girlfriend she drew on her eyebrows too high. She seemed surprised. I used to be a personal trainer. Then I gave my too weak notice. I used to be addicted to soap, but I'm clean now. I used to hate facial hair, but then it grew on me. I used to play piano by ear. Now I use my hands. I want to go on record that I support farming. As a matter of fact, you could call me protractor. I want to make a brief joke, but it’s a little cheesy. I was addicted to the hokey pokey…but I turned myself around. I was breastfed until 3. But enough about my day, how was yours? I was going to tell a time-traveling joke, but you guys didn’t like it. I was just reminiscing about the beautiful herb garden I had when I was growing up. Good thymes. I was out on a walk when I saw a sign that said, “Man wanted for robbery.” So I went in and applied for the job. I wondered why the ball was getting bigger. Then it hit me. I wouldn't buy anything with velcro. It's a total rip-off. I’m an expert at picking leaves and heating them in water. It’s my special tea. I’m reading a novel where the main character has strained the muscles around his spine. That’s his back story. I’m so good at sleeping, I can do it with my eyes closed. I’ve been bored recently, so I decided to take up fencing. The neighbors keep demanding that I put it back. I’ve been breeding racing deer. Just trying to make a quick buck. I’ve been thinking about taking up meditation. I figure it’s better than sitting around doing nothing. If a child refuses to nap, are they guilty of resisting a rest? If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring? Pilgrims. If athletes get athlete’s foot, what do astronauts get? Missile toe. If the early bird gets the worm, I’ll sleep in until there’s pancakes. If you see a crime at an Apple Store, does that make you an iWitness? If you see a robbery at an Apple store, does that make you an iWitness? I'm afraid for the calendar. Its days are numbered. I'm on a seafood diet. I see food and I eat it. I'm reading a book about anti-gravity. It's impossible to put down! I'm so good at sleeping, I can do it with my eyes closed! In a freak accident today, a photographer was killed when a huge lump of cheddar landed on him. To be fair, the people who were being photographed did try to warn him. Inflation is really getting out of hand, but that’s just my five cents. Is this pool safe for diving? It deep ends. It hurts me to say this, but I have a sore throat. It takes guts to be an organ donor. It’s a shame that the Beatles didn’t make the submarine in that song green. That would’ve been sublime. It's inappropriate to make a 'dad joke' if you're not a dad. It's a faux pa. I've got a great joke about construction, but I'm still working on it. Justice is a dish best served cold. If it were served warm, it would be justwater. Mountains aren't just funny. They're hill areas. My boss told me to have a good day, so I went home. My dad told me a joke about boxing. I guess I missed the punch line. My dentist offered me dentures for only a dollar. It sounded like a good deal at the time, but now I have buck teeth. My doctor told me I’ve really grown as a person. Well, her exact words were that I “gained excess weight.” My dog accidentally swallowed a bunch of Scrabble tiles. I think this could spell disaster. My friend wants to become an archaeologist, but I’m trying to put him off. I’m convinced his life will be in ruins. My girlfriend says it’s either her or my career as a news reporter. I have some breaking news for her. My IQ test results came back. They were negative. My kid wants to invent a pencil with an eraser on each end, but I just don’t see the point. My son asked me to put his shoes on, but I don’t think they’ll fit me. My son has his BA and his MA, but his P­A still supports him. My son’s fourth birthday was today. When he came to see me, I didn’t recognize him at first. I had never seen him be four. My wife asked me to go get 6 cans of Sprite from the grocery store. I realized when I got home that I had picked 7 up. My wife asked me to stop singing “Wonderwall” to her. I said maybe… My wife asked me to sync her phone, so I threw it into the ocean. My wife is really mad at the fact that I have no sense of direction. So I packed up my stuff and right! My wife is really mad that I have no sense of direction. I packed up my stuff and right. Not sure if you have noticed, but I love bad puns. That’s just how eye roll. People are usually shocked that I have a Police record. But I love their greatest hits! Police arrested a bottle of water because it was wanted in three different states: solid, liquid, and gas. RIP boiled water—you will be mist. Scientists have discovered what is believed to be the world’s largest bedsheet. More on this story as it unfolds. Shouldn’t the “roof” of your mouth actually be called the ceiling? Shout out to my fingers. I can count on all of them. Someone told me that I should write a book. I said, “That’s a novel concept.” Sore throats are a pain in the neck. Spring is here! I got so excited I wet my plants. Stop looking for the perfect match…use a lighter. Sundays are always a little sad, but the day before is a sadder day. Teacher: “There are two words I don’t allow in my class. One is gross, and the other is cool.” Johnny: “So, what are the words?” That car looks nice but the muffler seems exhausted. The bank keeps calling me to give me compliments. They say I have an “outstanding balance.” The past, the present, and the future walked into a bar. It was tense. The wedding was so beautiful, even the cake was in tiers. There’s only one thing I can’t deal with, and that’s a deck of cards glued together. This graveyard looks overcrowded. People must be dying to get in. Today, my son asked, “Can I have a bookmark?” I burst into tears—11 years old and he still doesn’t know my name is Brian. Two goldfish are in a tank. One says to the other, “Do you know how to drive this thing?” Two guys walked into a bar. The third guy ducked. Wanna hear a joke about paper? Never mind—it's tearable. Want to hear a joke about construction? I’m still working on it. Want to know why nurses like red crayons? Sometimes they have to draw blood. We all know about Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. But have you heard of Cole’s Law? It’s thinly sliced cabbage. What animals are the best to call if you get locked out of your house? Monkeys. What country's capital is growing the fastest? Ireland. Every day it's Dublin. What did Baby Corn say to Mama Corn? Where's Pop Corn? What did one cannibal say to the other while they were eating a clown? Does this taste funny to you? What did one DNA say to the other DNA? “Do these genes make me look fat?” What did one Dorito farmer say to the other? “Cool Ranch!” What did one furniture maker say to another during a tense discussion? “Let’s table this.” What did one hat say to the other? Stay here! I'm going on ahead. What did one plate say to another plate? Tonight, dinner’s on me. What did one wall say to the other? I'll meet you at the corner. What did Tennessee? The same thing as Arkansas. What did the accountant say while auditing a document? This is taxing. What did the air conditioner say when it met a celebrity? “I’m a big fan.” What did the baker say when she won an award? “It was a piece of cake.” What did the coffee report to the police? A mugging. What did the dad say when his golden retriever was caught eating a hot dog? “It’s a dog eat dog world out there.” What did the dishwasher say to the oven after a productive day? “You’ve been on fire!” What did the drummer call his twin daughters? Anna One, Anna Two! What did the dryer say to the boring duvet cover that just got out of the washer? “Don’t be such a wet blanket.” What did the evil chicken lay? Deviled eggs. What did the fish say when he hit the wall? Dam. What did the flowers do when the bride walked down the aisle? They rose. What did the French chef give his wife for Valentine’s Day? A hug and a quiche. What did the geometry teacher say when the class had trouble solving a problem? “Let’s try a different angle.” What did the husband say to his wife right after getting LASIK surgery? “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” What did the janitor say when he jumped out of the closet? Supplies! What did the juicer say to the orange during self-quarantine? Can’t wait to squeeze you! What did the ocean say to the beach? Nothing, it just waved. What did the police officer say to his belly-button? You’re under a vest. What did the sapphire’s best friend tell her? “You’re a real gem.” What did the skeleton order with its beer? A mop. What did the two pieces of bread say on their wedding day? It was loaf at first sight. What did the zero say to the eight? That belt looks good on you. What do a tick and the Eiffel Tower have in common? They're both Paris sites. What do Bostonians call a fake noodle? An impasta. What do clouds wear? Thunderwear. What do frogs use to track their exercise? Fit (rib)bits. What do lions use to look at their manes? Mirroars. What do sprinters eat before a race? Nothing—they fast. What do you call 26 letters that went for a swim? Alphawetical. What do you call 50 pigs and 50 deer? 100 sows and bucks. What do you call a bear with no teeth? A gummy bear. What do you call a belt made of watches? A waist of time. What do you call a dog that can do magic? A Labracabrador. What do you call a factory that makes okay products? A satisfactory. What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta. What do you call a fibbing cat? A lion. What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie? Sofishticated. What do you call a fish with no eye? A fsh. What do you call a hippie’s wife? Mississippi. What do you call a hot dog on wheels? Fast food! What do you call a lazy kangaroo? Pouch potato. What do you call a naughty lamb dressed up like a skeleton for Halloween? Baaad to the bone. What do you call a pony with a sore throat? A little hoarse. What do you call a poor Santa Claus? St. Nickel-less. What do you call a pudgy psychic? A four-chin teller. What do you call a snitching scientist? A lab rat. What do you call a toothless bear? A gummy bear! What do you call an angry musician flipping someone off? A song bird. What do you call an elephant that doesn't matter? An irrelephant. What do you call an unpredictable camera? A loose Canon. What do you call cheese that isn't yours? Nacho cheese. What do you call it when a group of apes starts a company? Monkey business. What do you call it when a lawyer takes a test early in the morning? A breakfast bar. What do you call it when a snowman throws a tantrum? A meltdown. What do you call someone who always states the obvious? Someone who always states the obvious. What do you call someone with no body and no nose? Nobody knows. What do you call two monkeys that share an Amazon account? Prime mates. What do you call two octopuses that look the same? Itenticle. What do you get from a pampered cow? Spoiled milk. What do you get when you cross a polar bear with a seal? A polar bear. What do you need to make a small fortune on Wall Street? A large fortune. What does “idk” stand for? Everyone I ask says, “I don’t know.” What does “Rockin’ Robin” do when she’s bored? Tweet. What does a bee use to brush its hair? A honeycomb! What does a house wear? Address. What does a karate master get rewarded with while driving? A seat belt. What does a lemon say when it answers the phone? Yellow! What does a mobster buried in cement soon become? A hardened criminal. What does a nosey pepper do? It gets jalapeño business. What does a sprinter eat before a race? Nothing, they fast! What does a writer have in common with a football player? Anxiety over a rough draft. What does garlic do when it gets hot? It takes its cloves off. What happens when a strawberry gets run over crossing the street? Traffic jam. What happens when it rains cats and dogs? You have to be careful not to step in a poodle. What has more letters than the alphabet? The post office! What has one head, one foot, and four legs? A bed. What invention allows us to see through walls? Windows. What is Marco’s favorite clothing store? Polo. What is the Easter bunny’s favorite type of music? Hip-hop. What is the most popular fish in the ocean? A starfish. What kind of bird is always getting hurt? The owl. What kind of car does a sheep like to drive? A lamborghini. What kind of car does an egg drive? A yolkswagen. What kind of cleaning product feels a lot of motivation in life? All-purpose. What kind of drink can be bitter and sweet? Reali-tea. What kind of music do chiropractors like? Hip pop. What kind of noise does a witch’s vehicle make? Brrrroooom, brrroooom. What kind of shape may have been knighted? Cir-cles. What kind of shoes do ninjas wear? Sneakers! What kind of shoes does a lazy person wear? Loafers. What kind of spells do leprechauns use? Lucky Charms. What makes a basketball court trendy and accessorized? The hoops. What part of the museum makes everyone sneeze? The sta-tues. What piece on the playground is always exhausted? The tire swing. What sound does a witch’s car make? Broom broom! What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth hurt-y. What vegetable is kind to everyone? The sweet potato. What was said about the messy, angry man who was eating a can of Pringles? “He’s got a chip on his shoulder.” What was Sherlock Holmes’ favorite protein source? Mystery meat. What would the Terminator be called in his retirement? The Exterminator. What’s a bad wizard’s favorite computer program? Spell check. What’s a crafty dancer’s favorite hobby? Cutting a rug. What’s a vampire’s favorite ship? A blood vessel. What’s a writer’s favorite train station? Penn Station. What’s an astronaut’s favorite part of a computer? The space bar. What’s brown and sticky? A stick. What’s either a really gross animal issue OR an impressive, magical school? Hogwarts. What’s Forrest Gump’s password? 1forrest1 What’s it called when kittens get stuck in a tree? A cat-astrophe. What’s orange and sounds like a parrot? A carrot. What’s red and smells like blue paint? Red paint. What’s the best way to watch a fly-fishing tournament? Live stream. What’s the difference between a man wearing pajamas on a bicycle and a guy wearing a tuxedo on a unicycle? Attire. What’s the least-spoken language in the world? Sign language. What’s the most detail-oriented ocean? The Pacific. What’s the most patriotic sport? Flag football. What’s the name of a very polite, European body of water? Merci. What's a robot's favorite snack? Computer chips. What's the best smelling insect? A deodor-ant. What's the best thing about Switzerland? I don't know, but the flag is a big plus. What's the best way to watch a fly fishing tournament? Live stream. When does a joke become a “dad joke”? When it becomes apparent. When I was a kid, my dad got fired from his job as a road worker for theft. I refused to believe he could do such a thing, but when I got home, the signs were all there. When two vegans get in an argument, is it still called a beef? When you have a bladder infection, urine trouble. Whenever I try to eat healthy, a chocolate bar looks at me and Snickers. Where do boats go when they're sick? To the boat doc. Where do fruits go on vacation? Pear-is! Where do math teachers go on vacation? Times Square. Where do wasps like to get lunch? A bee-stro. Where do you learn to make a banana split? Sundae school. Where do young trees go to learn? Elementree school. Where was the dripping coming from in the fridge? The leeks. Which bathroom appliance would be the worst life preserver? The sink. Which bear is the most condescending? A pan-duh! Which state has the most streets? Rhode Island. Which U.S. state is known for its especially small soft drinks? Minnesota. Why are elevator jokes so classic and good? They work on many levels. Why are piggy banks so wise? They're filled with common cents. Why are spiders so smart? They can find everything on the web. Why can't a nose be 12 inches long? Because then it would be a foot. Why can't you hear a psychiatrist using the bathroom? Because the 'P' is silent. Why couldn’t the bicycle stand up by itself? It was two-tired. Why couldn’t the couple get married at the library? It was all booked up. Why couldn’t the couple respond right away when looking at wedding venues? They were engaged. Why couldn’t the family leave the room after playing with Legos? They were blocked. Why couldn't the bicycle stand up by itself? It was two tired. Why did Beethoven get rid of his chickens? All they said was, “Bach, Bach, Bach…” Why did Billy get fired from the banana factory? He kept throwing away the bent ones. Why did the bedding hide their relationship? They just wanted something pillow-key! Why did the cashier rip money in half? They were asked to break a bill. Why did the coach go to the bank? To get his quarterback. Why did the envelope take so long to get ready? It had to get addressed. Why did the man fall down the well? Because he couldn’t see that well. Why did the man name his dogs Rolex and Timex? Because they were watchdogs. Why did the math book look so sad? Because of all of its problems! Why did the raisin go out with the prune? Because he couldn’t find a date. Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was outstanding in his field. Why did two tall people get along so well? The could really see eye to eye. Why didn’t Han Solo enjoy his steak dinner? It was Chewie. Why didn't the skeleton climb the mountain? It didn't have the guts. Why do cows wear bells? Because their horns don’t work. Why do dads feel the need to tell such bad jokes? They just want to help you become a groan up. Why do dogs float in water? Because they are good buoys. Why do melons have weddings? Because they cantaloupe. Why do nurses like red crayons? Sometimes they have to draw blood. Why do pumpkins sit on porches? They have no hands to knock on the door. Why do seagulls fly over the ocean? Because if they flew over the bay, we'd call them bagels. Why do some couples go to the gym? Because they want their relationship to work out. Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees? Because they’re so good at it. Why don’t phones ever go hungry? They have plenty of apps to choose from. Why don’t pirates take a bath before they walk the plank? They just wash up on shore. Why don't eggs tell jokes? They'd crack each other up. Why is cold water so insecure? Because it’s never called hot. Why is grass so dangerous? Because it’s full of blades. Why is Peter Pan always flying? Because he Neverlands. Why is sand so optimistic? It has a can-dune attitude. Why shouldn’t you write with a broken pencil? Because it’s pointless. Why was the color green notoriously single? It was always so jaded. Why was the cow such a heartthrob on the farm? He was a s-moo-th talker. Why was the dad sitting on a pack of playing cards? His kid asked him to sit on the deck. Why was the ghost so tired? He worked the graveyard shift. Why was the gossip disliked at the coffee shop? She always spilled the tea. Why was the hockey player gifted a new cap? He was known for his hat tricks. Why was the pig covered in ink? Because it lived in a pen. Why was the rookie police officer assigned to hunt the cannibal? The more seasoned officers had already been eaten. Why were spectators confused by the koala’s self-portrait? It was bear. Why were the utensils stuck together? They were spooning. Why would doors do well on social media? Everyone looks for their handles. You can’t plant flowers if you haven’t botany. You know, people say they pick their nose, but I feel like I was just born with mine. You think swimming with sharks is expensive? Swimming with sharks cost me an arm and a leg. You’re American when you go into a bathroom and when you come out, but what are you while you’re in the bathroom? European. submitted by /u/Bugasum to r/dadjokes [link] [comments]

[Part 1] [Part 2] “Donny said it came in the mail.” Miles said, staring down at the game on the table under the gloomy, hanging light of our basement. I shook my head. “No, no, that’s not right. I said it might have, but I never exactly saw the postman. I just woke up this morning, and it was just... there on the doorstep.” The cream cardboard box of the game was the brightest thing in the dingy catacomb we called our hobby room under the house. There were four of us geeks, two with four eyes - rest with two - and for a while, the package drew each and every of our unblinking lamps. Tom rolled up his sleeves and lifted the lid of the box. There was a fire within Tom as bright as his curly flame-red locks - the type that always kept the action coming and conversation moving, a quality much desired in a group full of nerds. Nerds we were, and the bullies used any ammunition they had. Tommy was a ginger, Miles was one of the only black kids in our small southern town, I was some sickly shade of pale, Ryan had braces. There was no winning - kids were cruel. Tommy was the foreman of the Buccaneers (that’s what we called our gang, often before provoking a wedgie or a head-dunking in the toilet bowl). You'd catch his bobbing orange mop biking at the front of the line when we cycled to the creek; his foot being always the first to lean and check the sturdiness of creaking bridge-planks before we hopped along. And God forbid when his thumbs would ever begin to twiddle. He would come up with his own mad-scientist ideas to pass time, like when he got us hand-fishing for eels with our wiggling thumbs (for the record: it worked). I suppose most adults would label such restless bravery as ADHD, but when you’re thirteen you might call him a legend (or ants-in-his-pants-mcgee). The lid that was eerily printed with THE BOARD GAME eventually slid off the damn thing. All the tiny components of the cardboard container rattled as it plopped a few inches onto the dimly lit table. Ryan sucked his teeth and rolled his bespectacled globes. “Dang it man, no instructions. Of course.” Yeah, he was right. When I was thirteen, having no manual was a prick. There was no googling, no internet. “It’s alright,” I said, trying to ease their disappointed face-sags. “We’ll make up our own rules.” “You’re a frigging moron, Donny.” Miles chuckled. I grabbed a handful of pieces from the box. “No, I’m dead serious! We’ll roll the dice and decide as we go along, write rules in a notebook.” “Fine.” Ryan pouted. I mean, what else could he say? He had biked a sweat ten blocks, he wasn’t going to head home without playing. None of them were. Most games have a board, and the game that showed up on my doorstep earlier that morning was no different. I unfolded it and laid it down - it must have taken up most of the table because I told Ryan to scooch over the legs of ham he called his chubby arms, and I rarely had to do that. I poured handfuls of bits and bobs out of the container onto the unfolded map as it emptied. There were so many pieces of different sizes, shapes and paint styles. I think we spotted the obvious immediately, in fact, we had a word for such pieces: Makeshifties. That was a word we buccaneers used to describe the board game bits that didn’t belong in that box but were used to replace the originals, for example, that had trickled through the floorboards of our old treehouse or otherwise. There were cars, soldiers, people, guns. This was something we had never seen before; the board game had no theme - it was a complete mixture. Unless of course it was some sort of game where it involved city living, that was Miles' favorite. But he just wasn’t impressed. I mean, I wouldn’t have been either - it looked like someone had shoveled a clump from a preschooler’s dinosaur and racecar peppered sandbox and taken the sand. “What is this shit?” He scrunched his face. “Quiet, Miles!” Tom said hushed. “Donny’s mum is upstairs, she can probably hear us, you know?” “Sorry, Don, sorry Mrs. Don.” He waved an open hand over the table. “But come on, this is a dud. Bunch of makeshifties in here.” Ryan piped up, too. “Yeah, Donny… I mean, what if it was a prank, you know? Like somebody thought: You know those kids? Yeah, let’s fill a box from my brother’s toybox and have em’ figuring out how to play Board Game: Dumbass Edition for a half hour.” There was a harrowing silence as we began to realize that it was no ordinary game. The playing board, the streets and suburbs painted on the unfolded face – it must have been- “Our town?” Tommy abruptly spurted. It must have been hard to delicately paint all the intricate main roads on the map upon the board. Every major detail was there: The police station, the rundown movie theatre by West End, the unmistakable bear fountain dedicated to the Sudwick University Bears. Once the pieces were all sorted into piles and the board was flattened, we were finally ready to play. Maybe we would make up our own rules, after all. I was the first to go. I shook my fist and let the die fly from my hand. Plastic pieces shook and bounced upon the cardboard as the die danced before resting on the number six. A lone red car sat upon its side against an intersection at the edge of town. None of us had touched the piece, yet it had dragged itself onto its side doors to a standstill almost of its own volition or by magnetic snap. And from that moment on, there was no going back. ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁ After the boys had all packed up and headed back up for supper, I made my way towards the flower-stand at the edge of town. That day I was going to bring the girl I liked some flowers. I had given her little things before, chocolates, a bracelet I made during class. I was just a boy and far from well-off - my biggest asset was my bicycle of course. But I was a hustler. The small gifts were all I needed to work with. If only she knew she was getting scammed - all these tiny things were exchanged for her big, goofy smile worth its weight in gold. Daylight robbery, sucker. “Young chap,” The flower-man in the suit said. He was in his forties, yet frail – gentle, as if he handpicked these flowers. He was clean shaven, greeting me with warmth. The antithesis of a used car salesman. And I knew why, too. When he looked down at me from his stall, he remembered what it was like to be young and in love in the summertime, and it was clear it had brushed off on him after each and every sale. “How much are these?” I asked and pointed to a colorful bouquet littered with vibrant reds and purples. I didn’t know what flowers they were, but the girl probably would, and they smelled divine. “Expensive for you, kiddo.” I bought them with what pocket money I had left after losing change on some taffies in the morning. I stood my cycle up and felt the air between my fingers, washing my sweat away in a cool breeze. Careless, free like the wind. No misery, no rent, no bills. Youthful – my only concerns: If Cory would like the colors of the petals or what would happen if I dropped the bouquet on the way to her. I pedaled on. ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁ It hadn’t long begun to turn dark when the first one happened. I suppose to us it was the first, but there might have been more well before the Buccaneers. Perhaps long after, too. The red sedan came speeding through the road with no sign of slowing. I caught a glimpse of the driver through the windscreen - to me it looked as if the lady had been asleep at the wheel. I had been enjoying the child-exclusive privilege of biking on the footpath minding my own business when the woman narrowly snapped from her slumber and swerved from the lamppost a few paces down the street in a screaming halt. Lucky that I had been. Her brake lights covered the dimly lit road with a ruby blanket, and I could see the terrified look on her face through her rear-view mirror - an expression of someone that just brushed death. I pedaled up beside her window. It took her a while before she even turned to face me - her head was as stiffly frozen solid as her fingers which had clawed around the steering wheel. “Oh, hello Donny…” Her aged voice was shaken. I leaned in to get a closer look at her face. “Mrs. Landry?” It was the unmistakable face from the corner gas station, the kind old soul Esther Landry. “Yes, sorry Donny, I must have given you a real fright,” She let her shoe slide off the brake with a thud. “Golly, I was probably going more miles per hour on the dash than numbers in my age!” “No,” I contested, “I’d say you were going a lot faster than twenty-one.” She let out one exhausted laugh. “Are you sure that you’re okay? Do you need me to call someone for you?” “No, no, I think I’ll be alright, honey. Must have dozed off, but I’m wide awake now. What a rude awakening that was.” I told her to drive safely, gave her a wave and I was off again. We were side by side for a while as she began to accelerate. It was a sluggish pace, but as fast as my bike would go. You would never catch me calling my bicycle slow back then though, that baby was a racehorse as far as my friends were concerned. Faster than Ryan’s hunk of metal. Definitely quicker than Tom’s. After a few moments I started to think she wanted to yell at me through her window like the grownups always seemed to do - she was going to pull up slowly before shouting something like ‘Hey man, your lights are off!’ or ‘Watch where you’re going dumbass!’, but those words never came. What she did say sent a chill through my spine. “Something is grabbing my car, Donny.” She shrieked. “Oh, God.” Not by golly, not by gosh. Oh God. “It’s not going forward,” She shouted. “I’m not going forward!” Her front two tires screamed gravel into the air as she shot me a horrified grimace. She bent her neck around; nothing was at the rear but the empty road. As she fumbled with the doors and locks, they didn’t budge for poor Mrs Landry. “Do something, please!” She screamed. We were helpless. I leaned in to pull her from the driver’s seat, but the thick seatbelt wouldn’t yield, and inch by inch the sedan began to groan as it was yanked backwards against the cement like a heavy cinder block. Before long, her grey hair was just a blur as the car jerked backward out of arm’s reach; her voice fading with the setting daylight that had cast pine shadows across the road as stretched arms. It all happened at once. If I could have done something, I would have. The sedan dove sideways against a lamppost like a heavy magnet, shards of glass clattering against the cement like the devil’s hail. Flowers of growing flames blossomed from somewhere underneath the bonnet, pollinating the leather interior with a scorching heat that left the sour odor of burning skin and bone. I was sprinting towards the wreck as fast as I could, but my sneakers came to a skidding halt when I realized it was too late. Grandma Landry was crawling out of the broken mouth in the windscreen. She looked up at me, trying to say something, trying to beg for help. When you’re thirteen, you’re not meant to see a face sliding off bone. Such a lovely face reduced to hot bubblegum on blistering pavement, flowing and sticky all at once. You’re not meant to see someone’s lights fade away. I often look back at the night I pedaled away from my crash-landed innocence. Longing. For that night: It was there, then it wasn’t - it was a passing summer breeze, a cold sided pillow to the cheek on a humid evening. Once there, then never more. Chasing the low hanging lamp in the caramel sky, I never once looked back at Mrs. Landry or her mangled face or the burning car. Because that night: My bike really was a racehorse, and my screams - they were her reigns. ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁ I met up with Cory soon after what happened. She immediately knew something was wrong – the light in my eyes was no more, and it wasn’t just the falling sun. We convened in the lavender field by Marl’s Grove as we usually did. The beautiful girl with the boy’s name was laying in the tall grass admiring the darkening sky and fresh air, watching the stars begin to take shape. I sat beside her and opened my backpack. “I got you these,” I said. Her eyes beamed at me, then the flowers, and her gleaming smile could have lit a candle. She took them in one hand, the other hand on her heart. “Ugh,” She groaned before lying flat again. “I can’t take these home, you know. Mom will kill me.” “I know.” I replied. “So, enjoy them just for the moment. Before they’re gone.” Cory turned her head on her backpack. She shot me a glance over her freckle-specked cheeks. “What’s the matter?” She asked. I was pulling leaves of grass out of the soil. “There was a car accident on my way.” She swung upright. “Oh my gosh, Donny, are you alright?” “Yes,” I muttered. “But,” The grass popped as I pulled. The flames in the lady’s car still danced in my eyes. “I think I saw somebody die.” Her arms wrapped around me; brunette curtains of hair draped over my eyes. Cory made me feel warm, she made me feel safe. “Did you call somebody?” Her voice was near my ear. “No, I saw a few policemen that were heading that way.” Tears finally came, glistening like sunlight through crystal as they streamed down my cheek and onto Cory’s jumper. My voice was quiet, reluctant. “There’s something wrong with this town.” I didn’t want to tell her that something had grabbed Mrs Landry’s car. She held my shoulders close, and we both vacantly gazed into the wilting flower petals that were in her hand. ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁ Morning came, and it was chaos and commotion inside Ryan’s lounge. The rest of the Buccaneers were sitting around, too, staring at the carpet as Ryan’s mom zipped by with boxes in her hands yelling at him. “Cory told us about the car accident you passed, Donny. Glad you’re alright.” Miles said, and Tom nodded with tight lips. “I’m alright, thanks guys.” I tried my best to act cool, hold in the waterworks. “But, uh, what’s going on here?” I whispered to Tom. He shook his head. “Take a seat.” Miles leaned in. “Ryan took the game home last night and his mom found it.” I shot him a puzzled look. What’s wrong with that? I thought. Ryan’s parents were devout Christians, but not enough to warrant throwing a game away because of any suggestive themes. “You’re living with your father for now, Ryan Mosey. I won’t stand for any more of this voodoo talk.” Miles, Tom and I shared wide-eyed glances. “Mom, please,” Ryan begged a whiny yelp. “It’s not like that, listen to the box for yourself,” “No!” She abruptly boomed. “I’ve burned it out back while you dozed off. Now pack your bags.” For a while, the boys and I sat awkwardly still as we watched the two rushing around their house with various belongings in hand. Ryan collapsed onto the couch beside us, defeated, with his head in his hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything, anything at all.” He mumbled with a mouthful of palm. “What happened?” I asked. “It’s just awful Donny. I told them that I heard a man speaking inside of the box lid. They think I’m mad because I told the truth. Now mom has gone all whacky on me, man.” Tom grabbed his bag and made for the door. “Sounds like you need to get some fresh air, you comin’?” Ryan bent his head around the corner to see if his mom was watching before slipping on his shoes. Outside, we climbed the stairs to the treehouse that Ryan’s father had shoddily put him together before his mom went whacky on him, too. He took a while to climb – I’m surprised one of the ladder rungs didn’t snap, but Miles helped him get up in the end. I was the last one into the treehouse. It was there. In the center of all the planks was the musty board game that Ryan’s mom said she had burned to a crisp. In fact, it was unfolded, pieces aside, beckoning to be played. The silence in the room was palpable. All eyes were on me, then to the maroon car on the board. My friends must have felt it too, that deep unease and queasiness. Nobody had the stones to say it, but I knew what they were thinking: “It’s a red sedan.” Someone said. I was muttering, overwhelmed with flooding emotion, the door to the waterworks finally unbolted. “I- I’m the one that rolled the die yesterday- I mean, I mean, maybe it is voodoo, maybe I killed someone, I-“ Miles gripped my shoulders tight from behind. “Donny, no,” He cleared his throat. “You almost saved someone.” I glared up with him with wet globes. “What?” His finger drifted along the roads of the cardboard. “Don’t you see?” He said. “This here, this means something. Why else would the board be a map? When we roll the dice, it must be showing the future. This thing right here? It told you that there was going to be a car crash.” Tom and Ryan tried to calm me down, but their eyes told me they were scared shitless. “We can stop things from happening before it’s too late.” Miles affirmed. His grin was warm and reassuring, and for a while I thought about all the people that we could save. But the more I pondered, the more unsettling the thought became: I remembered the old woman saying something pulled her car – it was no accident. My heart was racing, my hands beading with sweat. I opened my mouth to tell them the truth, but it was too late, I wanted to say something, but Miles was already chucking around the black and white soothsaying-cube in two clasped hands. We all took held our breath and watched the dice roll. submitted by /u/lcsimpson to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

[Chapter 1] ; [Previous Chapter] ; [Wiki] ​ Chapter 18 James shifted his attention, focusing it entirely on Curi now. On his legs, he could feel Shida also shift. Apparently, Curi’s sudden talkativeness had by now broken through her haziness as well, at least enough to get her curious. The music droned on, filling the room just loud enough to make conversations harder than necessary. Moar, Quiis and Pippa also seemed interested, however they also appeared a little hesitant to actually hear about Curi’s story, as it would surely involve elements of what was essentially bodily horror for the average community citizen. They looked over at Curi’s black figure, most of them shifting in their seat slightly. Moar’s nostrils flared. Pippa’s ears twitched slightly. Quiis had seized almost any movement. But still, if Curi was going to speak up on their own account like this, nobody was going to stop them. In fact, everyone at the table got very quiet, concerned that any interruption now might dissuade the cyborg from continuing their explanation. However, it seemed that, just like James had done before them, Curi was waiting for a prompting to continue their retelling. A question or a pointer. Something to give them a place to start. For James, even in their current situation that was all about asking uncomfortable questions, the question that needed to be ask was one that he could not bring himself to utter. So, it would have to be on somebody else to speak it into existence. In the end, it was Pippa whose patience was the first to run out. “So, what were you like before your change?” she asked slowly, lacking her usual chipper energy, while er ears erratically twitched every few seconds. It was the only sensible question to ask. Everybody knew what change Curi had made. They also all knew why people weren’t too happy about them changing. But somehow the question still seemed plain wrong. As was always the case with Curi, it was hard to immediately discern an emotion from their behavior. Their reactions were a lot more subtle and drawn out than the usual facial shifts or instinctual movements that clued one in to the mental state of more average people. They took some time to answer, while the table fell silent once more. “Among my species, the teravelt, there is a condition, known simply as mephp,” Curi’s voice finally rang out, but to everyone’s surprise, it didn’t sound like Curi at all. The voice clearly came from them, but it wasn’t the usual synthetic imitation that they were all used to. Instead, it was crystal clear, sounding like the recording of an organic voice speaking those sentences, instead of the creation of an artificial system recreating speech. “It occurs about once in every hundred thousand births. Translated, directly, it only means as much as chaotic, although that translation isn’t quite fitting in the way it conveys that meaning.” James sat with on open mouth, trying to process what Curi was telling them while still trying to get over their vocal shift. He wasn’t the only one having problems with that. All around, everybody seemed to be quite taken aback by the unfamiliar sound, even those who should technically be a lot more comfortable with this voice than with Curi’s usual one. Everyone who had one took a large swig of their drink. “The condition has a variety of effects, manifesting differently in every person affected by it. However, symptoms that are always present are a malformation of facial and bodily structure, resulting in a signature look for affected people. The genetic defect shortens the face and morphs the wings, rendering the affected individual flightless. It also affects the coordination of pattern formation on the skin, causing the affected individuals to display chaotic and unpredictable color patterns rather than the natural ones,” Curi continued their explanation, either unperturbed by everyone’s gawking, or gracefully ignoring it for the moment, as they outwardly showed no emotional sway. “Where the effects differ a lot, more is in the mental effects it has. Generally, affected individuals are observed to have a strong reduction in social capacity, as well as in sexual and romantic activity, and usually show behavior of self-effacement. However, there are a variety of effects observed in different affected individuals, making blanket statements about the condition’s mental effects unreliable at best.” To James, the explanation sounded like Curi had at some point memorized an article about the condition and was reciting the abstract to them. He also had trouble recontextualizing the fact that Curi’s people apparently had wings as well as colorful patterns in his head. Even though it was besides the point right now, he wondered what a teravelt would look like. On his lap, Shida had by now turned onto her stomach, holding herself up with her elbows on his thighs and looking at Curi curiously. “Am I correct in the assumption that you were…are affected by this condition?” Moar spoke the obvious hesitantly, looking at Curi’s metal surface with an almost stony expression. Curi didn’t directly acknowledge her question, instead continuing with a different chapter of the necessary context for their story. “Apart from the actual term for the condition, there is another word among my species for those affected by it,” they said, the tone of the still wrong sounding voice shifting slightly, as a hint of bitterness was detectable within it now. “I will not dignify it by telling it to you, but a fitting translation would probably be “icy beauties”. Due to what is most likely an error somewhere in our early brain development as a species, the deformities brought forth by the mephp condition are generally seen as very attractive among the teravelt. Much to the detriment of the affected individuals, as the many suitors this tends to attract are a nuisance in the very best of cases.” It did indeed sound like a cruel prank of nature, to make those the least interested in that kind of affection also the most desired target for it. Although it also wasn’t the first time James had heard of something like this. Everyone seemed to have similar thoughts to his, their faces turning thoughtful as their postures started to slouch down, as if keeping themselves upright would divert too much processing power from the topic at hand. Pippa especially seemed to have a hard time wrapping her mind around Curi of all people being a beloved beauty in their community. “For years and years, I grew up being told about my beauty. Being told about my exceptionality. And many chased after my affection. However, I could never see it. I didn’t see my chaotic pattern as a thing of beauty. My deformed, useless wings were just that: Useless appendages, deprived of their functionality. My face was just a face,” Curi described, the reminiscing and melancholy clearly audible in their new voice, as their body kept standing perfectly still. “After being told that I was beautiful for so long…I wanted to feel it. To feel what it was all of them saw in me. I didn’t want to just be beautiful for them anymore, but also for me. So, I searched for a change I would need to make to finally feel that elusive feeling. But every example of beauty I could find was just like me: A shell of a thing, seemingly admired by all, while being either devoid or robbed of an actual function.” James could see where this story was going by now, and he guessed so could everyone else. But while the conclusion he knew Curi must have come to was at least fairly understandable to him, it seemed to trouble other people at the table a lot more. In fact, given their apprehensive looks and strained postures, it seemed like he was the only one not outright dreading the moment Curi would confirm their suspicions. He could even feel Shida tense up, which shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, given what had happened during their first encounter with Curi. “In the end I figured it out. I found the change I needed to make,” Curi said, and a wave of genuine happiness, that he would probably never have expected to come out of them, washed over their voice. “Beauty wasn’t functionless chaos. It was precision. Function. Effectiveness. I had always had a fascination for machines, but only then when I was at my lowest, did I see their true exceptionality shining through.” Gladly, they now had reached the part of the story where James was once again comfortable with giving his own input. That way, he could finally help ease the tensions in the room while also taking some of the pressure off of Curi. “And did you make your enhancements yourself or had you somebody do it for you?” he asked, figuring it would probably be something that they may be quite happy to talk about. For the first time since they had started their explanation, Curi moved, shifting their body to look at James before freezing up again. “I made them all myself. I had very specific thoughts about what I wanted to do and the way I wanted to achieve it, so it was only logical to do it myself,” they explained and in a reminiscing gesture, they left their forward arms as well as two of their backward legs, looking at one after the other methodically. “I also don’t think anyone would have done it for me, even if I asked them.” James could basically see Moar’s mouth opening and closing, as she seemed to be stopping herself from saying something like “of course not” or anything similar. Quiis had, in a gesture seemingly imitating Curi, started looking down at their own hands. If James had to guess, they were wondering what in the world could push them so far to make them want to get rid of their limited appendages and replace them for something more functional. Pippa managed to hide the fact that the mere thought of the process of obtaining those enhancements caused her to be nauseous. “But if you wanted functionality, why not give yourself working wings then?” a question rang out into the room. James looked down at Shida, who just like everyone else seemed pretty uncomfortable with the thought itself, although apparently not enough to not quench her curiosity. “I did at first,” Curi admitted, taking another look at their long, crablike legs. “I wanted to regain my function. However, I quickly figured out that, having been rooted to the ground my entire life, flying was not part of my function anymore. So, I replaced it with more practically applicable motoric skills, which are useful for my work.” As if to demonstrate, the small tubes they used for dexterous manipulations emerged from their legs, and aimlessly swayed through the air for a few seconds before retracting back. “My new body allows for obsolete orders from my brain meant for removed motoric units to be redirected, giving me a much wider range of motions and abilities than I have had before. My hindmost legs, for example, are entirely controlled by what used to be the twitch of a toe which I don’t need anymore,” Curi kept explaining, wiggling their toeless feet as if to emphasize their point. “That is pretty amazing,” James admitted, thinking about the implications. It must have taken a very long time to get a feeling for completely new movement patterns ingrained into one’s brain. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so different from learning to control a new machine or maybe learning the controls of a video game, where most movement was also done with only the fingers. “It is, isn’t it?” Curi replied happily, their cheerful tone being much easier to decipher in this strange new voice of theirs. However, what was also easier to notice, was their tone shifting more and more into a dark foreboding, as they continued talking. “But that was not what the people back home thought. They couldn’t see it like I saw it. Nobody I met could. I knew of the general view on the modification of one’s body of course, but back then, I had never realized just how…severe it is.” Moar, Shida, and Pippa alike guiltily averted their gazes, while Quiis appeared to get lost in thought, leaving James to be the only one keeping his eyes fixed on those of Curi. “I am no fool,” Curi stated solemnly. “I know that people are disgusted by my new body. I don’t really blame them. Just like I could never see the things how they did, they now cannot see the things how I do. And I know many of them hate me for it. But still, I never once wanted to go back. I have decided that I would rather feel miserable because of other people than being miserable because of myself.” “You shouldn’t have to be miserable at all,” James mumbled. Their stance on things was admirable in a way, not holding on to hate and anger. However, he felt that it was unjust for them to have to be this accepting of such an unfair situation. The buzz he was still under didn’t exactly help with that. “I…” Moar started, but the words seemed to die in her throat. Everyone else remained silent, trying not to look at Curi. “I took the position as a researcher on the G.E.S. because it was an opportunity to do what I love while staying reclusive from people,” Curi added. “However, I have to admit, the decision turned out to be much better than expected for reasons that I could never have anticipated. And now I know finally that there are people out there, able to see the world like I do. At least a little bit. And someday, I want to see that world where people see the change of the body, maybe not as the beauty I see, but also not as something to be hated.” That last part was fairly obviously directed at James, or maybe more precisely humanity as a whole. He couldn’t do much more but awkwardly smile and nod at that, not quite sure what to say after such a proclamation. The other people at the table also remained completely quiet. It probably was hard for them to think of something nice to say. “I think this means it is my turn now, isn’t it?” Curi suddenly asked into the quiet. At that, everybody snapped back up and looked at them with surprise. “Uhm…yeah, go ahead,” Pippa spoke up, while everybody awaited Curi’s question with anticipation. Curis legs began to move in place, turning their body around without moving an inch from its current position, until they could comfortably focus at Shida, who confusedly looked up at them. “I have a question for you, Shida,” they stated with a shift towards the sound of an earnest desire, or maybe even need to know something. Shida rolled around on James’ legs, shifting her head left to right while eyeing Curi, before saying, “It’s your turn. Go ahead.” Curi almost seemed to steel themselves before talking. “I am under no illusion that you like me,” they stated, already bringing their question off to a bad start. “However, your behavior towards me has been quite strange. Your statements usually indicate that you feel just as much disgust towards mechanical body replacements as the average person. However, different from the average person, you have never shown any hesitation to be around me or even make physical contact with me, while most average persons seem repulsed by those things. I want to know why that is.” Weirdly it almost sounded like an accusation rather than something that was a positive for Curi. Shida seemed to ponder that for a second. A finger wandered to her face, and she closed her eyes for a moment, before talking a halfhearted whiff of the roots and answering with a shrug. “You just don’t register as a cyborg to me,” she said almost dismissively. “Maybe that would be different if I knew you before, but I didn’t. Metal arms or metal legs or random bits of metal to fill holes in teeth, that stuff weirds me out. You just look like a robot. Robots aren’t disgusting.” She reached her arm out towards one of Curi’s legs, playfully knocking against it with her knuckles, causing a metallic sound to ring out. Curi seemed to ponder that, seemingly having trouble following that reasoning. However, James understood completely. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the high class deathworlder way of dealing with problems that only existed in concept. “I see…” Curi finally said slowly, before bringing their head back up. “Alrighty, since we are talkin’ being weirded out, I got another question for you James,” Shida cued, seemingly purposefully slurring her words as she talked, since she had just been able to speak normally only moments ago. “Right, in a moment,” James said, holding his hand up to indicate for her to hold that thought. “But first, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Curi what is with that voice?” That was in fact something that everyone seemed to wonder, as the gazes at Curi got even more interested now. Curi seemed confused for just a moment. Only after a few seconds it seemed to click for them. “Oh, right, you have never heard me use it,” they said, and again the inflexions of a sudden understanding were crystal clear. “This is a different voice generation method I use sometimes when interacting with strangers in a public setting. I personally don’t like it as much as the other, since I have a lot less precise control over it, however it seems to be less irritating for many people, so I keep it around. I also figured it would be more suited for storytelling.” James had…many questions to say the least. And he seemed to not be the only one. However, he also wasn’t the only one who knew that asking those questions would most likely only result in more confusion, so he decided to, for now at least, just accept it. If he was being honest, in his current hazy state he would in all likelihood not understand a single bit of information Curi would convey while actually trying to explain it to him. He had a hard enough time following them when he was sober after all. “Alright, good to know…,” he merely mumbled, dazedly reaching for his head before adding, “So, you had a question, Shida?” Shida blinked a few times, before seemingly also coming back to reality. Shaking out her head, she briefly replied, “Yeah. Since we were kinda on the topic already, I wanted to ask what was up with you earlier when you were talking to the Matriarch.” Moar looked at her confusedly and butted in, “What do you mean? Him and the Matriarch were just talking.” Pippa and Quiis, who had both not been present for the encounter with the Leader-Supreme, turned their heads and interestedly listened to the exchange. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how uncomfortable he was,” Shida said with a smack of her lips, giving Moar the same disapproving look that the old woman liked to hand out herself so much. “Uncomfortable?” Moar mused confusedly, pulling her eyes off of Shida to inquisitively look at James instead. James let out a dull chuckle that lasted a bit longer than he’d like, as he had a bit of trouble getting it back under control in his current state. Once he had finally managed to calm his breathing, he loudly and awkwardly cleared his throat. “Oh that,” he said, scratching the stubble on his cheek while avoiding eye contact. “It is a pretty silly story, really.” Pippa, apparently already taken by the proposition of another earth-story, perked up her ears and eagerly stated, “Well, too bad. It’s been asked, now you gotta deliver.” James threw her a venomous glare, but based on the reactions of everyone else, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. Sighing, he rolled his eyes and got ready to explain. “Well, when we were really young, back when things with our families were still peachy, Fynn, Nia and I went to visit her parents once, while they were still living in the territories neighboring their home,” he began the convoluted explanation of his own irrationality. “I was like…eight years old at the time. Earth years of course. Anyway, most of the trip doesn’t matter now, but one day we drove out to visit a remote village that decided to live off the grid, away from civilization and technology so to speak. Don’t know why they did it, but they seemed happy with it. So we hung out, learned a bit of the way they did things and had a pretty good time overall. So good of a time, in fact, that we went out there again the next day.” He looked around, seeing if everyone was following so far. Eager gazes told him to get on with it already. “Now I should mention, we have elephants on earth. Big Proboscidea, a bit shorter than Moar, but way more massive. Those things are powerful is what I’m saying. And smart too. They aren’t like most animals. Not exactly sapient, but when you look into their eyes, you can tell they are actually looking back, if you know what I mean. Or maybe that doesn’t make sense, I don’t know,” he said. He was talking pretty fast, as he really wanted to get the story over with. “Anyway, that next day, when we were going back to that village, we were almost there already, just had to cross one more hill and we would see it. Nia and I, being kids, of course ran on ahead, impatient to finally get there. And well…that way we were the first to see it.” His words stocked a bit in his throat as he recounted something that he should probably not have seen at that tender age. “You were the first to see what?” Pippa asked nosily, apparently not quite understanding his pausing. “The destroyed village of course,” Shida hissed annoyedly in a reprimanding tone. “What?” Pippa asked surprisedly, looking at James for confirmation. James nodded. “Destroyed huts. Dead bodies. Lots of blood. That is all that I really remember. Luckily, we were taken away before we got too good of a look at it,” he explained, images of the bloody sand and the empty gazes of the corpses flashing through his mind. “Back then, we were told that the village was destroyed by elephants. As a kid that made sense to me. I just remembered the looks of the elephants I had seen near the village before. The judging eyes of these giants, telling me to better not get too close. And seeing the sheer destruction that was left behind; it just stuck with me. To be completely honest, it is pretty silly. The older I got, the more I realized that the village was actually destroyed by bandits; they just told us it was elephants to shield us from the cruel reality of the situation, which I would rather not get into right now. However, even knowing that, the fear from back then has never quite let me go. I can’t explain it. I doubt there is even an explanation. It usually doesn’t matter. However, that is the reason the Matriarch…caught me off-guard like that.” “That is horrible…” Moar mumbled, more to herself than to him, as one of her clawed hands rose towards her face. Pippa seemed to have choked on the foot she had put in her mouth, because she remained silent. “Well, a better explanation that what I came up with,” Shida mused, not further specifying what exactly she had had in mind. “Alright, change of topic,” James loudly proclaimed, really not wanting to talk about this anymore. He had had plenty of time to talk this through with plenty of therapists before. And since she was so graciously volunteering as target for his ire, he focused in on Pippa. “Since you seem to be so interested in our lives, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?” Even in his inebriated state, he managed to combine the question with a fairly predatorial glare, while he mischievously smirked at the marsupial. “Oh well, uhm…I guess?” the addressed nervously spoke up, her ears standing up straight and pointing straight towards James. “Although you guys’ lives really make mine seem plain boring in comparison.” “Well, you’ve been asked, so you better deliver,” Shida cued amusedly, while slowly starting to settle back down into a more comfortable position once again. James leaned back, supporting himself with one hand on the table while the other found something to do in slowly stroking through Shida’s hair. Pippa visibly swallowed. “Well, really not much to say. I come from a big family, being one of twelve girls and fourteen boys back home. Needless to say, things got pretty cluttered at times,” she said, her hands starting to fidget with each other as she spoke. “To be completely honest, with twenty-five siblings, things were probably more cramped out of the pouch than they were inside. It got pretty claustrophobic at times and life wasn’t exactly luxurious. And being cooped up like that all the time made me want to get out. See the world, you know? So, ‘soon as I could I took the opportunity and got a job as a paramedic, away from the family. Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘em to bits, but that life just wasn’t for me. Away from home, I may not have had a lot, but if you are used to sharing with twenty people, not a lot is still a considerable amount. Then things happened, and I ended up getting the chance to go to space. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity. Now, whenever I get home, I got some new crazy stories to tell everybody, and I’m the favorite aunt ever of all the little ones.” She sighed, reminiscing once her explanation was over. “I miss the little ones,” she lamented for a moment, almost longingly staring into the distance. Then her expression changed, as she seemed to get a bit brooding. Finally, she shifted her gaze over at Moar and nosily asked, “Come to think of it, with you havin’ three kids and three guys back home, what made you decide to explore the great expanse, Moar?” James perked up at that. That was a good question. He also didn’t miss Quiis throw a cheeky glance over at Moar. One that indicated that they already knew the answer. It made him wonder how well these two actually knew each other, although it seemed to be a pretty old friendship to him. “Oh well, it is simple really,” Moar said, sounding amused, although James couldn’t help but feel that she also appeared to be getting the slightest bit flustered at the question. “My children have all left the heard already. They all chose a life more in tune with the community than I have led. And to be quite honest, while I certainly still enjoy their company, I am simply too old to be very interested in their fathers anymore. They have all by now set their sights on some younger women, I am sure of it. So, once my youngest was ready for the world, I was a bit at a loss as to what to do with myself. Starting to work again was just the natural next step for me.” Apparently, Moar wasn’t one for retirement. James could have probably guessed that, but it was somehow still a revelation. With that revelation, another thing came to mind. His eyes shifted onto Quiis. The last of the group who had yet to talk about themselves. Of course, it was Moar’s turn to ask something, so he would have to hold back for now. However, Moar seemed to be able to read his mind at that moment. He probably wasn’t very subtle in his staring, if he had to guess. “Well, Quiis, would you like to tell us about yourself as well?” the large woman cheerily said, raising her glass at her small friend. Quiis returned the gesture and slowly let some of the dark liquid flow into their mouth, before putting the glass back down. ‘It takes so long to explain things in sign,’ Quiis lamented for a moment while shaking out their body. As James felt the typical shivers run down his spine, he could see Quiis take a look at him. ‘You know, you really don’t have to flinch every time I move, James’ they signed towards him with slow, explicit movements. James winced at being called out like that. “I’m really sorry,” he said honestly, briefly bowing his head to them. “It’s not on purpose, I swear.” He should have expected that they noticed it, however it still felt worse actually knowing for sure. ‘I guess the fact that a human is afraid of me of all people is something I could tell my grandchildren someday, if it wasn’t for the fact that I will never have any,’ Quiis replied, letting out their croaking laugh. James also chuckled at that. ‘I’ll keep it short, or we will still be sitting here tomorrow,’ Quiis signed, and seeing as they had most likely passed midnight by now, tomorrow was quite a while away. ‘I have been among the stars for most of my life. I have been around all kinds of people and seen all kinds of places. You all have your stories back home, that somehow led to you being here. For me, being here is my story. It has been for many years, and it will be until I die. I will not deny that even I can’t help but be…unsure of this new chapter in my life with all of you around. However, I’d say it is a good thing that I still can find some excitement, even after having seen this much.’ That was a strangely human thing to say, found James. And because of that, he let himself get swept up in it a bit, raising his glass, for which he needed both hands, and loudly proclaiming, “Well, I’ll drink to that!” before downing the final rest of his drink. His friends joined him in his sentiment, even if it was only with water in two cases, and a general sound of clanks filled the air as one glass after another was set back down. James wiped his mouth clean with his arm. “Alright,” he said loudly, looking into the round. “Who’s in for another round?” -- Slowly, Congloarch stomped over the walkway for large creatures. People hurried out of his way as heavy thuds rang out with each step his mighty front legs took. For a place called the Great Community Station, this sure was dull. The usual mixture of plateless cowards littered the halls. The usual number of tiny competitors either scurried away or fearfully glanced at his majestic form. Nothing about this place was great. It was just as much of a bore fest as any other community owned station. He really needed some excitement. Either that or something to take his mind off of things. Independently, all four of his eyes moved, searching the halls for anything that might be more interesting than just keeling over, dead. Finally, attracted by some familiar sounds from one direction, one of them glimpsed something, causing all four to focus in on the new sight. The sign of the bar in front of him read “A Guviad’s Shade”, and the tunes of a familiar song softly rang out from inside, dulled by the walls. Well, this would have to do for now, he thought, as he neared the large doors, which only opened for him as he stepped so close that the door took up nearly his entire field of vision. As soon as it had opened, the volume of the music increased by an order of magnitude and the striking smell of intoxicating chemicals filled his maw and nostrils. It was strong enough that he could taste the alcohol in the air. At least this promised enough intoxication to forget his boredom for a while. As he entered, many eyes fell on him for a moment, and the usual tension his presence caused set in with some of the patrons. However, to his surprise, something else within the room seemed to already have taken the people’s attention to such a degree, that even his appearance seemed to be nothing more than a footnote to many. “Oh?”, he thought, “Could it be that fate has led me to something interesting yet?” From his position, he could not see what it was that held the people here enraptured by its presence, however he now was convinced that it would be his destiny given duty to find out. He made his way through the room. Even though they were distracted, people still got out of his way once they noticed him getting too close. It was good that they knew their place, even now. Finally, he arrived at a table which was in a position that allowed him a good view over most of the room. Holding his head high above most others in the room, his eyes once more started to scan the space around him, erratically moving in all directions. Quickly, he at least got an idea of what it was that had the people this on edge, that not even a tonamstrosite entering the scene seemed to be of much concern to them. The net weight of deathworlders in the room seemed to be unusually high, as there was a myiat as well as one of those rodents from Taschard whose name he kept forgetting present. To his surprise the rodent sat alone at a table, eyeing the other deathworlder distrustfully, while the myiat seemed to be having company. And unusual company indeed. What could have motivated a bunch of prey to search the company of a deathworld predator? And why was said deathworld predator tolerating their presence like this. A myiat especially would be the last species he expected to flaunt around with a bunch of plateless. However, the answers to these questions only interested him superficially. Much more important was that a myiat around could mean some serious entertainment for him. He had heard that they were ferocious, even if they were only reached up to his torso. Deciding to forgo ordering for now, he stepped away from his table again, starting towards the one currently occupied by the strange group. As was to be expected from something forged by survival, the feline’s ears immediately twitched in his direction as he took his first heavy steps forward. The sheer amount of miyvas residue littering the table around them was a clear sign that they had already had quite the night. However, even that inebriation wasn’t enough to completely dull their survival instincts. Their head shot around, and piercing eyes fixated him sharply in their gaze. Yes, this was someone not to be trifled with, he could feel it. He could feel his heartbeat accelerating, his twin-hearts beating nearly in unison at this point. His hind legs almost started to scrape the ground in excitement, but he could contain himself. The myiat’s sudden change in demeanor now also clued their company in to the fact that something must have been amiss. They also turned towards him. Only the rafulite stood on one level with him. Their brown eyes widened in surprise as one of the horizontal pupils finally focused in on him. The rest of the company consisted of an andalaih and a strange, jet black being he couldn’t place. Was it a robot? Why would anyone bring a robot to a bar? The red eyes of the strange thing were now also directed at him, causing a strange feeling in his gut. The myiat showed no direct signs of aggression as he neared, simply fixating him the whole time, carefully noting every move he made. The conversation at the table had died down. Nobody said a thing. When he stepped even closer, the feline’s tale came into motion. Where it had merely softly swayed left to right before, it now started waiving through the air. The hairs on their body also started to stand up. He wondered if it was just his appearance causing that reaction or if they could maybe sense his intentions already. They were rumored to be quite perceptive after all. Oh well, if they were here with friends, he believed he knew exactly the kind of words that could get him an even stronger reaction. “A myiat in a place like this,” he said in a raspy voice, each of his four eyes narrowing down on his target. “One would believe that this is not place for a deathworlder.” The companions warily glanced at their strange acquaintance, as the addressed slowly rose from their slouching position on the table. It was clear from their movements that the influence of the drugs had not left them completely unaffected. In fact Congloarch could even hear it in their voice, as they challengingly responded, “Why don’t you come over here and say that to my face?” Hushed, the plateless around them talked among themselves and even tried to dissuade the feline from taking his challenge, but they didn’t matter. He ignored the vermin. Right now, his challenge stood before him. He had not yet faced a myiat. However, he was of course aware of the stories. He wondered if this tiny being could actually give him as much of a challenge as the rumors would make him belief. He doubted it. Horror stories from plateless had no doubt mixed with the actual recollections of their feats. But still, he could not deny his excitement, as he stepped closer, taking them up on their offer. In a single elegant movement, the myiat had bounced off the table, landing on the floor with their two feet and staring up at him. He held eye contact with them. What would be going on in the mind of such a small competitor, staring up at a mighty tonamstrosite, the greatest of all predators, he wondered. The mighty maulers at the end of his front legs scratched over the ground. Each of them were bigger than the myiat’s entire head. However, they didn’t even regard them, focusing completely on his face. If they didn’t keep their eyes on his weapons, this would be over quicker than he wanted it to. He waited for the first sign of doubt in their eyes. He would use it as his signal to attack. However, as the tiny predator regarded him, there was no doubt. He of course expected such from an experienced fighter. However, in its place, he didn’t find what he expected to see. There was no confidence. No assuredness of victory. No expectations of a fight. The only thing he found in those yellow eyes was emptiness. The entire body language of the being oozed aggression, from the waving tail to the standing hairs. But their eyes didn’t. To him, it was indescribable. Their eyes narrowed down and focused on him, and he was sure that he should see something in them, be it cold calculation or burning fury. But instead, they were a dark emptiness, threatening to swallow him whole. The feeling of bugs crawling over him, that slowly spread over each of his plates, became ever more present in his mind and brought with it the realization that maybe, he had miscalculated. This would definitely be a great challenge. The myiat must have seen the doubt in his eyes, as they took it as a sign of opportunity just like he had wanted to. Congloarch braced for an attack. However, the myiat’s movement was stopped in its tracks, as they head was pulled back and they let out a pained, “Hey, ouch!” submitted by /u/Lanzen_Jars to r/HFY [link] [comments]

“When did they arrive?” Maggie appeared through the blizzard like a ghost, her footsteps and profile having been hidden by the sheets of snow and ice falling all around us. I didn’t jump, and once I realised she was looking at the cigarette in my hand, I merely nodded and offered her one. She surprised me by taking it and we stood quietly, eyes fixed on the spot on the horizon where we knew the ship was lying perfectly preserved. “I had HQ send a drone over with more appropriate supplies,” I said. “So we’re definitely staying then? Sebastian must be beside himself,” Maggie replied, following it up with a quiet chuckle. “He’s certainly looking itchy,” I replied. “But personally I’d be fine never looking another piece of suet in the eye.” “Utter torture,” she groaned, shaking her head. “I’ve been jogging ten miles every morning since I was 17, but these last few days have been something else. He just thrives off it though, doesn’t he?” “It’s his schtick,” I replied. “What he does. He only agreed because he thought we’d never find the damn thing, and it’d be two weeks of solid trekking through Arctic winter. But he has his own fund-raising to do, and he needs to work up interest with littler treks like this one.” “5000 calories a day,” Maggie said. “I don’t know how anyone could do it for fun.” “Well at least the new supplies are better suited to camp-life. Plus,” I gestured with the cigarette in my hand as it burned down to the final few embers, “we can slip in a few little amenities now we don’t have to haul every last pound behind us.” Maggie took a final draw and handed me the butt when she was done. I had an empty can of coke I was using to keep them in, personally unwilling to throw them willy nilly onto the ground. “The ice is safe,” she told me, dropping a bomb like it was nothing. “In fact, it’s a few miles thick. We’ve just got the full satellite data through and… well, it’s quite intriguing.” “Why’s that?” I asked. “It’s not alone. There’s something else a day’s hike North. Hard, hollow, and big. I wanted to double check before I told you. It’s certainly a very odd finding.” “Well we’ve got the ship to explore for now,” I said. “If Sebastian feels like it, he can burn off some calories checking out the second signal.” I watched Maggie disappear back into the grey wind before returning to my own tent. Sitting down on my cot I contemplated the news she’d just delivered. My eyes drifted to the horizon again and again as I turned the words over in my mind. The ship was safe to board. The ship I’d spent years writing about, publishing papers on, researching… Hell, there was a scale model of the damn thing in my living room I’d made by hand as a young post-doc. The Pinafore was lost with all hands during a barely discussed attempt at finding the Northwest passage. Standing at 80 feet long it was a Caravel, and thus one of the first European ships capable of Oceanic crossings. I’d spent years postulating that it was still frozen in the ice, just like the infamous ghost ship, the HMS Terror. A comparison I happily played up after the success of the fictional novel and tv show based on the lost Franklin expedition. One wealthy benefactor later and I was equipped with more money than my whole department had seen in years, along with the testy, but experienced, guide Sebastian. And somehow, against all odds, we found it after a brutal 7 day hike. Ever since I’d first spotted the mast from miles away, I’d been vibrating with barely contained excitement. Knowing it was out there just waiting, well… I had no hope of getting to sleep. I stood up from my cot and grabbed a torch but kept it off, letting my eyes adjust to the dark as I checked camp for any signs of life. Certain that I was alone, I began my walk. It wasn’t a long way to go. We’d camped a few hundred metres away to keep clear in case the ship was at risk of cracking the ice, unlikely as that was. Still, it was dark and I got turned pretty bad after a few minutes. Even with my torch I started to feel the first twinges of panic, but I kept at it until, after twenty minutes of nervous fumbling, I finally saw the mast once more. It was a barely glimpsed shape in the dark, a patch of white overhead that caught my torch and made me jump. Lowering the light brought the rest of the ship into view, and for a split-second I was dumbstruck with awe. The ship was close enough to nearly touch, and while I’ve seen bigger ships before and since, something about it made me feel breath-takingly small. It was as if the groaning of the ice beneath my feet belonged to the ship, and not the weather, like it was some great nautical beast crying out to me. This ship had left shore in 1543 and never returned. And yet the word Pinafore was still written along its side, engraved in gorgeous detail on a plinth as long as I am tall. And right there, just a few feet away, was a ladder that enabled entry. I tried the wood and could have cried when I found it held my weight. I got two rungs up before I fell back down and bloodied my lip on the hull. I didn’t let it stop me. Even as the weather threatened to freeze me to the spot, I clumsily forced my way overboard and collapsed onto the deck shouting my laughter into the blizzard. No one would be able to hear me anyway. The ship was like black volcanic rock encased in glittering ice. Here and there bits of rigging and wood jutted out, so cold I’d imagine it would tear the skin right of my hand if I touched it. I marvelled at the sight of it all and made a slow and deliberate circle of the deck, letting out a tremendous laugh of joy when I saw the helm was still intact, wheel and all. I thought I would stop there but as the minutes ticked on it wasn’t enough. And when my foot caught the trapdoor that leading to below deck, I found my hand moving towards the latch before I’d had a single conscious thought. It wasn’t easy to open, taking maybe an hour or two. But all things considered, it wasn’t as hard as it ought to have been. And when the door finally slammed open, landing on the deck with a terrible thunderclap it revealed a set of steps descending into total darkness. At the sight of it, I felt a small catch form at the back of my throat. The rigging of this ship had been snapped, the beams and masts broken and gouged, the wood splintered… I was walking into a tomb. The arctic is an alien place, the geography profoundly different to what we’re used to. Great obelisks of glistening white rock rise metres into the air, walls of snow lie ready to collapse, and a landscape rendered in pure blank white appears to the human eye as faintly abstract, almost surreal. The ground is not solid rock, but floating ice, and below it lies one of the most hostile and unknown oceans in the world. An ocean that is forever ever cut off from sunlight. I took one last look around at the starlit deck and descended into the ship, the roaring wind fading to a whistle as I ducked below. The stairs led to a small hold with a single corridor that carried on to the fore of the ship where I knew I’d find the captain’s quarters. My intention was to head right there and ignore the little things along the way, except what lay in wait for me in the hold was no little thing. I screamed when I first saw the head. It was a gaunt, eyeless, leathery thing twisted into a frozen grin of pain. A gnarled hand reached out towards me and I let out another shriek and fell backwards, sending the torch spinning out where it finally settled on the monstrosity before me. The scream died as I realised slowly that the thing was not moving, and it was not a single thing. A dozen heads lay crammed together, arms and fingerless hands shoved out in awkward angles, as if they were desperately groping for something that lay just out of reach. It was a pile of bodies, their limbs and torsos interwoven in a bone breaking display of torture and mutilation. I let the mortal terror drain away but lost all desire to stay for a moment longer. I grabbed the torch with quivering hands and turned back towards the way I came. That was when the hatch slammed shut, and I found another scream of terror rising in my throat. - “Couldn’t have called me?” Craig said as I sat shivering under a foil blanket. I was clutching a small cup of hot chocolate, which Craig supplemented with a shot of Brandy when no one else was looking. I thanked him with an appreciative nod. “You know I would have given anything to be there with you,” he added. “Then you’re as stupid as he is,” Maggie said, stepping down onto the ice as Sebastian started to follow her. “If I hadn’t wanted another cigarette I would never have realised you were missing. You’d have been trapped in there all night with that thing.” Craig looked at Maggie and she nodded. “Holy shit,” he said. “I’ve gotta go look.” “Let him,” I said just as Maggie went to stop him. She rolled her eyes but let him go and Craig rushed off, catching Sebastian just as he took the final step down from the ship. “This could have gone so much worse,” she said, expecting no reply. I imagined that would be the end of the matter, and I looked up eagerly when Sebastian sidled up to join the conversation. “I uh… I owe you a bit of an apology there David,” he said, looking a little too pale around the edges. “When I heard you screaming, I thought it had been the hatch slamming shut and you were just scared. But Jesus, that is… no one wants to be locked in the dark with that thing. What the hell is it?” “The crew?” I suggested. “Shame we didn’t bring any biologists with us.” “Your toys can help with that, right?” Sebastian said. “You’ve got drones coming and going so often we could set up a department store.” “We can take samples and return, maybe set up a video feed,” Maggie replied. “As a meteorologist, I definitely feel a little out of my wheelhouse. What about you?” She asked me the last part, and I tried to think of whether anything I’d ever encountered came close to what I saw in the hold of that ship. When nothing came to mind, I shook my head. “One fucked up Christmas tree,” Sebastian said with a dark laugh and I felt a shiver run down my back at his words. It really had resembled some kind of tree, and I filed the thought away in my head hoping it wouldn’t pop back up the next time I put my own tree up in my living room. “Hey,” he cried. “Maybe you can hook the drones up to it and just fly the whole thing back to town.” Sebastian really didn’t like the drones. If he’d had his own way he would have had has doing the expedition with dogs and seal-fur boots just like his ancestors. “That reminds me,” I said. “Maggie has something to show you. I think you might like it.” - We were told the worst thing to do was to touch or move it, so we didn’t. The mountain of frozen flesh and withered bone was obscured from view with some make-shift curtains Craig threw together, and we carried on working like it wasn’t there. Craig and Maggie took photos and made an inventory of every object we could find, carefully labelling and categorising each tong and blade for later expeditions. I tried to pour through these items to find something that might give a clue to the ship’s final fate. A dozen or so men crewed the ship in its prime including a surgeon, a cook, a smith, and a cartographer. We found faded broken letters that spoke of mothers and wives, small figures sculpted from whalebone, and ancient bottles of homebrewed spirits stashed away under pillows. The ship’s surgeon and resident scholar even had quite the collection of shells that he’d carefully labelled. Here and there we also found a patch of floor stained suspiciously in the dark, or a blade embedded in a door or wall, but we tried to ignore the implication of violence. The captain’s quarters were… well they were odd. I concluded that the ship had disappeared close to Christmas given the sprig of holly fixed to the ceiling. A small concession the captain had made to the season. But the desk was smashed in two, rope and twine lay all around the floor, and drag marks were visible along the wood along with a few scattered fingernails. There was also a discharged musket under the desk, along with a solitary half-gnawed human finger that lay close by. In the doctor’s quarters I saw that the cabinets were bare of the usual oils and tinctures employed at the time (useless as they would have been), though his diary spoke of nothing spreading amongst the crew. There was a lifetime of work, and the details we captured guaranteed more funding than I could have ever imagined. We had our ghost ship, we had our thrilling and creepy details, and we had one great big inexplicable pile of corpses that would boggle some of the greatest researchers in the University. It was a little scary, but otherwise it was good news. Sebastian had departed the day before and checked in regularly for the first twelve hours or so. After that he went silent, which we put down to the poor weather or his general single-mindedness. At the twenty-four-hour mark Maggie became a little itchy, and when she pointed out the silence to Craig and I, we found ourselves sharing her concern. We decided to try calling him on the radio and waited silently for his reply. What came was a discordant series of clicks and heavy breathing. “Sebastian?” Maggie asked. “Are you okay?” But there was only the strange hiss of the radio broken by the occasional breath or scrape. “Sebastian?” She cried. “Please respond!?” We tried for hours until, eventually, his radio stopped returning any signal. Craig figured it may have died, or maybe Sebastian had turned it off and started ignoring us. But something about the strange noises had left us all feeling a little nervous. Maggie suggested that he’d just activated the radio by accident and we were hearing the sounds of his walking, but the breathing felt close and ragged, almost-animalistic like a man approaching death. Still, it was the best theory we had, and we agreed to wait a little longer. The following twelve hours were tense. Eventually we stopped working and returned to camp, where we tried to contact Sebastian with a more powerful radio and updated HQ to let them know. The ship that trailed us along the coast sent a few drones over the area Sebastian was meant to be and reported no visible signs of the man. No big surprise there, we figured, given just how hard it’d be to find anything in the tundra. But the pit in my stomach grew heavier with each hour that passed without us hearing back from our guide. After 48 hours it was decided we’d have to go look for Sebastian ourselves. We were moderately experienced in hiking and the spot shouldn’t have been more than a six hour ride away. It was Sebastian who had insisted on making the journey by foot, always eager to push himself to the limit, and chances were it had led him to some kind of misfortune. - “Is that a door?” Craig asked. “I think it is,” I answered. Maggie was on her hands and knees staring at the door that was no taller than my waist and embedded in a snowy banking. I reached out and rubbed away the ice and snow around the doorframe revealing a wall made of crudely stacked slabs of wood as thick as my torso. “Who the fuck put a door here?” he asked. “It goes deeper,” Maggie replied, hands cupped around her face as she peered through a small window set into the door. “I think I can see stairs going down.” “Are we sure Sebastian was here?” I asked. “Almost definitely,” Maggie answered, holding up a small shred of blue fabric that had been jammed into the door frame. It was the same unmistakeable baby blue of Sebastian’s wind-breaker. “He’s not the only one,” Craig said, reaching into the snow to pull out a wooden knife bearing the Pinafore’s seal. “Looks like our ancient explorers came this way as well. And I don’t think it ended well.” I took the knife and noticed a faint trim of rust-brown red spattered along the edge. “We’ll have to mark our path for the future,” I said. “And GPS tag this whole area for full excavation at a later date.” Maggie nodded and took the knife to add it to our inventory while Craig and I worked on opening the door. It took a little effort, but quickly popped open and swung inwards with a spine-tingling squeal. The building had a roof so low we had to duck. The beams above us were roughhewn trunks with still-visible bark preserved by God-knows-how-long spent in the arctic tundra. It was a like a makeshift cabin, the kind of thing you’d find in the Canadian or Nordic wilderness. It had the sturdy appearance of Viking construction, and Maggie noted a few strange runes stitched across the inner doorway that I couldn’t translate or properly recognise, but they seemed faintly familiar nonetheless. The room itself was a good twenty by twenty metres with a worktop that ran along three of the walls. Maggie shuffled over and picked up one of the stools that was tucked neatly under the countertop, and holding it up, she showed it to be no bigger than my forearm. “What the fuck?” she muttered. “Is this a fucking joke?” Craig cried, calling our attention to a small wooden object he held in his hands. It was a hedgehog, or a carving of one, with little wheels instead of legs so it could be rolled along the ground. “Could be some kind of fetish,” I mumbled, swallowing a knot of anxiety in my throat. “It’s a fuckin’ toy!” Craig cried, laughing at the ridiculousness. “Is this some kind of prank Dave? Is this some fucked up PR stunt by the University because if it is, I’m not going to be happy.” “I don’t know what this is,” I said. “But I’m not in on it, and if any of you are I’d appreciate you saying now.” “Sebastian, maybe?” Maggie said, a quiver entering her voice. She was holding up one of his shoes, the fabric half torn, and the insides splashed with still wet blood. “Maybe this is all his doing? He was assigned to us by the University.” I knocked a fist against the wall and I realised I could shatter my hands against that wood and not put so much as a dent in it. “Seems elaborate for a prank,” I said. “We should work on the assumption that Sebastian needs our help. And if this is a joke, we can kick his ass afterwards.” “Amen,” Maggie replied, and together we walked towards the nearby stairs. Footprints were visible in the thin layer of snow that had drifted into the building over the years, and we knew that if Sebastian was near then he must be somewhere below. - “I haven’t seen this before,” Craig said. “This kind of material.” He was holding a toy horse crudely put together out of basic cylinders and squares. The material that covered it was a velvety sort of leather that was strangely soft despite the ice cold temperature. He turned it over in his hand and we both noticed a faded blue patch. I watched him squint at it for a few moments, and I reached out and gestured for him to put it down. “What is it?” he asked ignoring my suggestion. “It’s Erasmus,” I said, my voice a little hoarse. “The patron saint of sailors. You should put that thing down.” “Why would someone paint that onto a toy?” “They wouldn’t,” I replied. “But they would almost certainly have tattooed it onto the arm of a 16th Century sailor.” His eyes went wide and he dropped the toy with a disgusted cry. “Fucking hell!” he cried. “That’s not all,” Maggie said. “I think this is bone.” She held up a small carving of the baby Jesus, no larger than my thumb, made out of a yellowing ivory. “Any guesses as to where it may have come from?” “Many arctic cultures make carvings out of seal bone,” I suggested. “How many of them make fucking toys in a workshop built for hobbits!?” Craig cried. “Am I the only one who wants to pin the tail on the donkey and make the connection here?” “Do you have any ideas?” Maggie asked, looking over towards me. I shook my head. “Maybe an old European colony,” I said. “Someone came out here to try and… I don’t know. Some religious fanatics maybe? Someone who wanted to recreate the myth?” “Out of human skin?” Craig asked. “And where the fuck is Sebastian?” The floor we were on was a lot busier than the last, crammed full of desks and tools for woodworking and carving, many of which lay strewn about the floor. Somewhere below us the walls must have collapsed and that was where the ice was coming from, as the snow that covered the floor was noticeably thicker here than above. We found no obvious sign of Sebastian except for some signs of disturbance amongst the snow that led, once again, to another set of stairs descending into darkness. - “That bodes poorly,” Craig muttered. Sebastian’s ice-pick was embedded in the floor up to the hilt. A few strands of hair were still threaded around the blade, along with some coils of rope identical to the kind in the Pinafore. “As does that,” Maggie said, gesturing to the Christmas tree. Not only had the toys in this part of the building grown more demented, depicting men with huge phalluses and women tearing their breasts open to reveal ribs and lungs and hearts, but an ancient, withered tree stood dominating the centre of the room. Its limbs were decorated with withered black prunes and charcoal rope that would have been familiar to anyone who’s seen what centuries of decay can do to frozen human remains. The baubles were organs, the tinsel intestines, left out to freeze dry over centuries of exposure. One of the baubles, however, was fresh, making red velvet slush of the ice below. “What is it?” Craig asked. “I think it’s a kidney,” I said. Steam was rising from the dripping piece of offal that sagged from the tree branch. “It’s still warm too.” “The eyes on that doll,” Craig said, swallowing nervously in the cold. “Do they look familiar to you?” I turned to the toy he was staring at, its haunted face lit up by the intense beam of his torch. Its expression was remarkably well carved, seeming almost life-life were it not for the obvious colouration of hardwood. The eyes, however, were far too human, and the irises a crystal blue that was, indeed, quite familiar. Unable to ignore his curiosity, Craig reached out and gently poked the glassy orbs. Only they weren’t glassy. They were soft. And Craig’s finger came away with a faint trickle of viscous fluid that lingered on his skin. “They’re still warm too,” he gagged. “Oh God they’re his. They have to be!” - We did, eventually, find Sebastian. He was alive in a sense, although on his very last breath. He had been cracked open like a Turkey and left to air in the freezing cold. His skin and bones were pulled apart with expert precision, his face a pallid mask of terror. He was conscious but could only wail and cry. Blinded and terrified, he initially tore his hand away when Maggie reached out and took it. He was naked, seconds away from freezing to death. And Craig almost draped his coat over him instinctively but stopped at the realisation it would be resting directly on top of his exposed chest cavity. He was alive for no more than a minute as we crouched there. He did not speak, no matter how often we asked our desperate and frightened questions. The only sense we got of what he was going through was the relief that passed over his face when he finally died, as if he had awoken at last from a terrible nightmare and was free of the terror. “I thought ol’ Nick was a saint,” Craig said, wiping the snot and tears from his face after we’d all had a good cry. “If this is his workshop it’s a pretty fucked up place.” “Could be some lunatic who’s settled up here,” Maggie said. “Some serial killer with a demented Christmas fixation?” “Doesn’t explain the sailors,” I replied. “The knife by the door, the tree, the toys so clearly made out of their remains. How could that be a serial killer?” “So what are we saying exactly?” Craig asked. “Santa’s elves went off the straight and narrow? Is that it? What the fuck does any of this even mean?” “Does it matter?” Maggie replied. “We need to get Sebastian back to basecamp and then we need to get out of here, ASAP.” “Sebastian might not be an option,” I said, looking over the still steaming remains of his corpse. “I don’t know about you but I don’t want to spend another second longer in this place. And as awful as it might seem, we have to weigh up our responsibilities to the dead against our responsibilities to the still living.” “You mean us,” Maggie said. “Yes.” I nodded. “I mean us. We won’t help him by hauling him up four floors and across fifteen miles of open Arctic tundra. But we can at least make our lives a little easier by getting on with it and calling in help as soon as possible.” “What are we going to tell them?” Craig asked. “We’ll figure it out,” I replied. - We returned to camp a few hours later, taking a few of the less-terrifying artifacts for testing. The ride back was a silent and eerie affair, and Craig mentioned more than once he was thankful it was still light. We managed, with some effort, to get back just as the sun was setting. Watching the approaching night cast a dreary gloom across the magnificent tundra, I found myself agreeing with him. All of us wanted to be somewhere safe, somewhere secure. And the thin tents of our camp offered little enough protection against the elements, let alone whatever else may lie beyond. But they were the best that we had. As if to emphasise this point, when I arrived I noticed them flapping in the wind and dreaded the night I’d spend int here. “How long till the secondary team arrive?” Maggie asked. “A few days,” Craig replied. “We could ride out ourselves using the snowmobiles but I don’t fancy my chances without Sebastian. Not to mention…” He left his words hanging in the air. I knew what he wanted to say. Not to mention whatever else may be out there. “It’s going to be a long wait,” Maggie said. “It is,” I replied. - We all spent the night in the same tent, listening to the storm pick up until it felt like we were an island alone in the endless dark. At one point we were woken up to the sound of something outside, and we waited carefully until it stopped. I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but it must have been late. I couldn’t have slept more than a few hours before Maggie was shaking me awake to the blinding light of morning. “David!” she cried. “Craig’s gone! He’s gone! I can’t find him anywhere!” I threw myself out of my sleeping bag and crawled out of the tent. In one swift movement I took in the destroyed equipment and torn open tents. Something had come sniffing through our camp, and it hadn’t stopped looking until it found what it wanted. “Do you think it was a bear?” Maggie cried. “With the ice shelf melting they’re coming farther and farther in land every year and there have been more than a few—” She stopped when she saw me bend over and pick something up. I held it up for us both to see – a piece of rope made of rough-hewn twine unlike anything we’d brought with us. It was an exact copy of the kind I’d found lying around the Pinafore and the floor of the workshop, except this one was stained with a bright red patch of blood. “Fuck,” she whispered. “Where do you think he went?” The storm had cleared up and the morning air was so crisp we could see the mast of the Pinafore all the way from camp. “You don’t think…?” “I do,” I said. “Look, the snow is disturbed along the path. Maybe if he was lost or confused and got lost, he might have relied on the markers we left to find his way to the ship. “You know what Craig would say right now, don’t you?” Maggie asked. “He’d say that’s bullshit.” “Let’s hope he’d be wrong,” I replied. - We were half-way there when we found the box. It had been gift-wrapped and left alone in the middle of our path, its top clear of snow. Small footprints, the size of a child’s, led away from it back towards the Pinafore. “This is too weird,” Maggie said. I bent down and noticed the name tag etched with meticulous cursive. Wilcuma Géowineus, it read. “Welcome old friends,” I said, doing my best to translate. “It’s Old English.” I pulled on the twine that bound the plain brown paper around the box, and the whole package unwrapped with elaborate ease. Each face of the box fell down one by one, and Maggie let out a terrible cry. “Oh God!” she shrieked. “What the fuck!?” It was Sebastian’s head, his mouth stuffed with blood-sogged straw while his hollow eyes glared at us with terrible pain. - “Craig,” Maggie cried, her hands cupped around her mouth as she yelled into the open door of the Pinafore’s deck. “Craig!” There were no more gifts lying in wait for us aboard the ship, and no sign of our friend on the deck. At one point I nearly told Maggie that he was probably in the hold, where it’d be safe and warm. But the words died in my throat. I couldn’t keep clinging to such a hopeless idea. “Come on,” I said weakly. “Let’s head down.” The hold was unchanged since we were last aboard. The pile of corpses entwined in a desperate orgy of violence still stood over everything else in the room. Something about the eyeless faces burned its way into my skull, and once again I wondered how exactly they’d suffered such a horrible fate. Maggie and I were silent in our search for Craig. I couldn’t bring myself to cry out for him, and neither could Maggie. It felt useless, and some small part of me kept telling myself to stay small and quiet, hidden from view. Don’t call attention to yourself, it said. Don’t cry out. We checked each one of the ship’s rooms – every quarter, every hold, every cupboard and closet. Until at last we both converged on the Captain’s quarters, and our breath caught in our chests as we noticed the door wide open. Craig’s clothes were in a pile, a few metres past the threshold. “Craig!” Maggie cried, rushing forward. I nearly joined her, but at the last second some flicker of motion stopped me. Before I could warn her, Maggie she was on the other side, reaching down. The door slammed shut and by the time I reached the door, a distance that was barely two metres, she was screaming in unspeakable pain. It was a gibbering howl of terror and agony that filled me with such horror I could feel the corners of my vision blur and turn black. My muscles became weak and my stomach damn near fell out my ass. As it was, I could feel a warm stream of urine trickle down my thigh and calf. I wanted to push on. I wanted to slam into the door with all my rage and strength and rescue my friends. But my legs betrayed me. They screeched to a halt and before I even realised what I was doing, I had turned on my heels and was fleeing the other way. The strangest plan formed in my head. I can’t say how or why it came to me, except that in the end it was probably the only that saved me. The pile of corpses, as horrifying as it was, was large enough to allow entry in some places. One place in particular came to mind. A small nook, barely large enough for a person. But I went for it, sprinting into the room and crawling on my stomach backwards so as to slide underneath the mountain of rotten bodies. The feel of ice cold fingers sliding along my trouser leg, hooking on pockets and poking my chest and back, was enough to nearly make me cry out. And when one of those fingers broke off and lay resting on the back of my neck, turning moist and clammy from the warmth, I had to fight to keep myself from vomiting. I managed to wrench a few arms free of their place and covered myself as best as I could. And then I lay there, suddenly aware of the terrible deafening silence of the ship. The weight of my decision to flee settled in during the long seconds, and I was forced to reflect on the piss that was still soaking into my underwear. I could have been there hours, or maybe just minutes. In the scheme of things it was but a moment although it didn’t feel like it. Eventually something sounded out from the corridor and I heard the terrible squeal of a door swing open. Awful voices spoke in an ancient Germanic form of old English, turning my stomach with the sound of phlegm and inhuman cadence. Whatever I saw move past was not a human, I can say that for sure. But neither was it in my field of view for long enough for me to say what it was. I think there may have been two. I’m not sure. I may have blacked out because the next thing I remember was Maggie’s face glaring at me with terror. She was gagged with straw, just like Sebastian had been, and her eyes had been brutally carved out. Except unlike Sebastian she was sweating and shivering, occasionally letting out a small trembling cry of confused pain. I know it’s impossible, but I swear she was looking at me. I swear she knew I was there… She started to thrash and it amused her captors. One of them approached her seizing body and, still laughing, bent down to stick a small red bow to her forehead. It muttered something to its friend and together they hauled her towards the ladder. I couldn’t see what happened next, but I never saw her again. There was no sign of her in the ship, or anywhere else. There was some rope lying on the deck, and I imagine she was bound and hauled up to be taken back to the workshop. I was in there for two days and eventually hypothermia got the better of me. By the time the second expedition arrived and pulled me out—screaming in terror when I’d first cried out at the sound of their voices—the bodies around me had started to freeze to my skin. It tore away like duct tape leaving long stretches of black necrotic flesh lying beneath. Two fingers on my left hand were gone, two on my right. I still have respiratory problems and my remaining fingers have lost all but the most basic coordination. Which, at the very least, has put an end to my smoking habit. My story wasn’t exactly met with the warmest reception. The official story is that Sebastian became lost hiking to the second signal—which was determined to be nothing more than a fluke according to later scans—and without a guide the rest of us succumbed to hypothermia and suffered severe delusions. Blood-soaked snow along the base of the Pinafore raised some suspicion, all of which was aimed at me. And in the end I had to leave my post at the university after rumours that I’d killed Craig and Maggie in a deranged moment of cabin fever refused to die down. I don’t think it helped that when I’d first awoken and pulled my face free of the frozen wood beneath me, I left a chunk of my right cheek behind. I still look ghoulish, scaring even myself when I look in the mirror. I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore, that’s for sure. Not that it matters to some people. As we approach yet another jolly season I’m forced to revisit this terrible adventure again and again. And now as if to make it worse, someone has been having fun at my expense. I received a gift – a plain wrapped box with a familiar twine wrapped around it in a neat bow. It was small, far smaller than the one that had contained Sebastian’s head. And it opened to reveal one of my missing fingers, quite likely left behind when they tore me out of my frozen tomb. I thought it would stay there, a little piece me locked forever in that nightmare hole, frozen stiff to the side of some medieval sailor. There was even a little tag. Êow Winstre Ðês, Géowine. The words sent shivers down my spine. You left this, old friend, it read. submitted by /u/ChristianWallis to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

I should start off by saying I’m ashamed of what I’m about to tell you. I told myself I would take it to my grave but the weight of it is becoming too much for me to bear on my own. I need to share it with someone else or it will eat me alive. Greg and I weren’t bullies. Quite the opposite, in fact. I got beat up pretty frequently, and he took his share of it as well. But there was one kid that even we picked on, maybe to make ourselves feel better for the crap that we had to take every day. Melvin had a speech impediment. A stutter. Not only that, but he was always full of joy and excitement, talking constantly and dragging it on forever as he tried to get the words out. He was a know-it-all. A tattletale. All of the things that made kids like us, who felt down and out, want to make him feel the same way. And so we tortured him. Not literally, of course. But we definitely weren’t nice. I was much more pleasant with him when we were on our own, since the two of us were sort of friends in a way that’s only possible when you’re kids. Adversaries and chums at the same time, somehow. But when my friends were around, I joined them in treating him like total shit. The fact that it was such accepted behaviour within my social group made it feel like we weren’t even doing anything wrong by treating him so poorly. One time, Greg, Ryan, and I called him and told him to meet us at the park. We said he should bring his bike, baseball glove, bat, baseball, basketball, and two tennis rackets. Then we hid in the forest and watched laughing as he rode around the field calling our names, struggling to maintain his balance on the bicycle he was riding, overloaded with far too many items to carry. Another time we hid in a tree and did something similar. We watched him from a few short feet away as he looked for us, passing by beneath us and asking my brother where we had gone. That time I actually felt bad and climbed down after a little while and told him we had just been kidding around. Greg was pissed off at me for not keeping the prank going. The kid was gullible, so we would mess with him again and again. It was almost too easy. Once my brother made a phony Visual Basic computer program (it was the 1990s – the age of the dial up modem, BBS, bad haircuts and neon clothing). He set the whole thing up pretty professionally and made it look like software for the Pentagon. Then we showed it to Melvin who screamed and ran away horrified when he clicked the fake buttons to “bomb middle east” and “crash stock market”. He actually hid under the blankets on my bed, thinking that the police were going to come for us. I don’t know whose idea it was to go into the forest that day with Melvin, but we had it all planned out before we met up with him. We knew exactly what we were going to do to him out there. The forest was large enough that you could walk for hours through it, and the three of us (Melvin excluded) did that all the time. We knew it like the back of our hands. And knew that he didn’t. “Did you guys hear there’s been a wolf seen wandering around the forest?” Greg asked in his most serious voice. “F-f-f-f-f-for r-r-real?” Melvin asked. “Yeah man, we better be careful out here. Don’t want to run into a wolf in their habitat. They’ll eat you alive.” We walked and talked for a while longer until we were at the spot where we had planned to leave him. “I’m gonna go take a leak,” said Greg. He walked off into the woods, just as we had talked about. We were at least an hour away from the entrance to the forest, and I believed that Melvin could make it back on his own. We wanted to test that theory. Like I said, I’m not proud of myself. And we wanted him to be scared, that too. The sun wasn’t far from the horizon and it would be setting soon. He had already said he wanted to head back any minute, that his mom had told him not to be late for dinner. Time passed and for a while we waited in silence. “What the hell is taking him so long?” Ryan said, feigning annoyance. “Screw it, I’ve gotta go too. I’m gonna see what his problem is. Probably taking a dump!” He walked off and I could see Melvin’s body language change. I wondered if he knew what was going on. The two of us waited in awkward silence for a few minutes. As the time passed, I began to suspect he was not going to let me leave him. He was shifting on his feet and trembling somewhat. He looked scared. I was starting to feel scared too, as the sun began to go down and the light began to fade. I had watched a movie with Tim Curry playing a certain terrifying clown a couple nights before and memories of it were still haunting my dreams and waking life. “I gotta take a leak really bad, actually,” I said, as casually as possible. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to go home while there was still some light left. The thought of being out in those woods at night suddenly terrified me. “NO! You c-c-c-can’t leave me alone out here with the w-w-w-wolf!” “Man, you’ll be fine. I’ll just be a minute.” I tried to walk away and he grabbed my wrist, squeezing it tightly. “D-d-d-don’t l-l-leave me h-here. P-p-p-p-please. Are you g-g-guys m-m-m-messing with m-m-me again? I don’t know if I c-c-c-can f-f-f-find my way b-b-back.” I pulled my arm away from him and began to walk quickly in the direction Greg and Ryan had gone. He hurried after me, shouting at me not to leave him. “Just give me a minute alone, will ya? I need some privacy man!” He looked stunned and hurt when I glanced back over my shoulder, but he had stopped. His eyes showed that he didn’t believe me, but it didn’t change the fact that he was listening to me, regardless. As I neared the tree line, I expected to see Ryan and Greg waiting for me, getting ready to make a run for it, as we had planned. We were going to leave him out in the woods, I’m more than ashamed to admit. We figured he could find his way back, and we wanted to scare him, and to mess with him. But what happened next was not something that could have been predicted. Instead of my friends waiting for me in the trees, there was a clown. His face was painted sloppily with white makeup and he had red vertical stripes above and below his eyes. His mouth was smeared red, and whatever he had painted it with was still wet. Drool poured from his lips as he smiled at me from his crouched down hiding place in the foliage. He had on a white and red pinstripe clown outfit, and it was spattered with gore. I saw my friends’ bodies, then. They had been torn apart, their throats opened up and something had been feeding on what was inside. The clown-thing in the trees watched me watching him, saw me seeing the bodies of my dead friends, and he giggled. A high pitched titter like a little girl. I was too stunned to run away at first. Then he stood from his shadowy place and began to take long stalking strides towards me. His eyes were hypnotic, ancient. They pulled me in like a zoom-in close-up of an actor in a movie, making me want to go towards him. But I tore my gaze away with an effort when I heard Melvin’s stuttering voice calling. “W-w-w-w-what is it? What’s wr-r-r-r-rong?” I turned on my heel and ran. The clown was only a few feet away from me by that point, and he reached out his long arms and almost grabbed me. My terror was a living thing at that moment, pressing me forwards, pushing me from behind and making me run. But Melvin hadn’t seen it yet. The clown thing was just out of his view, hidden behind some trees. When I ran past him, he didn’t follow, just watched hypnotized as the thing came around the overgrowth and headed towards him. I was too terrified to look back at first, afraid that if it saw me looking, it would draw me back in towards it with those eyes. Those eyes that had briefly entranced me. The thing was not a person, I knew that much, even as a child. The curiosity became too much to bear when I heard Melvin’s screams from behind me as I ran. I turned and saw the clown pulling him apart. He peeled him open like a cheese-string. He took pieces from inside of my friend and ate them, swallowing his organs whole. His horrifying eyes glanced up at me as I backed away and even from a distance I could feel his power. The thing was made of everything that we were afraid of. Melvin’s fear of a wolf that would eat him alive. My new-found fear of clowns. Somehow we had manifested this thing that was intent on destroying us. Maybe this was our punishment for tormenting the poor kid for so long. But then, why did he have to die and not me? It doesn’t make sense. I still can't figure out why I was spared, and why my three friends had to die. Maybe now you understand why I was going to take this with me to my grave. Why I was never going to share this story with anyone. But I have to. It helps to get it out. It helps me not to feel so afraid. Because when I’m afraid, the things I’m scared of… They get bottled up and after a while the pressure begins to feel like too much. My nightmares start to seep out and escape into reality. And they have a way of finding me. JG submitted by /u/Jgrupe to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

To be fair, I didn’t know what to think either. Ellen was a quiet girl, senior in highschool, straight B’s, didn’t really go on dates, didn’t even really talk to boys. She has friends, sure, but not many of the male variety. She told me while I was reading in my room, in her hands was clutched the positive pregnancy test. She was crying. I felt stunned. I didn’t ask about the father, it didn’t really cross my mind at the time. I just hugged her after the stun faded and told her we’d be okay. I went with her to tell our parents. Mom immediately burst into tears, sobbing and shaking her head. My father went quiet, face going a few shades paler. Then he spoke up. “Why are you lying to us like this?” Ellen started to cry again as she shook her head. “I’m not… I’m not lying! I’m-” “Shut up!” My dad slapped the pregnancy test from her hand and stuck his finger in her face, his voice raising to a shout. “I taught you better to lie to us! What is this, you trying to hide your grades from us?” I didn’t know know how to react to that. Ellen just sobbed and ran back to her bedroom, slamming the door shut. My dad turned his rage on me next. “Did you put her up to this? Do you think this is funny!?” I bolted next, I’d never seen my dad this angry and I didn’t want to bear the brunt of his anger. I figured, when they’d calmed down, they’d see reason and help Ellen cope with what was happening. They didn’t. Ellen tried to bring it up next morning with just mom around but her lips pressed together firmly and she refused to answer. Ellen pleaded with her to see reason but she just told us to pick up some things from the store on the way home from school and left the table. Ellen just buried her face in her hands, past tears and just confused. I patted her on the back and told her I’d come up with a way out of this. That afternoon I googled abortion clinics near us. Made a plan. I technically only had my driver’s permit, but Ellen couldn’t drive herself back after the procedure so I figured what the heck, might as well try to get away with it. I shared with Ellen my plan and although she was hesitant, I convinced her this was the only way she could get out of this. When we attempted to go out for ‘ice cream’ the next afternoon, Dad stopped us. I forgot to erase the browser history. He screamed at us, telling us we were both going too far with our little joke and that we were grounded until Ellen confessed to lying. His face was bright red, a vein was popping out so far in his forehead I thought it was going to pop. Dad was always hot tempered but I’d never seen him like this. The moment Ellen opened her mouth to say something, Dad punched her in the jaw. Actually punched her. And he’s no small guy, so he hits hard. Ellen hit the floor, I saw her spit a bloody tooth on the ground before she started sobbing. I dragged her by the arm as dad screamed after us how we weren’t leaving this house for anything but school until we came clean. I helped clean up Ellen’s mouth, wiping away the blood and managing to sneak down for some frozen peas to press against her jaw. She shook her head and looked at me. “I… I am pregnant. You believe me, right?” It didn’t really matter if I believed her or not, because she was. Over the next few weeks, Ellen would be nearly knocked over with morning sickness. ‘Morning’ sickness is giving it too much credit, she had days where she was slumped over the toilet, unable to keep much anything down. If mom caught her, she’d just say Ellen had the flu, if dad caught her, he’d call out her ‘prank’ and make her get dressed for school. It was hell. Actual hell. And I could only stand by and watch. Ellen wasn’t sent to the doctor for prenatal care, I did my best with school computers to research how to help, but the help of a fifteen year old isn’t exactly much help. I wasn’t a medical professional, after all, and that’s what she needed. As her belly swelled, Ellen became a joke of the school. Rumors spread about how she slept with one of the teachers to pass her class, or that she had no idea who the father was because she’d been fucked by anyone who would take her. To her credit, Ellen didn’t ever respond to these rumors. She’d just simply carry on with how she had. I think sometimes even Ellen would doubt her own pregnancy, I’d catch her staring at the mirror, running her hands over the bump with the most quizzical expression, like she had no idea what was really in there. And no, the baby bump didn’t convince my parents either. My mother began to restrict Ellen’s food intake, saying that she really needed to ‘watch her weight’ even though Ellen had probably never been above a hundred pounds her entire life. It was incredibly fucked up to have to sneak her food every night so she wouldn’t be starving. Sometimes it’d be leftover lasagna from dinner, a lot of the time it was only like a pack of raisins or a snack bag of chips. It didn’t matter, Ellen was always thankful. Despite our screwed up situation, it did help me and my sister grow closer. We were just that difference in age that it wasn’t easy for us to really bond, but I was the only one that really stuck with her. As she became more and more obviously pregnant, her few friends ‘drifting away’ or simply stopped talking to her. Months passed. Ellen graduated with passing grades and looked positively enormous, even with the graduation gown. She smiled during pictures and I think that’s one of the last times she sincerely smiled. Now that school was out though, there was no leaving the house. We were prisoners in our own home. I could only get on the computer with mom or dad lurking nearby, so no more pregnancy research, I had to rely off the notes I’d managed to take during the school year. I’d keep moving them around my room so that my parents couldn’t find them. When Ellen went into labor, I thought my dad might kill her. Ellen was on the couch moaning in pain, begging dad to call 911, she needed to go to the hospital. He just stood there, his arms crossed, and he glared down at her. “Enough’s enough! You! Are! Not! Pregnant!” He snapped. He wasn’t going to get help. He wasn’t going to let anyone get help. What happened next is something I should’ve done a long time ago. I attacked my dad. Seeing my sister in pain while my dad did nothing was what sent me over the edge. I grabbed a pair of scissors off the computer desk and charged with a banshee yell. I didn’t kill him, I was tempted, but I didn’t kill him. I stabbed him in the arm and as he toppled back, I helped Ellen off the couch and got her into her room. We didn’t have locks on our door, but I blocked it off with a chair and prayed that would be enough. Ellen laid on her bed, clenching her sheets and screaming as another contraction shook her tiny frame. The whole thing was a blur, really. I held my sister’s hand until she nearly crushed it, I got her old baby blanket out of the closet, and I told her that she could do this. Her screams shook the windows, at least I thought it was her screams shaking the windows… but I realized that the house was shaking. I remember thinking that this would be the time for an earthquake when I realized it was time to catch the baby. My niece was so tiny, so still, her skin was tinted blue and I thought she was dead… until she opened her mouth and cried. My sister looked up at me, her face white as a sheet and covered in sweat. I did my best to clean off the baby and wrapped her in the blanket, handing her to my sister and smiled. I heard footsteps behind me and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Had my dad gotten in during the insanity? I turned around. I can’t quite describe what was behind me, only that it was tall, its head brushed the ceiling. The room seemed to grow dark with its presence, its features hidden by a black cloak that brushed the floor. I nearly jumped out of my skin when it spoke, its voice low and ominous. “Is the child healthy?” It asked. I gulped. “I… I think so.” My sister looked up and relief poured over her face. “You’re here… I thought you wouldn’t make it…” She said, a true smile crossing her face. “I wouldn’t forget you.” The creature crossed to the bed and gingerly picked up my sister, I caught a glimpse of what was under the cloak’s hood. Strangely, I think he was rather beautiful, with dusky blue features and eyes pure black. He nodded at me. “She’ll carry a form of your name, child. And for your kindness.” He pulled a small pouch from his pocket, setting it in my hand. I undid the string and sparkling gold pieces poured into my hand. The strange man walked to the closet, opening it up, I could hear my niece squall and my sister excitedly tell the stranger how happy she was to see him. The door closed behind him. I got to my feet and opened it up. There was nothing there, except for a few of my sister’s dresses and some mismatched shoes. I sunk to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself and allowing myself to cry as my dad finally broke in. I’ve never seen my sister again, although sometimes late at night, I can see a small child peering in from my closet… she has my sister’s eyes. submitted by /u/theoddcatlady to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

I am a sleep scientist, and I have to spend the night alone in the sleep lab. I have performed this overnight vigil hundreds of times before. I’m comfortable with the sleep lab; it’s like a second home to me. I think I spend more nights here than I do in my own bed. The room is dark – it has to be, of course, so that no light goes into the Sleep-Room next door - and I stare at the flickering screen in front of me. The lab computer records and monitors the patients’ brain activity – EEG brainwaves – never-ending wiggly lines, dancing across the screen. First, I think I need to explain what the Sleep Lab is, exactly. The room I am in right now is known as the Monitoring Room. It is next-door to the Sleep-Rooms. There is a window installed into the wall of the Monitoring Room, which allows us to look directly into the Sleep-Room without having to go in. The good thing is that my main job through the night, usually, is simply to stay awake, and keep an eye on things. Monitor the patients and their brainwave activity on-screen; make sure everything is ticking along as it should be. There are infrared cameras mounted on the Sleep-Room walls, so I can see the patient on another monitor, make sure everything is ok. I have to make sure the brainwave recording is going well, that the recording wires are still attached to the patients’ scalps, and that the recording is free from noise and interference. Through all this, the main job is usually just staying awake and alert. To keep myself awake, I’m allowed to browse the internet on my laptop, as long as the speakers are switched off, of course – and on the condition that I keep a vigilant eye on the patients and their signals. Later on comes the mentally taxing part of analysing their data – but, overnight, I don’t have to worry about that yet. Sometimes, watching the EEG brainwaves flit continuously across the screen can be strangely hypnotic, and I have to fight to keep myself awake. Tonight though – tonight, is different. Tonight, there’s no danger of me nodding off. I’m wide awake. And I’m terrified. There is only one patient in the sleep lab tonight. He’s in a coma – so I’m practically alone in the building. There’s no one who I can go to, no one to wake up. That’s what makes tonight even more unnerving. Normally I would never wake up a patient, unless protocol required it – but these aren’t normal circumstances. If there were someone else around (sometimes I monitor multiple patients at a time), I would have awoken them by now. Not to adjust their wires, not to give them their meds, not to check up on them. Simply because I need someone here with me, because things are getting out of control. Anyhow, he’s the only one here, and he’s in a coma, so I could scream and shout all I want – he won’t stir. All I have is an unconscious body for company. It’s why I’ve come here – to reach out to you. Normally, I like the darkness of the sleep lab. It’s comforting. It’s what I’m used to. So tonight, even though I could have turned on the lights at the beginning of the night, if I wanted to (the patient wouldn’t have woken up, even if I were to shine a flashlight with the brightness of a thousand suns straight into his eyes) instead, I just sat here quite comfortably in the dark – a matter of habit, I suppose. Let me get one thing clear – I have seen all manner of things during my time working here. . A mixture of scary and panic-inducing. I'm a neuroscientist specialising in sleep research, and my professional interest lies in characterising and trying to find new treatments for sleep disorders. I’ve had multiple patients with sleep paralysis, who wake in hysterics, telling me about the demons that tried to kill them – draw them out on paper to show me – diagrams of the terrible faces that haunt them in the night. They point out frantically and urgently where the demons had stood in the room. I’ve had countless children in, who have woken up screaming – bloodcurdling screams, the kind of sound that makes your hair stand on end – suffering from night-terrors. I’ve had people sleepwalking, throwing things around – sometimes they’ve even managed to rip the wires off their head (which is very painful, because they are glued on) and still not woken up. One man, still unconscious, cut his own wrists with a shaving razor, and slept through it, even as I bandaged him up and phoned for help. I’ve had patients stop breathing suddenly, mid-dream, and I’ve had to rush in and perform CPR. Sometimes, some people somehow manage to open the door of the Sleep-Room, wander through the corridor and come into the Monitoring Room – some of them trying to attack me, hit me, bite me - all while asleep. What I’m saying is, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve had to remain level-headed throughout it all – and focus on the job. They rip their wires out? I need to put them back on and make sure the EEG recording stays online. They start sleepwalking? I can’t wake them up – I need to make sure their wires are still in place, that we’re getting a good signal, and that the infra-red camera is capturing everything so we can analyse the data. Usually I just need to make sure they’re confined to the Sleep-Room and can’t hurt themselves, or me. Child screaming? No big deal, it can be a little creepy at first, but I’ve seen it a thousand times before – just make sure the signal is ok, make a note of the time and duration of the night terror, and then it’s carry-on-as-usual. I need to be focussed and to concentrate on the central aim – ensuring that patient data collection continues uninterrupted, and keeping a corresponding meticulous written record of any unusual events. After all, that’s why they’re there, these patients, so we can diagnose them. So that we can get them the treatment and medication they need to get on with their lives. So we can help them break out of the bubble of terror that engulfs them every night, created by their minds. When it goes awry, the slumbering brain can be an evil, self-destructive thing. My job is to help reign it in. I’m actually used to this routine – these strange, tumultuous nights – more so than a lot of my colleagues. You see, I became a sleep neuroscientist because of my older brother. I can’t remember when it started, but I remember I would wake up regularly to hearing him muttering and talking in his sleep. Sometimes he would sit upright and scream. Other times, he would whimper, his voice coming out whiny and afraid. It was the whimpering that scared me more than the screaming, for some reason. During the day, he was my big brother – we’d play basketball together and he’d buy me popsicles from the ice-cream truck with his pocket-money, help me cross the road and tie my shoes. He’s only a couple of years older than me, but two years can be a huge gulf during childhood. He was my hero. But at night, he became this frightened little boy, who lashed out at me when I tried to wake him up. As the days went by, though, I became used to it. When we got older, he didn’t grow out of it, as most children do. It got worse. He started experiencing a jumble of symptoms – night-terrors, sleep paralysis, sleep-walking, and also what I now know is REM disorder. It didn’t get better. Then, his visions and hallucinations began to seep into the daytime. What beasts and terrors had been confined to his dreamscapes, now haunted him during wakefulness as well. He was diagnosed with sleep disorders combined with schizophrenia. I wanted to help him; it took a toll on every part of his life. He was more intelligent than me, with a potential bright future ahead, but he fell behind in his studies, unable to concentrate. I started to study the brain for him, because I wanted to understand what was happening inside his mind. So I began on my quest to study the brain, to unlock its secrets, because I wanted to help him – and others like him - to escape. I wanted him to return to being himself. My brother, unfortunately, never really improved. No amount of drugs could help him. And he insisted that this was because his visions weren’t due to a disorder, they were real – he would often shout and scream that drugs couldn’t take something away if it were real. As I progressed in my scientific studies – which I had embarked upon for the very reason to help him – ironically, it caused a rift between us. I thought he would be proud when I got my PhD. But he almost saw my scientific endeavours as a betrayal. As a sign that I didn’t believe him. I guess the fact that I’m his younger brother doesn’t help much. It doesn’t matter how many qualifications I attain, how many scientific publications I write, how respected I am among my academic peers – my brother will never listen to me, and he refuses to set foot in my lab, or try any of the treatments I recommend. We haven’t spoken in years. However, what I’m about to narrate – what I’ve been through tonight – isn’t about my brother. What I’ve experienced these last few hours, though, has…. Well. Suffice to say, for the first time in my life, I’m reconsidering my brother’s point of view. A few days ago, we had a very perplexing case come into the sleep lab. The patient is a man in his mid-twenties, who had lapsed into an atypical coma a few days before he was transferred to our facility. The patient’s older brother accompanied him, and sat in the Sleep-Room on a chair next to his bed, concerned, holding his hand. I’ll admit, one of the reasons I took such an interest in this case is because it struck a personal chord with me –it reminded me of my brother and I. Some of my colleagues were hesitant to take on this patient for observation. The reason is, this patient presents with a whole list of strange and unsual symptoms. The patient’s brother reports that the patient had a slight head-trauma a few days before he went into the coma – not substantial enough to cause significant head-injury, but it probably did contribute to his symptoms, we thought. His brother later tells us that the patient actually documented the hours prior to his succumbing to the coma – he was suffering from extreme delusion and hallucinations. The patient’s leg is what should, in theory, provide a diagnostic clue. When I was placing wires on the patient (we have to place sensors around the chest, abdomen and legs to monitor breathing patterns and leg movements) – the patient’s left leg is something that truly shocked me. It seems necrotic. I’ve never seen anything like it. The team from pathology have taken several biopsies and sent these for analysis at the top medical centres and specialist laboratories around the world. Endocrinologists have been consulted in case it’s a freak hormonal disorder. Dermatologists have examined him, in case it’s an infection or some strange injury or burn on his skin. Experts in tropical diseases have flown over to investigate in case it’s a poison from a bite or something similarly obscure. We have been thorough, and every avenue has been looked into. His bloodwork, pathology report, everything is coming out clean. Whatever this is – we don’t have an answer, we don’t have this disease categorised yet. We don’t have the tools to detect it, because we don’t know what it is. The professor in charge of our lab has a theory that the patient may have been exposed to some airborne pathogen, which infected his peripheral and central nervous system. The symptoms in his leg are spreading slowly, most likely through his nerves. It may explain the unusual brain activity we’re picking up on, if it has infected his brain, too. What’s strange is: his brainwaves aren’t typical of a coma patient, but all his other physical attributes are. His pupils are unresponsive to light, and he is unresponsive to all stimuli applied, including painful stimuli, except for reflex responses. He is a medical mystery, and he’s causing a sensation around the world in medical and scientific circles. He may hold the key to some obscure disease, and by extension, a new discovery. We’re looking at uncharted ground here. But right now, he’s here, alone in the lab, with only me to monitor him and track his brain activity. Some people aren’t sure if whatever disease he has is contagious. But we don’t think so. Nonetheless, I took one look at his brother, holding his hand and looking forlorn and desperate – and I knew I just had to help, in whatever way I could. So, this afternoon, one by one, my colleagues at the lab checked out for home. Soon, there was just me left, staying overnight alone to monitor the patient. I have done this, as I say, many times before. It’s the usual routine. I peered in for a moment through the window into the Sleep Room. I double-checked the signals, ensured the cameras were working. Satisfied with everything, I made myself comfortable in my chair and settled in for the long night ahead. I turned on my personal laptop and checked emails and so on. Can’t use speakers or headphones, on the chance that patients call out or make a noise during the night – can’t risk missing something like that. I was reading something online when I first heard footsteps coming from the corridor. I didn’t think anything of it – probably one of the patients had woken up and had to use the restroom, or something. I was immersed in the article I was reading, when suddenly everything seemed to stand still as the realisation hit me – there were no other patients in the sleep lab tonight. Just me and Coma Guy. My head turned to the monitor instantly, in the dubious hope that maybe the patient had woken up. Nope. Still on the bed, unresponsive, like a log. The footsteps were in the corridor, and they seemed to be going towards the Sleep-Room. I swivelled in my chair and scrambled to the door, in long hurried steps, almost leaping to it. I opened it and peered out. There was no one in the corridor. Just to be safe, I checked the nearby rooms, including the vacant Sleep-Rooms. All the doors leading to the Sleep Lab were locked – only my staff security swipe-card can open those. I was safe and sealed in. It had been my imagination. Sighing, I returned to the Monitoring Room. Another quick check that the recordings were in order, and I settled in to my laptop routine again. With the computer fans humming away, the steady beep of the patient's heartrate, and nothing interesting online, I was on the verge of sleep. That almost-unconscious phase is actually when you’re nearly into Stage 1 sleep, the first stage of non-rapid eye-movement (NREM) sleep – in case you’re interested. The steady sound of the patient’s heartrate is what had almost lulled me into a trance – and it’s the heartrate that woke me up again, with start. The patient’s heartrate had spontaneously increased. Very fast. I looked up eagerly at the EEG signal – it had changed, gotten quicker. Responsive to something. Was the patient waking up? I stared at the infrared camera image, which was blurry, so I got up and went to look in through the window. Nothing. There was no movement, no change in the patient’s consciousness. But his breathing and heartrate had increased. His brain activity had changed, within the coma. Was he experiencing hallucincations? I stared at the stationary figure on the bed for some time in the darkness. And then, something within the room moved. At first, I thought it was the shadow of the cabinet on the other side of the room. But the shadow was moving. Creeping. A black mass, creeping slowly towards the bed. I blinked, trying to be sure of myself. It was so dark, that sometimes the mind creates shapes of darkness and shadows – illusions. No… it did seem to really be there. It was elongating now. As though something, this black thing, had been on all-fours and was now standing up. To stand over the patient in his bed. An intruder. Someone here to attack the patient? Or just someone mentally unstable who had somehow found a way in? Perhaps they had tail-gated and slipped in behind a member of staff as they had entered through the security-protected doors. ‘Hey!’ I shouted, banging on the window. ‘Hey, who’s there? You’re not supposed to be in there!’ The figure stood, unmoved. I went back to the door, through the corridor, and into the sleep room. I turned on the light. No one was there. There couldn’t have been time to escape – if they’d exited the sleep room, they would have run into me in the corridor. How odd. Most likely a trick of the darkness. Just to be certain, though, I checked underneath the bed, and in the ensuite bathroom, and in the cabinet for good measure. Everything was in order. I looked at the patient in bed – I was now standing over the bed in the same way I’d imagined the shadow had done. The patient’s breathing had returned to his normal pace. I went back to the Monitoring Room, and I looked at the screen displaying the camera view. We’re able to play-back video without affecting live recording, so I rewound the recording a few minutes. There was nothing on there – no shadow. Everything was just like usual, empty room, with the patient in the bed – nothing moving until I entered a few minutes later to check up. I sat down at my laptop again, not really able to concentrate anymore on the article I had been reading. I decided I needed some light relief. I went to Youtube and started watching some videos, with the speakers turned off. I also came to Reddit and discovered /r/silentvideos, a lifesaver for my work-situation. Soon, I was able to relax and was engrossed. I don’t know how long passed in this way – an hour or so, I think. My eyes went back to the recording screen to make sure all was well. There was no EEG signal. It was flat-lining. No heart signal. No breathing signal. My heart jumped into my throat – the patient was dead? And I’d missed it, I should have done something, what had happened? – oh God, what a fool I was, getting wrapped up in videos – I looked at the camera-feed and…. The patient was gone. The bed was empty. In the midst of the rush of adrenaline and confusion – and yes, also fear (though at that point I was more afraid of losing my job for negligence, than anything else) – I ran into the Sleep-Room and turned on the light. The bed was tousled, as though the participant had just walked off. But that was impossible. The door had been closed, and the outer door had a security lock, only those with a swipe-card could get out. Feeling jittery and trying to stave off the thoughts that I was going to get into a lot of trouble because I had let my guard down and let this patient walk off - I looked in the adjoining restroom. Nothing. Feeling stupid, I looked in the clothes cabinet. Nothing. I got on hands and knees, the carpet feeling rough under my palms, and looked under the bed. The patient was lying under the bed. I let out a sigh of relief. ‘Hello?’ I said. No response. His eyes were closed. Without thinking about it, I shuffled sideways, halfway under the bed, and used one hand to slowly drag the man out. He was still unconscious. The wires were still attached to his head, but had been unplugged at the other end, from the recording machine – so they trailed, long unattached wires, like dreadlocks, from his head. Heaving and panting, I somehow managed to get his dead-weight back into bed. I then set about plugging everything back in to where it should be, and then covered him with the blanket again. I went back into the Monitoring Room – the signal was back and recording. The signal indicated that he was indeed still comatose. How had he managed to get out of bed? Had he regained consciousness unplugged his wires, and then hidden under the bed for some reason – perhaps scared at the new surroundings - and then relapsed back into the coma while there? Highly unlikely, but the only solution to this conundrum that I could think of. This was all so strange. Only one way to find out – the video. Visual evidence. With that, we’d know exactly what happened. I clicked rewind on the video-feed. The past hour was just a blank, dead-screen. I felt winded. I sat down on my chair, heavily. There must be some rational explanation for this. I went to the door that opened into the corridor, and I closed it. It locks automatically, so only I can open it to get out, with my card. Just to be safe. I also thought it might be a good idea to check in with Security Services. They’re around, via phone access, 24/7 for any lone workers at our facility, so it might be a good idea to tell them about the footsteps and all that, so they could send someone over. Before, I had thought this was excessive, I don’t like to cause a fuss over nothing – but now, well. Perhaps someone was playing a prank on me. Now I just wanted someone here with me. Some reassurance. I picked up the office phone – and there was no dial-tone. Never mind. I took my mobile from my pocket. No signal. Odd. I tried changing position etc, but it was no use. I went onto my email to message a colleague, to see if I could ask them to ring security for me. ‘This email could not be sent. Please check your connection and try again.’ The internet connection was definitely still there. I loaded a Youtube video – it was playing fine. I clicked on another video – and a screaming erupted, startling me. To say I was annoyed is an understatement – had someone put a screamer into one of these videos? I hit the mute button, and it made no difference. My laptop was already on mute. I got to my feet, my head spinning with the unexpected screaming. It was unrelenting. I checked the EEG screen. Brainwave activity was as before, comatose – but his chin-muscle signal was active. It meant that his mouth was moving. The infrared camera image was too grainy to tell – so I glanced at the window into his room. Indeed, his mouth was wide open, his chest muscles straining. He was screaming, unrelentingly. But his brain signals… he was still in a coma. Before I could mentally process this, the patient sat upright in bed. Here’s the thing: there was no activity in his orbito-frontal, parietal or motor regions. Basically, the brain areas that should control his decision to sit up, plan the movement, and signal his muscles to move – all were ‘quiet’ – all were inactive. By the look of the signal, his brain wasn’t actually controlling his movements. What the hell? Maybe – maybe there was something wrong with the signal? Maybe there was an error with the recording equipment. I ran into the door, which I’d closed just a few minutes ago. It wouldn’t open. I tried swiping my card. It wouldn’t open. No beep. Nothing. I went to switch on the light – maybe I wasn’t aiming the card at the sensor properly in the dark? The light wouldn’t come on. The light was just completely out. There is a pane of frosted glass at the side of the door (that opens from the Monitoring Room to the corridor). Perhaps I could smash it and squeeze through? I lifted the chair above my head and steadied myself, planting my feet firmly, and got ready to swing – Someone pushed me. Someone shoved me, forcefully, away from the door. I toppled over, the chair falling from my grip, onto me in a confused, tumultuous movement where I couldn’t tell where my head was in relation to my feet and the floor. I managed to untangle myself, pushing the chair off me, not thinking about the malicious force that had thrown me onto the floor – taking it all in my stride – adrenaline making me incredulous, perhaps. Then, the recording computer monitors went dark. The EEG signals, and the camera-feed screens, both, just –pop- and they were gone. I was plunged into greater darkness. I ran to the window to look in at the patient. He was sitting upright in bed, still screaming. He had been screaming relentlessly throughout all this. I stared at him and banged on the window. Trying to get him to wake up. This wasn’t a normal coma, perhaps I could wake him up if I tried? I don’t know what the hell this was. I was willing to throw all protocol out of the window now. And then – someone closed the blind from the other room. I just stood there, staring at it. I didn’t see a hand pull the blind down, but just the jerking movement of the dark blind being pulled to the bottom of the window pane. Someone else might have shouted out, asked who was there. I don’t know why, but I just didn’t. Maybe because I knew it would be no use. I never thought I would type this, but – I knew then, that this wasn’t a human I was dealing with. I just felt suddenly drained. I went meekly, aimlessly, and sat down in my chair facing my laptop. It seems that electricity has gone from the building, somehow. At least, from the Recording Room. I can’t check elsewhere. That should mean that the security doors automatically unlock, but they haven’t. I’m trapped in here. The only reason I can still access the internet is because my laptop was fully charged. I’ve tried emailing many people, I’ve tried signing in to Skype, I’ve tried messaging on Facebook – but I always get an error message. There is no signal on my phone. In desperation, I tried posting on Reddit – the submission box somehow still works. And so, here I am. The patient is in the room next door. He keeps screaming, on and off. Is he in a coma, or is he awake now? I don’t know. I almost don’t want to know. He now and then screams an actual word - a strange word – a few foreign syllables, over and over. I don’t know what he’s saying. I have no idea what is going on. There is no explanation for what has happened, not that I can tell. I have a feeling that this – whatever this is – has its sights set on the patient alone, and just wants me to keep out of its way. I have no choice but to oblige, I’m out of options. I just need to make it through the rest of this night. It seems to stretch out before me, never-ending. When morning comes, if I make it out of here alive, I’m going to go and visit my brother. And I’m going apologise to him. An update, sort of: Someone PM'd me to let me know that this likely the patient's back-story. I have still not read it, because I've not been able to open the link; I still don't know why the patient is here. Because of the presence of a back-story, I think I am going to have to mark this post as a Series, even though our narratives likely stand independently. I don't know what will happen to me, so please don't take the 'Series' tag as a guarantee that I will be able to post later on... If I am able to update, I certainly will. But I know just as little as you what the future holds for me. Following the backstory above, there is a brief update from Eric, the coma patient's brother, in the comments of the patient's backstory Update on what happens next Another Update Finale If you would like to keep informed about updates, you can follow here or here. Also check this subreddit out. submitted by /u/heliowel to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

The other night, I was reading my oldest daughter a story at bedtime from one of her favorite books of ghost stories, and afterward she asked me, “That story wasn’t true, was it, Daddy?” “No, of course not.” I told her. “Because things like ghosts and monsters don’t exist, do they?” she hugged me goodnight. “No, they’re not real.” I lied and petted her head. After making sure both girls were tucked in good and tight, I left their room while my wife kissed them each, and stood for a while looking out the living room window to the darkened street below. I could feel my body tensing up instinctively, like it knew something was coming, but nothing ever did. Still, I looked out the window for far too long, remembering the terrible October of my 15th year. I worked as a cashier at Klein’s Pharmacy in the center of town, and had just finished up my shift. Home was miles away, but I enjoyed walking it and having some time to myself and my thoughts. The days were getting colder though, forcing me to bundle up tighter on my walk to keep the chill out. Normally I just followed Main Street until it came to Loop Road which winded through woods and crop fields, but on a whim, I decided to take a shortcut through some of the farms that bordered the town. After a few minutes of hiking, I reached a stone wall on the edge of the Pierson’s lot, and I hopped it to cut through their one of their fields that seemed to be unused. The dirt was hard and crunched beneath my weight. Leaves covered much of the area, blown off a thicket of nearby trees. Across the field, I could just make out the Pierson’s farmhouse in the distance, quiet and cozy looking. I stayed clear of it though, as Mr. Pierson was known to chase trespassers off his land with a shotgun. On the other end of the field, just before another stone wall, I spotted a ring of set rocks surrounding a hole in the ground. If I hadn’t been watching my step to avoid stumbling over the uneven terrain, I might very well have not noticed it, and wouldn’t be telling you this story now. It was an old well hole, probably dug many years ago. A lot of the farms in the area had them, often abandoned and boarded over when the well went dry or the owners built a new house on another section of the land. This one, however, was not covered. Propped up against the stone wall was what looked like a wood lid that had probably been laid over it at some point, but for some reason it was not that day. As I got closer and my shoes crunched in the frozen soil, I heard a voice echo from the depths of the well. “Hello?” called a small voice reverberating out of the darkness. Jesus, I thought, somebody’s down there. “Please! Help me!” the voice started sobbing. It sounded like a kid, and I immediately thought of Robbie Pierson, son of the people who owned the farm. He was 8 or 9 years old, had he fallen in the well? I ran over to the edge of the hole, catching myself at the ridge of set rocks and cautiously peering over into it, half expecting to see Robbie standing just a few feet down looking up at me, but the well was deep, and it dropped straight off into an foreboding blackness. I couldn’t make out anything in there. “Robbie?” I called down, “Is that you?” “Yes! Help me! I think my leg is broken!” he started crying again. “Hang on!” I called to him, and started looking around like maybe there was a rope or something I could drop down and have him tie around himself, but I couldn’t find anything, and it occurred to me that I was probably not strong enough to go hauling an 8 or 9 year old out of a well on my own anyway. “Robbie, hang in there! I’m gonna go get your parents!” “No! Please! Don’t leave me here!” I could hear splashing coming from somewhere way down there with him, like he was frantically trying to get out. “I gotta get somebody, Robbie!” I yelled down, hearing my voice echoing back up to me. “Don’t panic! Just hang on!” For the briefest moment, I didn’t move. Something seemed to keep me looking down into the hole and the unrelenting darkness, a dizzying sense that I was already falling into it, and somewhere far down below I heard a sound like something digging desperately at the earth. But then the wind whipped a bunch of leaves up at my face and I snapped out of my trance and, turning on my heel, I started sprinting for the Pierson homestead. I could hear Robbie’s cries echoing up behind me, yelling for me to stay. The sun was setting and it was starting to get gray out and colder. I was afraid if I didn’t do something fast, it’d be too dark before anyone could do anything. When I got to the farmhouse, I was out of breath, but I didn’t pause before pounding on the door. Raised voices came from inside, and then Mrs. Pierson, a middle-aged lady with her hair done up in a bun and an unpleasant look on her face appeared, glaring at me. “Who are you?” she asked in an unfriendly tone. Behind her, I saw Mr. Pierson in his blue overalls getting what looked like a shotgun out of their hall closet. He had the same expression of displeasure on his face as his wife, and for a second my confidence in the situation waned, but then I remembered that it was their son who needed help, and I started talking fast and gesticulating wildly at her. “YoursonRobbiefellinawell!” Mrs. Pierson scrunched up her face. “What are you yammerin’ about?” I took a deep breath and then tried again, steadying myself against the door frame. “Your son, Robbie, he’s fallen down a well!” Mr. Pierson set the shotgun down by the foot of the stairs behind his wife and looked at me crossly. “Nonsense! Robbie’s upstairs taking a bath.” They looked at each other for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of some unspoken thought pass between them. Then, Mrs. Pierson stepped back from the door and called up the stairs. “Robbie!” Mr. Pierson stood in front of me, blocking the door. He was going on in his years, but he was still built like an ox, big and sturdy and very imposing. I cringed uncontrollably away from him like a dog afraid of being swatted with a rolled-up newspaper. From somewhere upstairs, I heard a voice call back down to the three of us. “What is it?” It was not the same voice I heard echoing out of the well, and yet it was similar in the way that a lot of young kids sound alike. “Nothing! Finish up!” Mrs. Pierson yelled up the stairs, then turned to me and crossed her arms, satisfied. “See? He’s fine.” “But... But I heard...” I stammered, feeling at a loss for words. Mr. Pierson looked down at me. “What well hole you talkin’ about? The one in the North field?” I nodded. “Someone’s in there. I heard them.” “Stay away from the North field,” he said grimly. “That well’s gone bad.” “But--” My voice was a whisper. “Stay away. Don’t come on this property again, ya hear? Go home.” And then with nothing more to say, he shut the door in my face, leaving me stunned and confused. I stood there on their front porch and wondered just what the hell had happened as the sun set and everything took on a shade of blue. I had not imagined that voice, and yet-- Something inside nagged at me, urging me to investigate. I walked down the front steps and started heading back toward the field, determined to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy. Looking back over my shoulder at the farmhouse for a brief moment, I saw Mrs. Pierson peeking out the window at me and shaking her head. A shiver ran through me, but maybe that was just from the quickly dropping temperature. At the stone wall, the well hole seemed bigger, more ominous. I felt threatened by its presence, as if it could move of its own accord and would slide under my feet and swallow me up. The wind picked up as I stared at it and the wood cover creaked, rocking gently against the stone wall. It was the only sound I could hear. No voice emanated out of the hole. “Hello?” I said softly, not really wanting to hear a response, and grateful when none came. I stood there staring at it in the diminishing light, wondering if my eyes were going to start doing pinwheels in my head. The sound of crunching leaves from the nearby copse of trees made me jump, and suddenly I felt really exposed and vulnerable, like a rabbit sitting out in a field surrounded by the eyes of a hundred foxes as they licked their lips and converged on it. I wanted to be anywhere but there, and I took off running in the direction of home until I couldn’t run anymore and had to hobble the rest of the way, tired and sweaty. When I got home, I told my parents what had happened, and they suggested that maybe Robbie Pierson had played a trick on me with a walkie-talkie or something. “I don’t see how that’s possible.” I grumbled. “So you’re saying there’s someone in the well?” my mother asked. "Well, not... I mean..." I didn’t really have an answer to the question. She smiled in that sympathetic way that says, “You poor, sad, little fool.” and I clammed up and went to wash my hands for dinner, determined to tell somebody who would listen to me tomorrow. The next day, I went over to my friend Jasper Higgins’ house and shared my tale with him. Jasper’s a bit of a jerk, but the kind of jerk who’ll listen to even the most ridiculous of stories and accept them as fact if you say they are. Still, he made a point of spending the rest of the afternoon teasing me about getting spooked when I went back to the well. So I asked him, if he was so brave, why didn’t he go himself and see that old well hole? “I’ll go if you come with me.” “Hell no!” Jasper started clucking like a chicken so finally I relented. After all, I told myself, maybe it really was just Robbie Pierson playing a prank. And with Jasper there with me, there was less likelihood of something bad happening. At least, I prayed that. So we went together out to the Piersons’ farm the following afternoon after I got off work. Jasper met me at the store and we took our bicycles because he didn’t want to walk. It didn’t take as long for us to get there on our bikes, but in order to reach the field, we had to abandon them down the road and hike a bit through corn. I also advised Jasper to avoid getting spotted by any of the Piersons. We had a good hour til dusk, but it was cloudy and gray that day and everything was darker because of it. As we neared the stone wall, I eased back, letting Jasper take the lead. “Watch your step,” I whispered. There, ahead of us, was the well, with only the low ring of set rocks visible as a marker before it dropped down into nothingness. Standing a good distance away, I felt a strange tugging sensation, almost physical, but no actual presence seemed to be doing it. My foot lifted as if to step forward, but I willed it back down. Ahead of me, Jasper paused, then seemed to lurch slightly forward, as if pulled by the same invisible string that was tugging at me. Unlike me though, he yielded to it, walking slowly toward the well. I reached out to grab him, but he was already ten steps ahead and out of my reach. Despite the cold Autumn air, I felt myself starting to sweat. Maybe nothing was going to-- As if in response to my unfinished thought, a quiet sobbing echoed up from down in that dark hole. Jasper stopped with his foot out in front of him and turned to look at me. His face was a mask of white and his eyes seemed to be bugging out of his head for a moment, then he regained his composure and stepped closer to the well. “Is somebody up there?” called the voice. But... no, it wasn’t the same voice. This time it sounded feminine. A girl’s voice. I continued to stare at Jasper, to see what he would do. He seemed suddenly less cocksure, more nervous, and he hesitated from making another move, seeming to listen and test the situation with silence. “Hello?” came the voice again from the well. Jasper looked back at me and I shook my head. No. No, we need to leave. “Who is that down in that thar well?” Jasper called. He put his foot down, crunching in the packed dirt and stood by the well, leaning slightly over to look down into it. “Please, help me!” called the girl’s voice. If I had never been by that well before, that voice would almost sound beautiful, but in my ears that day, there was something unpleasant about it, a gurgling wetness to it that filled me with dread. Did Jasper hear that too? I could see in his eyes that he didn’t. “I repeat, who are you?” he looked at me again and raised his hand, ushering at me as if to say, “come here.” I shook my head in return, not embarrassed to show him how frightened I was. “Please! Don’t go! I’m so scared!” called the girl in the well. “I’m not going anywhere,” Jasper said confidently, “Who are you? How’d you get down there?” My stomach was bunching into a big knot. “Jasper!” I hissed at him harshly. “Let’s go!” Why did it seem to be getting darker faster than it should have? The sun wasn’t supposed to set for a good half hour, and yet it felt like the entire world was being covered in a long, blanketing shadow. I realized I was trembling. Jasper was too, I could see it, and yet he refused to step back from that damned hole. We both stood there as the world dimmed around us and that girl kept calling from down in the well as the sound of water echoed up with her. He held a finger up to silence me. “I say again, how’d you get down in that well?” She didn’t answer him. Instead came a noise I will never in my life forget: hands, fingers, scratching at the sides of the hole, digging into the dirt and earth and scrambling... ...up. Whoever-- whatever it was, whatever pretended to be Robbie, pretending to be this girl, it was climbing out of that hole, and it was doing it incredibly fast. Lord forgive me, I ran. I don’t think Jasper even noticed me bolt. I glanced back for a split second, and he was just standing there at the edge of the hole, looking down into it, his mouth hanging open slightly, and then I almost tripped over my own feet and had to watch where I was going and never looked back again. As the well and Jasper swiftly fell behind, I heard the briefest of reports, a shout-- Jasper shouting... no, Jasper screaming-- cut short as quickly as it began. Just a split second of his voice, shrill and terrified, and then nothing; enough to send a flock of crows in one of the nearby fields to flight. If anything more was to be heard, the panicked caws of the birds drowned it out. When I got to the bikes, I grabbed mine and pedalled until I reached home, falling at the front gate and tumbling head over heels up the sidewalk, before bolting inside and locking the door behind me. My parents sat in the living room, look startled by my frightened and disheveled appearance. I started babbling and gesticulating wildly, trying to explain to them what had happened, but it took several minutes for my mother to calm me down enough for them to make any sense of what I was saying. My father got on the phone with Jasper’s dad, then the two of them drove out together to the Pierson farm where from what I was told later, Mr. Pierson met them at his door with his shotgun and scowl at the ready. I tried to wait for my father to return with news of Jasper, but I was exhausted mentally, and my mother insisted on giving me something to calm me down and told me to go rest in bed until he got back. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep. I dreamed I was back at the Pierson’s farm, standing in that barren field, only now the well was as big as a house. As I stood looking down into its bottomless depths, I heard Jasper screaming from somewhere far below me. Screaming and blaming me for everything. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, rooted to the spot and watched as long, twisted, inhuman arms reached up out of the darkness, pulling the thing in the well out to say hello to me and Jasper’s screams began to bubble with that same sick wetness that the girl’s voice had been filled with. I woke up unsure what time it was. Had my father come home? My heart was racing in my chest from the nightmare. Climbing out of bed, I stood there in the dark of my room, looking out the window and feeling suddenly afraid. That sense of the hundreds of eyes watching me was back, but this time I had nowhere to run to. Outside, a streetlamp illuminated the sidewalk in front of my house. There, at the edge of my yard, was Jasper. He looked pale. He looked tired. And he just stood there, arms hanging at his sides, staring up at me in my bedroom window. We looked at each other for what felt like an eternity, then, like before by the well, he raised his hand and gestured to me. “Come here.” I shook my head. “No.” Somewhere far off, I heard a sound like the wind whistling through the trees. But there weren’t any trees, and there was no wind, just a strange, rising howl. I stood there in my window, watching Jasper on the sidewalk at the edge of my yard, continue to silently beckon me to come to him. I was afraid if I looked away, he’d be in my room with me, afraid he was behind me even as I stood there watching him. My mind struggled with the need to keep looking at him as it conflicted with the escalating fear that he was right behind me and I should turn around to check. I never want to live a night like that ever again. The morning came and I woke up in a pile on my floor. I had collapsed from sheer exhaustion, and only barely recalled the sight of Jasper outside that night. But it all came crashing back down on me when I went downstairs and my father was eating breakfast. When he saw me, his expression grew concerned and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. “Dad, Jasper... I--” “I’m sorry.” That was all he had to say. Mr. Pierson had led them out to the well that night, where Jasper’s shoe was found by the hole. They tried to see if they could spot him, but it was too dark and deep for even their flashlights to see anything. An emergency rescue team flew out from the city to help try to find him, but what they discovered was that the well didn’t have a bottom. It opened into a subterranean cave system, hundreds of yards deep, and dark as an abyss. It could take weeks for them to locate and retrieve his body, if it was even down there. After three months they called off the search at the request of Jasper’s parents. The hole was sealed with a concrete slab and a truckload of cement. I watched from the road, and Mr. Pierson stopped nearby on his tractor and strode over to me with a harsh, accusatory stare. “I told ya that well went bad.” “You knew something was down there.” He spat on the ground. “Ain’t nothin’ down there.” “Jasper’s down there.” I whispered. Our eyes met and I held his stare with a chilling one of my own. “You sure a’ that?” he walked off to leave me with that thought. He was right though... Jasper’s not down there. I saw him outside my house that first night, pale like an apparition. Or maybe I saw the thing that from the well, the thing from deeper than the well... the thing from that Stygian abyss the well broke into. Maybe both, I don’t know. I’ll never forget the look of it though, or the fact that it came for me and tried to get me to go with it. Or the fact that such things exist. submitted by /u/wdalphin to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

Her name was Emma. That’s what everyone called her, anyways. Sometimes they would call her Em, sometimes someone would slip up and call her Emily. She was a part of our group of girlfriends growing up in a large town, not quite big enough to be a city but big enough that there was still privacy between neighbors. We called ourselves the “Unbreakable Six,” because there was me, Summer, Mel, Nina, and Jules. And there was Emma. Emma started off as a practical joke by the other girls in the fourth grade. It was probably Jules that started it. She was always playing pranks of people. In high school, she even got suspended once for going too far, and had to babysit for hours to buy that girl a new cellphone. Or maybe it was Summer, who always seemed too busy with music and band to think of such an elaborate prank. Or maybe it was Mel and Nina, who were best friends and could have lived without us, always conspiring together like they were twin sisters. Either way, I bought my lunch, cold cut sandwich and carrot sticks and a pint of orange juice (I couldn’t stand milk; it would account for how short I ended up being) and walked over to our lunch table. Jules looked excited, waving me over to them. “Lotte! Look!” I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be looking. “This is Emma. She moved here from Los Angeles!” We lived far inland and into the boonies. Los Angeles was glitzy and glamorous and chic compared to the flat houses and half-rate high school football that was the only real source of entertainment in the area. “Uh, what?” “Los Angeles, dummy,” Jules said, rolling her eyes. “She’s not in our class, she’s in Miss Lark’s, but she’s the same grade as us. Isn’t that cool?” I still wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be looking. I sat down with my tray uneasily, wondering what I was supposed to see. “Who?” Summer jabbed me in the side. “You’re being rude,” she hissed quietly. Summer was all about rules and manners. “Say hi to Emma.” I looked around our table, from Jules to Mel to Nina to Summer and back to Jules, who was waiting impatiently. I don’t know. I was weak. I wanted to fit in. I didn’t get it. “Hi, Emma.” They seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief, like I was making everything awkward. “Charlotte’s weird sometimes, but her brother has a Nintendo that he lets us play sometimes.” They kept on talking, chatting about whatever fourth grade girls chat about, and I ignored it. If they wanted to play that prank, then that was fine. I wasn’t going to buy into it. I was always a precocious child; I knew that what they were looking for was a reaction. That’s how Emma became a normal part of our lives. It was crazy. We would buy her birthday presents, and they’d disappear like they were taken. I wonder how many candle making kits and Mancala games Jules had piling up in her closet after all these birthdays. One year, Mel even got Emma a really nice necklace, and that disappeared too. We never went to her house. I asked Nina about it when I was sure that “Emma” wasn’t there. She gave me this scandalized look. “Lotte, don’t be rude. Emma’s family doesn’t have that much money, she’s embarrassed to let us come over. She told Mel that, who told me, and it makes sense. I mean, what she wears all the time… I mean, we still love her, we’ll always love her, she’s one of us. But don’t rub in the fact that we can’t go to her house. That’s mean.” After I was scolded so whole-heartedly by Nina, I didn’t ask again. They were covering their bases really well, and by seventh grade, I had to accept that they were taking this prank all the way. It was weirdly comforting in a way. There was this silent friend that I never saw, but she was always around. We would leave seats open for her, and when we did the buddy system someone always had Emma, walk into the bathroom by herself. When we decided that we wanted to be lame and come up with a name for our group of friends, we decided on the Unbreakable Six, even though there were really only five of us. I was curious in sophomore year of high school when we were having a sleepover. Summer was at band practice late and Emma couldn’t make it, she had to work on her science project, according to Mel. So I asked Jules, the likely mastermind behind it all, “If you were going to write a story about Emma, like her biography, how would you describe her? Down to every detail?” Jules loved stuff like that. She wanted to be a writer someday. “Well, she’s taller than you, which isn’t hard.” I threw a pillow at her that she dodged deftly. “She’s medium build—” Jules dropped her voice to a whisper, “—even though she gained a little weight recently but we’re not gonna tell her and she’s still beautiful. “And… she has green eyes and brown hair, and she’s got freckles. She hates getting her picture taken. She’s nice, but quiet, and she dances really beautifully, I mean, you’ve seen her, right?” Of course, that time a few months ago when we turned on some music and danced around together to practice dancing at homecoming, so we didn’t look weird or do it wrong. We stopped after a while and oohed and ahhed at empty space for a while. I didn’t ask any more questions. I knew that they would keep up the charade for as long as they could manage. It was in our senior year of high school that it happened. I don’t know why it set me off, not really. It was something little, something stupid. We were hanging out in Nina’s pool, even though it was still too cold to swim. Teeth chattering and goosebumps rising on our skin, we were waiting for the Jacuzzi to heat up to jump in. The cold sunlight cast a long shadow, and the wine coolers we snuck earlier was making that shadow seem menacing. It was annoying for me for reasons I can’t place. “Look at Emma, Lotte!” Jules called. She wolf-whistled and hooted, over the top like Jules always is. “Hot mama, look at that booty!” I didn’t know where to look, like always. Like for the past nine years of my life, I didn’t know where to look. Since the fourth grade at our lunch table, dancing in Summer’s living room, homecoming, football games, at the park, in class, anywhere, I didn’t know where to look, because Emma wasn’t there. That’s when I snapped. “Fuck Emma!” I screamed. “And fuck all of you! Have you been waiting for this! The moment I completely lose my fucking mind! Well, here it is!” I waved my arms around, manic and furious. “Emma. Isn’t. Real. Emma isn’t fucking real!” I looked at their confused faces. “Oh, you’re gonna keep this up? I fucking hate you guys, you’ve always done this, made me the butt of your stupid prank for almost ten years, guys! TEN YEARS!” I slipped a little on the wet concrete but regained my balance. “Fuck you, I hate you so much.” Tears welled in my eyes, years and years of pent up frustration finally spilling over. “Emma was some stupid prank that got out of hand and I can’t believe that none of you ever had the balls to tell me that it was a stupid prank! No, it had to keep going, you had to keep laughing behind my back! It’s not fair!” Summer was furious. “Lotte, don’t fucking be this way, Emma is right there and you’re being a bitch, why are you doing this? Are you mad?” Mel spoke up in a tiny voice. “Lotte, you look hot too, I mean, you look good in your bathing suit too.” “Yeah, but don’t take out your anger on Emma, god,” Nina said, rolling her eyes. Nina walked over to the side of the pool and reached out a hand, like she was rubbing someone’s back. “It’s okay, Emma, Lotte’s just under a lot of stress right now, figuring out where she wants to go for college.” “Shut up!” I howled miserably. “Stop it, stop it, stop it! Emma isn’t real! She’s not there! How could you guys do this to me?” They were starting to look scared. They were really invested in this prank. I wondered what the endgame was. When were they going to start laughing, when were they going to jump up and say, “Gotcha!” I had enough of this. If they wanted to play charades, then let’s play charades. The next part was a blur. I don’t remember it, not even now. But I walked over to where Emma was and I kicked at the air. I heard a scream and I slipped on the slick, wet concrete and hit my head. There was blood everywhere. There was so much screaming, but I kept on kicking and punching and fighting until I blacked out completely. I came to a day later in the hospital. My parents were there, and so were my friends. They were pale and tired and miserable looking. My heart panged. I must have really scared them. When my parents left, Jules approached me. She took my hand. She began crying. The others stared crying too. “I’m sorry, Lotte,” she wept. “I’m really sorry.” It was almost frightening, looking at the way my friends were. They were beside themselves in the privacy of the hospital room. I started crying too. I wasn’t sure why, but I started stammering apologies too, like if we all said sorry things could go back the way they did. “I’m sorry,” I cried. Summer was the only one who didn’t look like she forgave me completely. She looked at me, eyes red and cheeks pink and wobbly chinned, and said, “Are you?” I didn’t have to answer. The nurse came in to change the bandages on my head. For the rest of the year, no one mentioned Emma. Emma only belonged to our tight-knit group of friends, so there was no mention of Emma. One time, a cop came to the principal’s office, and Mel and Nina were quick to drag us away. After the accident, I withdrew from everyone. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t go to Summer’s recital, I didn’t go to Mel’s birthday party, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t go to prom, just stared at the ceiling, wondering what had happened. Emma was in most of my life, and now she felt like a ghost. I graduated high school and left immediately to go to a university far away in Southern California, where the weather was always perfect and the beach was a five minute walk away. I started to recover. I realized that I was depressed after what had happened, understanding that my best friends chose a punchline over me. Unbreakable Six, yeah right. I got good grades, volunteered at an animal shelter, found a boyfriend. He was so nice to me, even when I got quiet when he asked about high school. He never pushed, just held me when I had bad days and made me pancakes. It was four years later when I was about to finish up college when I ran into an old classmate from high school. Her name was Annie. She hung out with a different crowd than me and my friends. Most people did; the six—the five of us were a clique of our own, separated from everyone else. I ran into her in our apartment complex. It turns out that she was living there the whole time and we didn’t know. I wasn’t necessarily friends with her, but overreacted the way you do when you see someone that you haven’t seen in a long time. “It’s been forever!” “Oh my god!” I went to her apartment for coffee and saw that she was packing up her things. “Moving back home for a while until I find a job, yuck.” I saw a thick book on the sofa. “Oh, yeah, that’s our senior yearbook. I was flipping through it when I found it in my bookshelf.” I didn’t bother getting a yearbook. I didn’t have friends at the end of high school. But I was curious to see what I looked like back then, if I had gained or lost weight, if my skin had gotten any better. I opened up the first page and was instantly confused. “‘For Emma’?” I read aloud from the first page. It was a dedication. My mind raced; was there someone named Emma in our year? “Yeah, it’s really sad what happened to her,” Annie said, handing me a mug of hot coffee. I flipped through the yearbook, looking for a trace of Emma. Then, I found it. My heart stopped, mouth going dry. My hands shook as I held the yearbook, looking at the photograph. It was a picture of the Unbreakable Six. We stood with our arms slung around hips and shoulders, sticking close together for the photograph. There was Summer at the end, then me, then Jules, then Mel, then Nina, then… I had never seen this girl before in my life. Never. But there she was. I can’t even remember getting this picture taken. She was right there at the end. Green eyes, brown hair, muffin top, shy smile, threadbare shirt and ripped jeans, looking straight at the camera like the rest of us. She looked as normal as can be, just another teenage girl. Annie looked over my shoulder. “Oh, there you all are. What did you call yourselves again?” “What happened to her?” I couldn’t even touch her photograph, just let my shaking finger hover over her face. Annie fell quiet. “Well, I guess you might not really remember that well, after your head injury. And you just kind of faded away from everything, stopped doing much at all. But Emma disappeared. Out of nowhere. The cops came by once to ask questions, but her parents were both poor and junkies, so no one really cared. Just another girl that disappeared.” I left Annie and went back to my apartment, the one I shared with my boyfriend. He took one look at my face and started boiling some water for tea, grabbed a blanket to throw over my shoulders. I pulled away from him, locked myself in my room. I stared at the ceiling. I was eighteen again, lost and confused. The girl’s green eyes haunted me. Emma’s eyes haunted me. I went on facebook and found my old friends, my best friends, and I told them, “Please meet me back at home. It’s important.” I returned back to our big-town little-city, went to the newest Starbucks and waited. They trickled in, one by one. Jules, small time blogger who works at an Italian restaurant until she made it big. Summer, brown and freckled from band camp, coaching kids for their field shows. Nina, the hot librarian at their old high school. Mel, her belly swollen with her second child, wedding ring secured to her left hand by her high school sweetheart. My friends were not the same, and neither was I. I cut to the chase. I couldn’t spare a moment for small talk. “What happened to Emma?” They exchanged uneasy glances. They knew this was coming. “Nothing,” Jules said with finality. “Emma wasn’t real.” “She was just a trick,” Nina said softly. “She was a prank.” I figured they might pull this shit. I reached into my bag and slammed the yearbook down on the table, making our drinks rattle and one fall over, spilling tea onto the ground. No one moved to try to pick it up. They stared at the yearbook instead. “Emma was real,” I finally whispered. “Emma was real. What happened to her?” “Nothing—” “Cut the crap, Jules,” Summer snapped. She turned to me. “Lotte, you killed Emma that day by the pool. You went nuts and kicked her and kept kicking her when you slipped and fucked up your head, and you bashed her head and she fell in the pool and it was too late to save her and we had to worry about you and—” “Summer!” Jules shrieked, swatting her in the arm. I was silent, absorbing what Summer said. Mel spoke up in a tiny voice. “Lotte… we weren’t going to let you go to jail.” I looked up at my friends, tears running down my cheeks. “Why?” Nina reached across the table and took my hand. She squeezed it, hard. “Because we're the Unbreakable Six. We don’t break because one went crazy and another’s dead.” I excused myself to the restroom and wept for what seemed like hours. It couldn’t have been that long, but there were angry knocks on the door from other patrons who needed the restroom. I sat there on the dirty floor, sobbing, until I had cried everything out. I came out where my friends—my best friends—were still waiting. I sat down in my seat and faced them. “I want to turn myself in.” There was an outcry of different responses. Summer seemed willing, ready to have me turn myself in to the police. Jules yelled out about them all getting in trouble. Mel started to cry. “You don’t have to,” Nina said. “You don’t have to, we got rid of all the evidence, we buried her far away where no one would find her.” “I want to turn myself in,” I repeated firmly. “I killed her. I’ll tell the cops that it was just me, that I buried her. Tell me where she is so I can tell them where I put her. None of you will get in trouble, it wasn’t your fault.” I thought I had finished crying, I thought I had nothing left, but I choked out what I wanted to say for so long. “I never saw her.” They looked at me expectantly. “I never saw her, not even once. I thought… I thought it was just a big prank you were playing on me, I didn’t want you to laugh at me… The girl in the yearbook, I had never seen her before. I just played along.” Nina nodded. “I thought it was weird that you were always so cold to her. Like you didn’t even acknowledge her.” “She really liked you,” Mel said. “She thought you were so smart, that you were going to go out in the world and do amazing things. She would always talk about that.” I felt as though my heart would burst. “I swear I never saw her. Something must be wrong with me, but I never saw her or heard her…” I cleared my throat. “Show me where you buried her.” We got into Summer’s car and drove out far, into a park in a different city. The park was huge and overgrown, like no one had been there to take care of it in a long, long time. I got out of the car, and left behind by a worker long ago was a rusty shovel. I took it with me. Jules led the way, deep into the park, deep through the trees, until we came to a small clearing. The dirt wasn’t fresh, there were no markers or indicators, but the way my friends’ faces paled at the sight, I knew this was it. Emma was there, under our feet. “I gotta see her,” I whispered. I dug the shovel into the ground. “I gotta see her.” Mel didn’t want to see anything, so she and Nina left back for the car. Jules and Summer found different tools, a hoe and a rake, and we started digging. Blisters rose and popped on my hands from the old shovel, but I kept digging as beads of sweat rolled down my neck, my back. The three of us worked together in silence, digging up our best friend. Suddenly, Summer jumped back in disgust, throwing her hoe aside. Jules did the same, stepping out of the hole. We looked down. Summer gagged, covering her mouth and nose, and Jules shook her head at the sight. Me? I laughed and laughed and laughed, tears streaming down my face, laughing until it hurt as I looked down into an empty grave. x submitted by /u/alackofcoasters to r/nosleep [link] [comments]