2 Hours of Scary Reddit Stories

Hey, what's up, guys? And welcome back to the channel. And today we're getting into some scary horror stories from Reddit. And oh boy, do I have some disturbing, terrifying, and just downright scary Reddit stories for you guys today. So make sure to just take a round. And I appreciate you guys stopping by. It means the world that makes you like the video and subscribe to the channel. The channel subscriber goal is 1 million subscribers before the end of the year. So all the support really does help so, so much. And also make sure you go over to my Instagram, follow me over there, and go over to my Spotify, write me five stars over there. It really does help so much. And if you'd like to get early access to every single video I release, go head over to my Patreon, and you can get early access to every single video I release. Pretty good perk. And that's enough self-plugs for now. But today we are genuinely getting into some of the best scary stories I have ever read. They had me on the edge of my seat the entire time. And yeah, just like the first one. And the second, actually the third. Basically all of them are phenomenal, but they just were just insane. And yeah, make sure you sit back, relax, grab a drink, and grab a snack. And without further ado, let's get into some scary horror stories from Reddit. My new neighbor is incredibly nice. Everyone in town hates him. Written by static voices YT. I don't really know why I'm writing this now. After everything. It's late again. One of those nights I can't sleep. And I figured if I got it out of my head and onto a screen, maybe it would stop hurting. So bear with me. This is going to be long, because I need to get all of it right. Every piece of it in order, or I don't think I'll ever stop turning it over in my head. We moved into this house back in the spring. My wife passed a little over a year ago. And after that, I couldn't keep up with the mortgage on one income, not with two kids. So we downsized. Smaller house, smaller yard, new town, new school, mid year for both kids, which is its own kind of cruelty when you're a certain age. My daughter is 14. She hated every part of it. Her friends were an hour away now and she made sure I knew every single day. Doris closed a little too hard, answers a little too short. My son is five. He didn't really understand what had happened to his mom, and he definitely did not understand why we were leaving the only house he had ever lived in. He just wanted me to be okay. He'd tell me that out of nowhere. Standing in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal in his hands. I want you to be happy, dad. Five years old, saying that to his father. The day the movie truck pulled up, I was hauling a box of my wife's old kitchen things up the driveway. When a man across the lawn came up to the door, Brian, late 50s, maybe older, hard to tell. He told us right off the bat that he'd lost his wife a few years back. Before either of us had any much to say at all, like he wanted that fact on the table before we could form any other opinion of him. He was a little awkward, stood too close when we talked, laughed too long at his own jokes, and sometimes at things that weren't jokes. But he seemed harmless, sweet, in a lonely old man kind of way. He talked about how exciting it must be, starting somewhere new. And I glance over at my daughter without meaning to, because she was standing there with her arms closed, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else on earth. Not everyone's excited, I said. He followed my eyes to her and something in his face shifted before he smiled it away. She'll come around, he said. New places just take time. She was watching him the whole time, he said it. And she didn't say a word. But I remember the look on her face. That first night, after the truck pulled away, and the house was just boxes stacked to the ceiling in every room, I heard her on the phone upstairs with one of her old friends. I stood outside our door for a second, deciding whether to knock and decided against it. She needed space to grieve the move in her own way. I figured, same as she was still grieving her mother in her own way. I think about the decision more than almost any other one I made, not because it was wrong, but just because it was the first of so many times I chose to leave her alone with something instead of asking what it was. Over that first week, Brian was at our door constantly, a casserole one night, a bag of tomatoes from his garden the next. Little things, the kind of stuff you expect from a retiree with nothing but time and no one to spend it on. My daughter wanted no part of any of it. She disappeared upstairs, the second she heard is voice of the door. Teenage moodiness, I figured, same as everything else. It was around the second week that the gifts started shifting toward my son almost entirely. A remote control car, still in the box. A set of dinosaur figures that must have run on 30 or $40. Old men get generous when they're lonely, is what I chalked it up to. Brian started timed himself around us. Not obviously, but if I look back at it now, he was always outside exactly when my son was. Watering a lawn that I didn't need it whenever he was in the front yard, finding a reason to be at his own mailbox at the exact moment the school bus dropped my kids off, always with the same comment aimed at my son first. Before anyone else got a word in. There was a moment, maybe the 10th or 11th day, when he said something I brushed off completely and now can't stop replaying. My son had scraped his knee on the driveway and Brian was out front and came jogging over, faster than a man his age should be able to jog. He crouched down, looked at the knee and said, "Oh, that's nothing. You should see what I patched up on the last one." Then he caught himself, laughed it off, said something about being a boy scout leader once upon a time. I remember thinking it was an odd thing to say and letting it go in about four seconds. I had a business to run in a house to unpack. I didn't have room in my head for every odd thing a lonely old man said. Around that same stretch I had a work emergency come up on short notice, a client meeting I couldn't push back and no sitter lined up because we didn't know anyone in town yet well enough to ask. Brian happened to be out front when I was scrambling to figure out what to do and he offered to just keep an eye on my son for the hour I would be gone. Said he had toys and cartoons and it'd be no trouble at all. I remember actually considering it, standing there with my keys in my hand running late, thinking it might genuinely solve my problem. My daughter was the one who put a stop to it. She came down the stairs, must have heard the tail end of the conversation through a window and told me she would watch her brother herself that I didn't need to leave with the neighbor. I told her I appreciated it, but she had her own things to do that afternoon and she said it didn't matter. She would rather stay home. I didn't push back. Some part of me was relieved not to have to make the decision myself. I never once asked her why it mattered so much to her. About two and a half weeks in, I was getting the mail when Paul, the neighbor from across the street, caught me at the curb. Paul's the kind of guy who mows on Saturdays and waves but doesn't stay. So when he stayed, I knew it was something. He didn't dance around it the way I expected. He looked almost sick saying it. Like the words had been sitting in him a while and he had finally decided somebody needed to hear them. He told me flat out that Brian made a skin crawl. Had for years and that he wasn't the only one on the street who felt that way. He said Brian and his wife had fostered a handful of kids at one point. Different boys mostly. A few months here, a school year there, and every single one of them had eventually been moved along to another family. Quicker than Paul ever thought made sense. He mentioned one boy in particular, Marcus, who'd stayed the longest of any of them, almost a full year, who'd apparently run off from the house twice before the county finally pulled them and placed them somewhere else for good. Paul said nobody ever got a straight answer out of the boy about why he kept running, just that he'd go quiet whenever anyone tried to ask. He said. said none of the kids ever said much about it, while they were still around. Kids that age rarely do, but a couple of the neighbors back then swore the boys always seemed to go quiet and small whenever Brian was in the room. I know how it sounds, Paul said, but I wouldn't let that man with a 10 feet of my own kids and I haven't been 15 years, something's wrong with him. Everyone on this street knows it, nobody's ever been able to prove anything, so nobody talks about it out loud, but I'm telling you, keep your son away from him, I mean it. I told my kids that night to keep their distance from him. My daughter didn't even look up from her phone, but I caught her nodding. Like I was only just now, agreeing with something she had already decided weeks earlier. My son asked why, and I told him Brian was probably fine, but I just wanted him closer to home for a while. He nodded the way he does when he's not really listening. Later that same night, at dinner, my son said something that stopped me, mid-bite. Good things come to those who wait. I laughed, because it sounded so strange coming out of a 5 year old. This little saying that belonged to somebody's grandfather, not a kindergartener still working on his table manners, I asked him where he'd heard it. Brian says that, he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I told him to not talk to Brian anymore. My daughter, across the table, put her forked down hard enough that made a sound against her plate. I told you he was weird, she said, not even looking up. I told her I knew, I was handling it, and she gave me a look like she did not believe that for a second. I didn't think much of the look at the time. A few days later, I was doing dishes and looked out the window over the sink and saw my son standing near the back fence, talking, not to himself, talking and then pausing, like there was somebody on the other side answering him. I dried my hands and went out and asked who he was talking to. Brian, he said, easy as anything, like I had asked what color the sky was. I looked towards Brian's house and caught the end of his sliding glass door closing, slow, unhurried, like he had been standing there and had simply decided the conversation was over rather than being caught in the middle of it. That was the only time it ever happened, because I made sure of it. I walked straight over to his house and knocked hard enough that it probably rattled something inside, and when he opened the door, I did not hold back. I told him to stay away from my kids, and especially my son. I told him if I caught him near the fence again, I didn't care what was true and what wasn't. I would make sure every person on this street heard exactly what Paul had told me and then some. He didn't argue, he just stood there and took it, shoulders dropping, apologizing in this quiet, defeated way, saying he had gotten carried away, that he was lonely, that he hadn't meant any harm by it. I remember almost feeling sorry for him. There was a block party toward the end of that first month, folding tables in someone's driveway, a grill going, kids running between yards with no real boundary to any of it. Brian showed up, and I watched something happen that I didn't fully register at the time for how obvious it was. As it trailed off, the second he joined them, a woman gathered two kids under the excuse of getting them a plate of food, the moment he crouched down near the end of the yard. A man I had met exactly once, angled his whole body between Brian and his daughter without seeming to think about it, like it was a reflex. Nobody said anything to his face, nobody had to. At some point I lost track of my own daughter for a few minutes, and when I found her again, she was standing near the fence line at the edge of the yard, close enough to Brian that I could tell they were mid-conversation, her arms crossed, her voice low but sharpened away, I recognized even from a distance. By the time I got over there, she was already walking away from him, and Brian was doing that same defeated shoulder drop I'd seen on his doorstep. I asked her, what was that about? She said she told him to stop hovering around her brother, that it wasn't normal, that she didn't care how lonely he was. I told her that was probably enough, that I had already handled it, and she said, quiet, like she didn't fully expect me to hear her. I don't think you have. I let it go. After that, things went quiet, genuinely quiet. No more gifts, no more crouching of the fence, no more watering along that didn't need it whenever my son was outside. I felt bad, honestly, about how hard I'd come at him. He really was just a sad old man who'd forgotten how to act around children, because he didn't get the chance anymore. My son changed a little too, in ways I noticed but could not place at the time. He'd go quiet sometimes for no reason. Staring off in the middle of a game like his mind had wandered somewhere I was not invited. I asked him once what he was thinking about, and he just shrugged and said nothing. The same shrug and sister gave me about everything, just a phase I figured. Kids that age get moody too. They just don't have the words for it yet. My daughter grew quieter during that stretch too, but it was a different kind of quiet than her usual moody-ness, watchful almost. A few times I caught her looking out the kitchen window toward Brian's house for longer than made sense. Like she was keeping tabs on something, the rest of us had stopped paying attention to. I asked her once if everything was okay, and she just said fine and went back upstairs. Still adjusting to the move, probably. There was always some explanation close at hand that summer. Some reason is you're not to sit with how little I actually understood about what was happening under my own roof. Looking back now, I can see all of it laid out like a trail. At the time, it was just noise. Small, forgettable noise. She didn't come home from school on time on Thursday. I didn't panic right away. I thought maybe she was with new friends, finally starting to feel like she belonged somewhere, by 4 o'clock. I started calling her phone and getting nothing. By 5.30, I was calling the parents of the two girls she had mentioned in passing over the last few weeks. Girls I had never met. And neither of them had seen her since the final bell. By 6 o'clock, I called the school. By 6.30, I called the police. I'm not going to walk through every hour of that night here. If you've ever had to make that call, you know what it does to you. And if you haven't, I hope to God you never do. The officer who took my first call asked all the right questions, calm and practice in a way that somehow made it worse, because it meant this was a situation he'd seen before. And my daughter had just become a case number. He told me they'd start with her known route, her friends, her phone records, and that a unit would canvas that area that night. He told me, gently but plainly, that the most useful thing I could do was stay by the phone in case she turned up on her own or someone called with information. I couldn't do that. I now know it might have been the wrong choice, or at least not the one they wanted from me, but I couldn't sit in the kitchen doing nothing while it was still light enough outside to see anything at all. So once the officers had what they needed from me, I got in my car and started driving a route home from school myself slow. That route cuts down our street on its way in, passed our house, passed his. His car wasn't in the driveway. The house looked wrong in the dark, no lights. One of the front curtains gone entirely, just bare glass where it used to hang. The front door sat open a few inches, like it had been pulled shut in a hurry and hadn't quite caught. I called it in right there from the driveway, standing on his lawn with my phone against my ear, telling the dispatcher what I was looking at and where I was. She told me to wait for unit. I didn't wait. Some part of me already knew, I think, standing there on his porch. And some part of me needed to see it before anyone else could tell me what it meant. The house was mostly empty. Furniture gone from some rooms, still sitting untouched in others. Like he'd only taken what mattered to him and abandoned the rest without a second thought. There was one door at the end of the hallway that was closed. And the second I opened it, I understood this room was different from the rest of the house. Clean, cared for, maintained. In a house that had otherwise been stripped and left to rot. The walls were covered. Every inch of them in photographs of my daughter. Not recent ones, not just from the last few days. All of them going back to the very first days we'd moved in. Her walking to the bus stop. Her sitting in the backyard reading. Her frames through what it be our kitchen window at the table. Not looking at whoever was holding the camera. Because she never knew anyone was there to hold it. On the desk beneath the photographs, there was a single sheet of paper. Folded once with my name written on the front in that same tidy handwriting. I want to put down here exactly what it said. Because I think about it more than I think about almost anything else right now. It read, "I hope you understand I never met your son any harm. Boys just remind me of a version of myself I never got to keep. I'm sorry if I ever made you worry. You're a good father. Better than most I've watched over the years. I could see how hard you were trying to carry two kids on your own. I've taken care of a few boys like that before. They needed me more than anyone else gave me credit for. People always find reasons to be afraid of a man who only wants to help. I knew which one of you needed me most since the day the truck pulled into your driveway. Before I'd even shaken your hand. Some things a man just knows the woman he sees them. They father only has so much of himself to give. Yours went to your son. I watched her. Long enough, close enough. She never once looked happy at standing in a room with you. And you never noticed. And I did. You don't need to worry about her anymore. I'll take care of that part now. The way you clearly never had the time to. She'll understand soon enough why I waited as long as I did. Think of it as one less thing. I understood everything at once. Standing in that room, every gift for my son had been real in his own mind. He believed every word of what he'd written. He believed those boys had needed them. He believed he was doing something kind. I don't know what happened to them. Not really. Not the way I'd need to know it to say it out loud. But I know enough now to understand that whatever those boys felt when they went quiet and small in his house was never gratitude, no matter what he convinced himself of. My daughter's fear of him was real from the start. I dismissed it for months of moodiness as a bad mood about a bad move. She was the only one of us who ever saw him clearly. And I had months of chances to ask her what she saw. And I never once took them. I'm not writing this because I think someone is going to solve anything at this point. The police have had that note in every photograph for a while now. And there are people far more capable than me working this case than I ever could be. I'm writing it because there's still nothing else for me to do most nights. My house is quiet and my son is asleep down the hall and I am sitting up in the dark again thinking about how a man can convince himself completely. That taking something from you is the same as helping you. Paul warned me plainly and I still let my guard down. My daughter warned me too in her own way more than once. And I heard the words without ever once hearing what she meant by them. Harmless and a little awkward are not the same thing. I know that now. I would give almost anything to have known it then. Okay, my sponsor cloaked dared me to see how exposed my personal information really is. So I'm going to put my phone number into their website and see what comes back. And oh my god, it found my social security number. And this is exactly why I think the whole system is completely backwards. Data brokers are making billions selling your information to spammers, scammers, and stalkers. And technically, you probably consented to a lot of it, but that consent was buried somewhere in terms and conditions that nobody actually reads. And every time you sign up for another website, another app, another service, you're potentially giving them even more information. The problem is most privacy services just remove your information after it's already out there. But you keep creating new vulnerabilities every time you sign up for something. And that's why I'm using cloaked. Cloaked can find where your personal information is being sold and help remove it. But also lets you create unlimited burner emails, usernames, and phone numbers when you sign up for things. You can call, text, and email through these burners right inside the app. So data brokers can't tie those accounts directly back to you. Basically, instead of giving these companies your real information, you're giving them information that's completely worthless. You're the one playing them now. Cloaked also monitors the dark web for your information, includes a VPN and password manager, AI-powered spam call filtering, and up to a $1 million identity theft insurance policy. Go to cloaked.com/snook and enter your phone number for a free security scan. It only takes a few seconds. And you can see if your social security number is being sold right now. And if you're ready to take your information back, go to cloaked.com/snook to get 30% off any plan. Thank you so much for cloaked for sponsoring today's video. And now, let's get back into it. I always thought he was my soulmate. The man I wanted to grow old with turns out I was wrong. I was devastated when I found out. Yes, Justin had been staying out later than usual, and his explanations were usually flimsy at best. I'm not stupid. I had my suspicions, but I think I just really didn't want to come to terms with the fact that my husband was seeing another woman. Honestly, I might have gone years without discovering the truth, but Justin got sloppy. Welcome home, honey. Fun night out with the guys after work again. Uh-huh. Justin grumbled. Brushing past me. I made dinner for your hungry beef tips and rice. I know it's one of your favorites. Eight at the bar. I'm going to bed. He muttered, steadying himself against the wall before loosely clumping up the stairs. My heart sank. Nights like those were becoming more and more frequent. I loved my husband. All I wanted was to spend a little quality time with him after a long day at work, but he couldn't even spare me a few minutes. I glanced up at him as he lumbered up the stairs. A tear trickling down my cheek. In an instant, any sadness that I felt was replaced with burning rage. Because when Justin passed underneath the overhead light, I saw what appeared to be a hikki on the side of his neck. A cocktail of emotions swirled within me, despair, resentment, betrayal. They all hit me like a ton of bricks. I was stunned. I didn't know what to do. I mean, who would? The man I had been head over heels for all that time had stabbed me in the back. I was in disbelief. I stumbled to the kitchen, pulling out a chair before I could collapse. I stared into space trying to make sense of what I'd seen. I sat there for a long time, deep in thought. After a while, I felt numb. Like my entire personality had been flushed down the drain, leaving nothing but an empty husk. Then, a thought flashed across my mind. "I'd been mistaken. That had to be it. Just a mere trick of the light. It was a pretty dimly lit hallway after all. Whatever the case, I had to know. I tiptoed upstairs, abandoning my dinner. I crept up our room as quiet as a church mouse, before lightly pushing open the bedroom door. Everything was fast asleep. I didn't waste any time. I rushed across the room, careful to avoid any squeaky floorboards. And I inspected Justin's neck. His snores grew louder as I approached. He always was a heavy sleeper. I cursed when I got a closer look. Justin was sleeping on his side, and I was not going to try to roll him over. I glanced around searching for anything that might provide concrete evidence. My eyes fell to the bedside table. Bingo. I snatched Justin's phone from his charger. I held my breath as I pressed his meaty thumb onto the screen to unlock it. I grinned, feeling a rush of exhilaration as I achieved my goal. "What? Huh?" I froze. Justin groggly opened his eyes, a sliver as a hand hovered over him. My blood turned to ice, and I prayed with all my might that my husband would just go back to sleep. To my immense shock, my prayers were answered. Justin mumbled incoherently under his breath, before grabbing a fistful of covers and nodding off. I'd escaped by the skin of my teeth. I had to be more careful. The first thing I did was check Justin's texts. I immediately saw a woman's name I didn't recognize. My heart shattered when I read the messages. "Hey baby, last night was incredible. See you again after work today, winky face. You're damn right, I wish you had never had to leave. What about that wife of yours though? Won't you get suspicious? Her? Not a chance. Even if she does find out she won't leave, I could murder a baby in front of her. And she'd still think I was a saint." A deep seated rage bubbled within me. Did Justin really think that little of me? He clearly saw me as nothing more than a spineless, codependent pushover. Well, I'd show him. I screen-shotted the evidence, going through dozens of explicit photos that I had taken, and sent everything to my number. I deleted any proof of my snooping, then replaced Justin's phone on the charger. I stormed out of the room, grabbing my keys as I went. I made it halfway across the living room when the realization hit me. I had nowhere to go. All my family lived seven hours away. It was too late to book a decent hotel, and I really didn't want to drag any of my friends into my drama, not yet at least. That left me with one option. I had to sleep on the couch. I plopped down onto the sofa, inside. I didn't want to have to confront it, but I knew what I had to do. In the morning, I was going to find a lawyer and start the divorce process. The thought alone was enough to break me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. I cried like a baby, silently sobbing into a scratchy pillow for what must have felt like hours. My eyes were puffy by the time I was done. I couldn't fathom falling asleep in a state like that, but I must have at some point, because the next thing I remember, sunlight was flooding through the blinds. Morning, babe. How'd you? The rest of the sentence caught in my throat. That was right. Justin and I were about to be over. I grabbed my phone from the coffee table, tears stinging at the corners of my vision. I opened up the text side, sent myself as proof that the last 12 hours had been some twisted nightmare. But the messages were gone. My eyes grew wide as I stared at the screen. That couldn't be right. They'd been there. Clear as day the night before, something wasn't adding up. I suddenly paused, bolting upright. Was that breakfast? The tantalizing aroma of eggs in bacon wafted around the corner from the kitchen. My brows froze. Justin never cooked. My breathing was shallow as I attentively shuffled toward the kitchen. Curiosity nodded at me like a piranha. I apprehensively peeked around the corner, unsure of what I would find. To my shock, there was my husband, humming a little tune while flipping pancakes. I rowed to my eyes. Was I seeing things? Surely I was delusional from lack of sleep. That had to have been it. Then Justin turned. His icy blue eyes locking onto mine. Even in princess, I hope you're hungry. I saw you sleeping on the couch and I thought you might not be feeling well. So I decided to make you a hot meal to help you get better. My heart skipped a beat. Was this really my husband? It looked like him. Sounded like him. Still, I was weary. Uh, yeah, just feeling a little under the weather is all. Are you feeling okay? You're acting different. It's been better. Honestly, I think I've really turned a new leaf. He said, placing a steaming plate before me. The old Justin is kaput. From now on, I swear I'm going to be the best husband I can be. Our gaze is connected. And I searched his expression for answers. He seemed genuine. If this was an act, it was a damn good one. Thanks, babe. That really makes me happy to hear. Justin beamed at me, the warmth of his smile seeping into my heart. It had been years since he looked at me like that. Well, get used to it because I'm keeping my word. I love you, Lydia. I wanted to be suspicious. I wanted to remain silent. I wanted to keep my guard up, but how could I? All I needed was love and attention and I was finally getting it. For the first time in a long time, it felt like my husband actually cared. I love you too, Justin. I muttered before digging into my meal. A big part of me was still leery of my husband. His timing was pretty convenient after all, but even with all my doubts, Justin was seemingly sticking to his promise. He took me out on dates, paid to get my nails done, bought me flowers, he even started sheltering most of the housework. Needless to say, I was impressed. If he would have kept that up, I might have never suspected a thing. But one night, he slipped up. We were cuddled up on the couch watching the Truman show when I asked. Now I wish I would have kept my mouth shut. Hey, babe. Yes, my love. Justin asked. His eyes still glued to the screen. If someone close to you was an imposter, like a perfect replica, except for a few tiny changes, do you think you'd notice? Justin tensed up. His eyes wide as he slowly turned to face me. A blank stare had overtaken his expression. A chill rippled through my body when he looked at me like that. He was beginning to frighten me. I suppose so. His voice was monotone, dripping with a tinge of urgency. I didn't know how to process his sudden shift in personality. It's the premise of the movie we're watching. I watched as the color seeped back into his face as he loosened up, breathing a sigh of relief. I caulked a curious brown. Why was he acting so strange? That makes sense. We sat there in uncomfortable silence, shifting our attention back to the TV screen. After a few more tense moments, I couldn't take it anymore. I've got to use the restroom and charge my phone. I'll be right back. No need to pause the movie for me. Justin nodded before grinning up at me. This mile had his teeth always been that straight. Okay baby girl, hurry back. When I want your spot to get cold, yeah, sure thing. I practically bolted up the stairs, locking myself in our room. I slumped against the door, trying to steady my palpitating heart. What was going on? Was it just me? Or was that some seriously freaky behavior? Either way, I needed a second to calm down. I had my eyes shut, focusing on my breathing. When I heard it, my phone was buzzing from inside my pocket. I hardly retrieved it, glancing at the screen. Unknown number. I normally don't answer calls from strangers, but something compelled me. Maybe it was intuition. Or perhaps I just wanted to talk to someone other than my husband. In the end, I accepted the call. Hello? Lydia, Lydia Atkins? Speaking. Look, this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to hear what I have to say. Okay. I suddenly jolted up from my spawn in the floor and stared at the locked door separating me from the hallway. Loud knocks rattled in its frame. Lydia, Lydia, who are you speaking to? Panic searched through me as I scrambled for an answer. It's my mom, go back downstairs. I'll be there in a minute. That was him. Wasn't it, the caller said. That was my husband, yes, why do you ask? I whispered putting as much distance between myself and the door as possible. Lydia, I need you to hear me out. Can you promise me that you will? The pounding on the opposite side of the room grew even louder. Lydia, don't listen to her. She's a fucking liar. My stomach began to twist itself into knots. How did he know? I'm listening, I'll hear what you have to say. The woman on the other end of the line breathed an audible sigh of relief. Okay, my name is Adaline. And Justin and I have been seeing each other for about nine months. That man in your house is not your husband. My blood turned to ice and I began to tremble. No, that couldn't be true. In a shaky voice, I asked the question that will haunt me until I die. How do I know you're telling me the truth? There was a long pause. The bangs outside my door reaching a nauseating crescendo. When Adaline answered, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was in serious danger. Lydia, for the past week, Justin has been living with me. Adaline, if that's not my husband, then who is? I tried to become, to think rationally, but Adaline must have picked up on the fear of my tone. Look, I don't know, but try to get out of the house if you can. I'm going to send you my address and I'll explain everything in person. I have to go. I'm sorry. The line went dead. All the while, the hammering continued to escalate. Lydia, unlock this door. I swear if I have to break down this damn thing, I will. Those words sent a chill down my spine. Justin had only raised his voice at me a handful of times in the decade that I'd known him. And none of them were as threatening as that. I stood there, momentarily stunned. But a hard kick from the other side of the door was all I needed to spur me to move. I snatched my keys from the bedside table and raced the window overlooking the front lawn. I hurriedly unlocked it and began to pull. Come on, you piece of shit open. I muttered. A massive surge of adrenaline, 80-my-efforts. With one final heaved, the window gave way. And not a moment too soon. The door began to splinter and crack. A few more hearty blows and it was done for. I didn't have time to waste. I punched out the screen, watching it tumble onto these shingles below. I took a deep breath before hoisting myself onto the roof. I had one leg outside the window when it happened. Whoever or whatever was pretending to be my husband finally managed to get inside. My eyes grew wide as he charged toward me. Lydia, don't do this, I can explain. I didn't want to hear what he had to say. Maybe that was stupid of me. Maybe I should have stayed and talked things out. But in that moment, Adelene's words kept surfacing to the forefront of my mind. Now I can only pray that I made the right choice. I pulled myself the remainder of the way out and slid down the road. Desperate to escape my pursuer. I yelped as I felt fingernails graze my arm. My heart jackhammered in my chest as I fell onto the grass. I scrambled to my feet, somehow unscathed aside from a few minor scratches and bolted into my car. I flung open the door through myself inside and jammed the keys into the ignition before I peeled out of the driveway. I briefly glanced up. Justin's lookalike was standing in the window, glowering at me. A devastating sense of dread consumed me as our eyes locked. That's what terrified me the most. His eyes were burning with rage, but something about them felt wrong. In fact, his entire face looked off. Like he was trying to express an intense emotion, but he didn't quite know how. That instantly destroyed any qualms I had about leaving. I slammed the car into a reverse and floored it. I briefly looked back as I sped away and my stomach twisted itself into knots when I did. The window was empty. I was erect the whole way to addolines, an overwhelming flood of confusion, resentment, and fear swirled within me as the realization sank in. Justin really had cheated on me. And on top of that, he was leaving me for his mistress. It was all too much to process. I flew down the empty streets, tears trickling down my face. How did this happen? Why me? Why couldn't I have normal, marital problems, like leaving the milk out or arguing over whose turn it was to do the dishes? I didn't ask for any of this. It wasn't fair. Fortunately, I didn't have much time to think about it. Thanks to my erratic driving, I made it to addolines place. If you could even call it that, in ten minutes flat. I quickly parked beside the curb and stepped out. I gazed in bewilderment as the rundown shack as I made my way to the door. The house was tiny compared to ours. Heated, yellow paint peeled off the exterior. These shutters clung on for dear life. And empty beer bottles littered the front lawn. I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me a little glint of satisfaction. I took a deep breath as I approached the door. Was I really going through with this? How did I know that atoline was even telling the truth? Maybe I shouldn't have come. Or had a chance to mull over any of these thoughts, the door swung open. A young woman, at least five years younger than me, stood on the doorway. As much as it pains me to admit it, she was beautiful. Long, blonde hair flowed down to her waist. And ocean blue eyes stared into mine. She was a stark contrast to me in every way. Lydia? Come in. I slapped atoline hard across the face, leaving an angry red imprint on her cheek. Sorry, knee jerk reaction. She nodded, staring down at her feet. No, I deserve that. Come in. We've got a lot to talk about. I obliged following her lead. The inside of the home wasn't much better than the outside. Empty takeout containers were strewn across the floor. The carpet was stained with god knows what, and the whole place smelled like cigarette smoke. It took everything in me not to throw up. Atoline rushed to the couch, rushed in a way some stale potato chips from one of the cushions. Sorry about the mess. You can have a seat if you want. One glance at that food crusted sofa, and I instantly knew my answer. Uh, thanks, but I think I'll stand. If you say so, Atoline shrugged, claiming the spot for herself. I guess I've got some explaining to do, huh? You sure do. Atoline again shifted her gaze to the door, before meeting my stare. Look, I'm really sorry about Justin. I'm not going to sit here and try to make up some half ass excuse, I'm a terrible person. I folded my arms across my chest. You're not wrong, is he here right now? You're at fault too, but Justin's the one I'm really pissed at. No, he's at the bar. He said he had some drinking to do. Lydia, I really am sorry. I know I can't make it up to you, but I held my hand up to stop her. As much as I love to berate you and listen to you suck up to me the whole night, that's not why I came here. I've got bigger problems to worry about, how did you know about whatever took Justin's place? Atoline bitter lip twirling a few strands of air hair between her fingers. So tonight I went with Justin to get some of the things from me all's house. He said you usually took a bath around that time, so he was just going to get in and get out before he noticed, but that thing, whatever it is, it met him at the door before he could go inside. I saw the marguine then Justin walked back to the truck, pale as a ghost. He dropped me back off here without a single word. After I saw that, I knew I had to warn you. I made Justin give me your number and I called you right when I was home. I nodded, soaking in the revelation. That makes sense. I was wondering how he got my info, but I still have so many questions. What is this thing and how did it manage to replace my husband? I mean, it's even got the same truck as he does. How was that possible? Adeline purged her lips. I don't know. I wish I had more answers for you, but Lydia, you have to listen to me. Whatever we're dealing with, I don't think it has good intentions. Watch this. I'll prove that I'm telling the truth. She said, pulling up a video on her phone. I leaned in to get a better look. The video was of Justin. He was standing on our front porch, talking to himself. I could tell right away that the one facing the camera was the fake, it was too perfect. All its features were too smooth. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. The longer I watched, the more uneasy I felt. As the conversation progressed, I could tell that the real Justin was getting heated. There was no audio, but I could see him getting visibly more angry, even with his back turned. Until it happened. The imposter's face began to twist and contort in unnatural ways. It was as if someone was molding clay with an invisible hand, and that's where the video ended. The side of it disturbed me on a primal level. My stomach churned and my head began to spin. I seriously thought I was going to be sick. That's why I had to tell you, I couldn't just sit by and let that monster hurt you. A loud pounding against the front door cut Adeline off. Lydia, Lydia, are you in there? I just want to talk. Adeline and I shared a terrified glance. This couldn't be happening. How had he tracked me down? Follow me. I'll take you back. You parked on the street, right? Adeline whispered, leaping from the couch. Yeah, but how do I get around him? Won't he catch me if I make a break for it? Adeline met my gaze, a fiery determination gleaming in her eyes. All to distract him. It's the least I could do. "Good luck," she said, ushering me outside. The door clicked shut before I had a chance to thank her. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and without giving myself time to freak out, I raced my car. I squeezed my keys with a vice grip as I ran. The world around me devolving into a blur of colors. I didn't even spare a glance at the front porch as I flew past. I was too focused on making it off that property alive. I was mere inches from the safety of my car. I was so close, but then I heard it. Lydia, why are you running? Come on, don't be like this. I fumbled with the keys and scrambled to hop into my car. Justin sprinted toward me at an inhuman speed. Behind him, the door to the house was hanging wide open and Adeline was nowhere to be found. I hurriedly turned my attention back to the steering wheel. I slammed on the gas. My tires squealing as I sped away. I glanced in the rear view mirror and my heart nearly stopped. The false Justin was standing beneath a street lamp. I don't know if it was my nerves or maybe the poor lighting. But I could have sworn that when I looked back, he was smiling. In a firm moment, I was sure that I saw blood dribbling down his chin. My hyperventilated tears flooding down my cheeks as I sped away. Once I was satisfied with the amount of distance I'd put between myself and Justin's doppelganger, I rolled into a gas station parked at one of the pumps. I felt so lost, so confused. What the hell had just happened? Why did this thing want to track me down so badly? And Adeline? What had he done to her? I wasn't sure I wanted to answer that question. I took a deep breath trying to steady my palpitating heart. It's going to be okay. Just calm down and come up with a game plan. It'll all be over soon, I muttered. I mean reassuringly at myself and the rear view mirror. I didn't truly believe that, but I had to do something. I couldn't afford to keep my crying my eyes out and waiting there like a sitting duck. I needed a plan, so I did the only thing I could think to do. I hopped out of my car and pre-paid for gas. My head was on a swivel as I inserted the nozzle of the tank. The gas station was desolate, safe for an older gentleman smoking a cigarette by the front door. My foot tapped against the concrete as the fuel gauge slowly ticked up. My heart pounded like a jackhammer the entire time. Just waiting to see that familiar red truck pulling him beside me. But it never did. I breathed a sigh of relief, placing the fuel pump back into its compartment. I glanced back at the man by the door for a split second, before jumping back in to the driver's seat. He was talking on the phone now, and was he grinning at me? I didn't want to wait to figure out what he was planning. I zipped down the road and onto the interstate. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew that I needed to get far away from my husband's look alike. Once I was on the open road and all the fear had begun to dissipate, it hit me. Everything. The cheating, the lies, the betrayal, all of it. It all crashed down on me like a tidal wave. What hurt the most was the false sense of security I was lulled into. I had let myself believe that just in a change, that he'd turned a new leaf with no prompting whatsoever. The thought that, all the time, none of the love I'd been given was real. It shattered my heart all over again. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried, I sobbed uncontrollably as I continued down sparsely populated roads. I didn't want to be on the run from some unknown entity. I wanted to go back home and take a nice warm bath, but I didn't know I couldn't do that. I had been driving for a little over 3.5 hours before I started to get low on fuel again. I pulled off on the nearest exit. By that point, the adrenaline had worn off, and I was starting to get tired. I soon found myself at a rundown motel six in the middle of bum fuck Egypt. The red and blue sign flickered as I pulled into the parking lot. A great indicator of the quality of the home I'd been staying in. I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. Come on Lidia, you can do this I'm murmured, stepping out of the car. My eyes started from left to right as I made my way to check in. My BMW looked so out of place beside all the rusted clunkers sprinkled throughout the lot. I picked up my pace, my heart rate spiking. A bell chimed as I opened the door to retrieve my key. A young man with black, greasy hair sat behind the counter, reading a playboy magazine. He didn't even look up as I approached. "Hi, can I get a room?" the boy lazily glanced up at me, before releasing a sigh. "Sure, 50 bucks. I purse my lips as I fished around in my wallet. $50 a night for this dump? What a ripoff." I slapped the cash onto the counter, thanking my lucky stars that I wouldn't have to risk getting my bank information stolen from their car reader. The boy, whose name, tag red Stephen, handed me the key for room number 12 before pocketing the cash. "Thanks," I said, shooting him a glare as I snatched the keys. He gave me a slight nod, before returning to his magazine. I nearly sprinted to room 12. I hurriedly jammed the key into the lock before shoving the door open. Right as I was closing it, something caught my eye. Headlights. I kept the door cracked just enough to see. Silly, right? Surely I was just being paranoid. There was no way that. It was him. Justin's truck cruised into the parking lot. It was unmistakable. The faded red paint, the dent on the driver's side door, the crack running down the entirety of the windshield. It was all there. I quietly locked myself in the room. My head spinning. How was this happening? I was so far from home. How had he found me again? The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. How stupid could I possibly be? The answer was so simple. I pulled out my phone and there it was. Justin and I were sharing our locations. With everything that had happened, I hadn't even thought to turn it off. I knew it was too late, but I turned off location services anyway. I felt nauseous as I was placed my phone back in my pocket. How accurate was that thing? Did the doppelganger know what room I was in? Forward curiosity got the best of me. I had to know. With a shaky hand, I brushed back the blinds to my window. The second I did, tears began to trickle down my cheeks, and my blood turned to ice. He was outside. Justin's impersonator was standing directly outside my door. His eyes were wide and manic. The grin he wore looked off like it was too big for his face. I couldn't move. I was paralyzed with fear. The fake Justin walked up to the glass and paused for just a moment. The silence was so deafening that the only audible noise was the blood pumping in my ears. And then he moved. His tongue lulled out of his mouth and he slapped it against the glass with a wet thump. He dragged it upward, those any human eyes never breaking contacts with the mine. I found you. It's time to stop running and let me in. His smile vanished as he gritted out those words. That was enough to snap me from my stupper. I let the blinds fall over the window and stumbled backward, nearly crashing into a table. That's where I am now. Riding this at that table. I'm done for. It's only a matter of time before he breaks in. I phoned the front desk, but no one answered. I called the police too, but response times are slow this far out into the boonies. This will most likely be my final update. If the cops don't show up on time, I don't know what he'll do to me. My hands are trembling as I write this. He's trying to kick the door down, and I don't think it's gonna hold. To anyone reading this, please, please listen to me. If you notice a sudden change in a loved one's personality, don't brush it off, because it just might be this thing wearing their face. I found an abandoned Nissan in the Alaska bush. What happened afterward haunts me to this day. Back in my 20s, I was what you might call an adventure girl. About 10 years ago, give or take, something happened that changed that. I moved to the city. Got a boring job and a boring apartment, and become decidedly averse to the outdoors. I haven't really told anyone about it in all that time. Save my now wife, because, well, for one, they'd think I'm crazy. And for two, I don't want to think about it. I am finally putting it here though, because you all deserve to hear it. After all, you probably saved my life. Back at time, I had just graduated college and moved from Texas to Alaska out of desire for you guessed it, adventure. I had a job doing stuff I liked. It paid well and gave me enough vacation days to get out and do something really adventurous every once in a while. One thing I'd had on my bucket list since moving north was driving the Dalton highway. For the unfamiliar, that's a generously highway that goes from Fairbanks to Prudo Bay on the Arctic Ocean. It's a 500 mile, 11 hour drive in the summer. But thanks to work realities, I wasn't able to get out there until early autumn. By early autumn, the snow had started, but the plows were still able to keep the highway pretty clear. And I was driving a 95 Toyota Land Cruiser, kidded out for expeditions. I loved that thing. Besides that, I was an adventure girl. I was prepared. I had camping gear, emergency gear, a satellite phone, plenty of food and water, enough jerry can for the trip there and back, and Sam Colt, greatest invention in the center console, just in case. For the unfamiliar, that's the 1911. I loved that gun. I was planning to make the trip in two days, sleeping in the back of the Land Cruiser halfway. I had enough blankets to keep warm, and I had a nice comfy space back there that I could fit in. I'd have to drive slower because of the snow. I wanted to enjoy the scenery, and the sun was setting pretty early by that time of year. I had a good start that day, and the driving was fine. By the time stuff went down, it had been dark for about an hour, and I was getting into the foothills of the Brooks Range. That's good scenery, and also terrain I didn't want to be going through in the dark, so I was just about ready to pull over through the night when I saw caution flashers up ahead. For the unfamiliar, a hard rule for any Alaskan is that you always, always pull over when you see someone in distress on the side of a remote road like that, especially after the snow starts. If they aren't prepared for an emergency, there is a very good chance that you could save their life. So that's exactly what I did. I pulled over next to a niece on SUV, not as nicely kidded out as mine, but not bad either. I figured they were doing the same thing I was, small world, by the jack under one axle, and the wheels sitting next to the car, they'd blown a tire. What I didn't see though were the people. I got out of my land cruiser, crunching down into the snow and looked around. There aren't a ton of trees that far north, but there are quite a few patches of evergreens that, while not quite forests, can be pretty dark and thick on a snowy night. "Hey," I called, "my voice going dead a few yards away as sound does in snowy woods." "You all need help?" No answer. Dead silence. Save the faint clicking over the flasher from inside their Nissan. I shouted again. "Anybody there? I've got tools." No answer. Dead silence. I considered myself a pretty brave bitch back then, but I'll admit that I was creeped out at this point. This vehicle definitely hadn't been here all that long, but there was no one to be seen. Besides that, the dead quiet and the darkness of the night were unnerving. It wasn't that weird for it to be silent on a snowy night like this, that far north, but still, creepy. Creepy enough that I hop back in the car and grab my 45, storing it to one of those big pockets in the front of my jacket, just in case. There were bears up there. I approached the Nissan and saw footsteps in the snow. Okay, not a ghost car. One pair had been crouched down at the move tire, and the other had been standing a couple feet away. By the rear of the SUV, the latter pair, had then, at some point, headed it off toward the tree line. It stopped a few yards down, paced round a bit, then continued into the woods. The pair near the tire had then, presumably later, gotten up and ran after the first. I was no tracker, but it's not hard to tell when someone was running in snow. Now I was really creeped out. I was tempted to hop back in the car and keep driving for a good long while, but like I said, this could easily have been life or death up here. Besides, I had my 45. It could handle a grizzly, probably. That was the worst I'd find up here. Probably. So, off I went, following those two sets of footprints into the woods. It was dark, but don't worry y'all, I had a really nice flashlight. Sure fire, baby. Adventure girl, remember? The dead quiet seemed to get even deadlier and quieter as soon as I passed the tree line. As sound does in snowy woods. Probably. The only thing comforting me that I hadn't gone deaf was the sound of my breath and my boots crunching in the snow. Hey, I called again, maybe 20 yards into the woods. Is everyone okay? This time, I got a response. It was a woman's voice and it sounded afraid. Over here, it called help. I got a spring in my step at that, jogging toward the sound of the voice, shining my light through the trees to try and catch a glimpse. Over here, it called again, much closer. Help. Remember when I said y'all probably saved my life? This is when that happened. I stopped. The hair on the back of my neck had stood on end and a chill had run down my spine. Something was off about that voice. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was just slightly wrong. I pointed my light toward where I'd heard it. "Are you, uh, are you heard?" I said. Voice raised, but not quite shout in anymore. Help. The voice called again. Only it was even closer this time. I hadn't heard the crunch of any footsteps. Over here, my grip on my flashlight tightened and my heart started to hammer in my chest. This was not right. I'd read a lot of no sleep back then, and I'd watched and listened to my fair share of spooky stories. At the time, I didn't think any of this stuff was real, but what was happening to me felt way too familiar. It was setting off alarm bells. Something about this exact situation was tugging at the back of my mind as something I should be terrified of. I tried one more time. "What's your name?" I asked cautiously. "Help!" The voice called. And it couldn't have been more than a few yards off. That was enough for me to swap my light to my left hand and bring out the cult with my right. I pointed both in the direction of that voice, and finally caught a glimpse of something besides trees. Often the distance barely visible, I could see a bundle of something laying in the snow. It was human-sized, and the snow all around it was stained dark. My head was in the middle of processing what it was seen. When I saw movement between me and the body, oh my god, that was a body. I pointed my flashlight and gun at the source of the movement. It was humanoid, with two arms and two legs, but it was all wrong. The limbs were too long and it was too tall. Its hair was thin and wiry. It had antlers. Its face, which was also, I assure you, really wrong, was stained dark with what I can only assume was blood. I fired two shots in hauled ass. I don't know if the bullets slowed it down. I don't even know if I hit it. I ran faster than I'd ever run before and by the cracking branches and crunching snow behind me, it was giving chase. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest and my lungs burned from sucking in the frosty air, once or twice I saw death flash before me as I nearly lost my footing in the snow, but I managed to stay upright. As I ran, I heard more snapping, more crunching, not just behind me now, but all around. There were more. I got really lucky that night. I was lucky to have spotted the body, lucky to have just run fast enough and not falling on my face, lucky none of the whatever they were, I have a guess but I'd rather not hazard it or just a bit closer faster. I was lucky that I had dabbled enough spooky stories that my alarm bells had gone off. And I was lucky at the poor couple in that Nissan had gotten stranded there and suffered the grisly faith they suffered. After all, I was planning to stop just as I saw those caution flashers. I would have been right there, in those same woods, asleep. I don't want to think about what would have happened to me if that had been the case. I made it to my car which I was lucky to have left running, thinking I would have gone far. I leapt in, slammed, locked the door, and threw it in reverse as I saw dark, lanky shapes coming out of the trees. As I got moving, the headlights revealed what had been chasing me. I can't say exactly how many it was, at least half a dozen. All of them were similarly stretched, pale to the point of being almost white, with various forms of antlers and primitive looking clothing. I reversed down the road as fast as I dared, without risking going off and dooming myself to certain death. For a good half a mile before I finally got the nerve to turn around, then I flew down the highway all the way back to Fairbanks, only stopping once I found a nice, well lit hotel in the middle of a city. The next day, I was back in Anchorage. I thought about calling the state troopers, someone was going to find the Nissan, probably find the bodies. They would find my casings, my tire tracks, I could end up a murder suspect. I decided against it. If I ratted myself out, I would be a murder suspect anyway. And then they'd know it was me, better to bet that no one could tie me to that scene, especially being as far from local as I was. Over the next week I packed my stuff, bailed on my job in my lease and moved back to Texas. I never ended up with police banging on my door, so I guess I made the right choice. I still have nightmares about those wrong, elongated things chasing me. I probably have PTSD, and it's not like I can go talk to a therapist about it without ending up in a loony bin. I'm not an adventure girl anymore, and I never go anywhere at night, and I stay in the city as much as possible. I didn't get out of there unscathed, but I got out of there alive, which is better than I could be sad for the folks in the Nissan. I was lucky. Don't feed your kids at Caramel Crayons, written by Saturday. Everyone has a first memory. For me, it was chewing on a crayon and looking down at a paper. Someone was screaming at me to do something, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. I was confused, scared, and a bit sick. Next thing I know, I'm being carried to a car and driven to a hospital. I remember the world spinning. I'd been poisoned, and I had a long list of severe reactions to it. I don't remember much from that time. I was happy eating ice cream and getting to play Alex kid on the Mega Drive. And while I was subjected to it, daily tests and taking 4 kinds of medication. Behind the scenes, things were different. The crayons were parts of a promotional deal handed out by a nationwide grocery chain when he signed up for a membership card. You also get a fruit basket in the coupon. Turns out, some of the crayons have been tampered with to include one that smelled and tasted like caramel. That's pretty much my first memory. My teeth covered in wax, the taste of caramel on my tongue, and looking down at a picture, I can't remember drawing. My family was one of about a dozen who went to court, but we were offered a substantial settlement to keep it quiet. I don't have the exact number, but my family agreed. After all, no one died. By the time we got to pay out, I was already back on my feet. All the kids were. There were a few lingering effects of the poison, for example. I couldn't really taste anything sour anymore. Kids could hand me the most eye-watering sour candy, and I didn't even flinch. To me, it was no worse than a cough drop. Now it also has trouble going to bed at a regular time. Almost as if my sarcadian rhythm was broken. I can easily stay up for about 30 to 36 hours without cracking a yawn. By the time I got to high school, things looked different. I was a math-wiz studying at a university level. I played four instruments, and I could speak three languages fluently. My mom hated when I pulled an all-nighter, but once I got to move into the garage, I got into the habit of sleeping every other day in secret. It worked out fine. It's crazy how much more time you have on your hands when you function on a different level. I can't imagine finishing high school on a regular schedule. I went to college on a scholarship and finished with a doctorate in applied mathematics and statistics. Honestly, it felt a bit like cheating. I would zoom past the other students since I could spend more hours of the day focused on one thing without the need to interrupt myself with sleep. I'd get these cheap meal packs that were more or less a TV dinner with a chocolate bar. I ended up skipping the dinners and just getting the bars. I would go days on end, just devouring sugar and caffeine on these high caloric benders that would send my mood up and down like a roller coaster. But I'd get crazy amounts of work done. I was working on a paper and teaching a college class when I met Kayla. We just clicked. What happened is us, what I hope happens to everyone at some point, that everything just gets easy. There was no doubt about us moving in together, about me proposing, about getting a shared bank account, a townhouse, and a car big enough for a family. And once the wedding bells had faded far behind us, we welcomed our first child. My daughter, Erica. Erica was born six weeks prematurely and had critical respiratory issues. She required around the clockcare and things were a bit touching go for a while. There was a severe chance of bacterial infection. So Kayla and I had to watch her day and night through a pain of glass. I would be there for days on end, once again, subsiding on candy from the vending machine in the occasional lukewarm coffee. But things turned out alright, Erica pulled through and we took her home. I think the whole thing scarred Kayla a bit, turning her into more of a overprotective than she'd want to be. Not saying I was completely unaffected, but she definitely had a shift in perspective. She'd stay up at night holding a mirror in front of Erica, just to make sure she was breathing. But as with most things, we found a new normalcy, and days turned to weeks, to months, to years. By the time Erica started going to preschool, we noticed some behavioral patterns. She avoided other kids and kept to herself. She had trouble following instructions, and she'd sometimes act in a way that made her seem cold. She'd snap at teachers and stay in her corner, drawing with crayons or playing with her favorite stuffed bunny. I figured it was a quirk of her personality, but Kayla was not convinced. We had a lot of fights about it, and at one point, her patients ran out. We'd been sitting in the kitchen, talking for a while over an hour. She was having a cigarette, blowing smoke out the window. She only smokes when she's stressed. Maybe… It's that shitting your system, she snapped at me, that poison, maybe it can affect our kids. You suggesting it's my fault that she can't make friends? You even know what you have? They ever tell you that? The fight eventually ended as they all do, with quiet resignation, and Kayla going upstairs to check on Erica. That argument made me take a step back and poke around a bit. It didn't take long for me to find the contract info for some of the other families. Some of them had kept in touch with my parents for years after they went to court. Hell, our family still had some of that settlement money left. I double checked a couple of names with my parents and sent out some emails. After a couple of days, I got a response from a man named Howard. He was about my age and introduced himself as one of the kids affected by the same thing when we were younger. He just changed his name for unrelated reasons. He'd been in touch with a couple of the others and wanted to bring us all together to see how they were doing. It was a fun idea, sort of like a class reunion for people who had something very specific in common. I agreed since it wasn't a long drive. I drove out to a cafe on a lazy Thursday in July after a long day of grading papers. I didn't really know what to expect when I pulled into the parking lot, but it wasn't hard to spot the crowd I was looking for. Seven people showed up from all walks of life. All of them around my age, skinny and well dressed. None of us wore glasses. I walked up and introduced myself. There were a bunch of names and people wanting to introduce themselves. We didn't get much time before one of the guys upfront called for attention and waved us over. "Thanks for coming out, everyone," he said. "I'm Howard. I set this shindig up, figured it was a good as any time as to figure some stuff out." Howard's long hair was tied up in a ponytail. He had a well-combed beard and a Hawaiian shirt. We all settled into a big booth on the top floor of the cafe. Everyone ordered something, coffee with extra sugars, an energy drink, classic coke, snacks, cookies, sandwiches. I wasn't the only one with an appetite, but to be fair, that place had an amazing care cake. While we were chowing down, Howard spoke up. "I figured we could go around the table and introduce ourselves," he said. "Something about you, your job, where you live, something like that." We all agreed. One by one, we set our names in a little tidbit about ourselves. I shared a bit about my work, my wife, and my daughter. There was one who was a cryptographer working with the defense industry. Another was a city planner, working to stop congestion through simulated models in inner cities. We had an art critic, a structural engineer, a professional musician, and a surgeon. Howard worked with cybersecurity. It didn't take us long to realize we had a lot in common. We all had a college education, and many of us were on the same academic level. We had complex roles that required years of specialized experience. As we compared notes, I had a slice of cheesecake and noticed Howard looking at me. He tilted his head and asked an open question, "What else do we all have in common?" Turns out quite a lot. On top of being well-educated, we all had a sweet tooth. We all had a complicated relationship with sleep, and we had a great short-term memory. All in all, we were doing pretty good." The surgeon chimed in. "We don't really know what was in those crayons," he said. They never released a Toxology report, and most of the documents were sealed as part of the court settlement. It'd be impossible to find anything about it at this point. There wasn't anything that different about any of us. We'd all been x-rayed and had our blood drawn at one point or another, and no one had ever noticed anything strange. On paper, there was nothing unusual about us. We just had the caramel crayon in common, and that had changed the trajectory of our lives. Then, the structural engineer spoke up. Frankly, if whatever was in those crayons made us end up like we are today, can we really say it was such a bad thing? We could disagree on principle, but the fact spoke for themselves. Another added, "If I had a kid, I'd want them to get the same opportunities that I did. I wouldn't mind giving them a caramel crayon." The others agreed. At the very least, they wanted to get a closer look at what it contained. Thinking back on Erika, I could see where they were coming from. Erika had so many issues, and if giving her this one thing could help, I wouldn't hesitate to give her one. Coming home that night, I put Erika's bed. She was having another stomach ache. So, I already knew what Kayla was doing. Whenever Erika had stomach issues, Kayla reviewed everything she'd eaten to see if there was a common denominator, some kind of "allergen." So far, we'd found nothing. I read Erika's story, tucked her in and joined Kayla in the kitchen. As she reviewed the list, I told her about the group in our meeting. If we got the option, do you think Erika would be better off being a bit more like me, I asked? What do you mean? I mean, mentally. If she was a bit less tired and a bit more attentive, you know, how can you say that? I don't mean it like that. I sat down and held her hand, looking her in the eyes. Without using a word, I tried to tell her I wasn't asking this to be mean, or to imply anything bad. I was concerned. I think Erika would do better, long term, if she had the option to be a bit more like me, do you agree? Kayla looked me deep in the eyes. I could feel the easing tension in her hand as she twirled an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She thought about it, then released a drawn out breath. Yeah, she nodded. I think she'd do better. Me and the others created an email group and got to work looking into what we could about the crayons. As the case never went to court, the news articles that covered it were sparse. Luckily, some of the families involved kept meticulous notes. I talked to my parents and made copies of all contracts and tests they had and uploaded them all to our communal group. Others did the same. There wasn't much to go on, but the surgeon went through what he could and confirmed that we had all had symptoms reminiscent of anaphylaxis, allergic reactions. Some of us experienced sudden weight loss, while others had inflammation of the gut lining, most of us had experienced balance issues, while others had severe eczema, spanning the entire length of the spine. A part of the settlement had been the company reassuring our parents that they would either stop production entirely or change their safety standards. These structural engineers suggested that the tampering was probably done in-house when the product moved from packaging to warehouse, meaning the culprit was probably someone who worked at the central warehouse unit. We all pitched in with what we could. It was a lot of fun to dig into something like this and everyone seemed on board. It was a puzzle to solve, and we were all in. One weekend, I couldn't put the work down. I usually force myself asleep every night, but that particular day, I was too fired up to get any rest. Kayla was worried, leaning on the door frame to check in on me. I was chatting with Howard, who was taking on an organizational role to keep things centralized. I just finished updating my contact info. Her stomach's getting better, Kayla said, "Your daughter," she grinned. Her stomach's getting better. Right, of course. She likes it better when you read to her. Kayla sat down next to me, checking what Howard had written. We'd been breaking down our symptoms, trying to come up with a list of possible substances that could reproduce them, and looking at their effects on consumption. It was a lot of gobbling-gook. "Sometimes, I forget you're a genius," she snorted. "Then you show me stuff like this." "You really think she likes it better when I read?" "Changing the subject," she said, tapping her nose smart. "Hey, Niam, she's pretty open about it." She doesn't hold back. That's for sure. You see what she drew today? Kayla unfolded a piece of paper showing me what looked like brown hollow blob. I couldn't make sense of it. She says, "It's Mr. Rabbit." Kayla laughed. "I'll be honest. I don't see the resemblance." She's going to keep that thing until she goes to college. I swear to God. You think she'll go to college? "Well," I said, turning the paper over my hands, maybe not for an art degree. Kayla smacked me on the shoulder playfully, giving me a kiss on the cheek. She's beautiful and makes beautiful things near an idiot. Of course, dear, you're right, dear. Smart man. It took us a couple of days to piece together what we could find. The crayon had most probably been packaged as a sort of compact caramel fudge dipped in a fragrant sugar solution. Whenever the chemical mixture we'd been given actually was, it had to be potent enough not to dilute or be rendered ineffective when exposed to heat or room temperature for prolonged periods of time. That sort of narrowed it down, but we were far from an answer. Then, a breakthrough. It was our art critic, Shannon, who found something. She was used to scouring online auction houses and collectibles, and there were a number of people who hoarded, strange, 90s nostalgia. That included crayons and promotional material, even niche ones. I found a seller in Omaha who's got an actual caramel crayon. She wrote in the group chat, "It should be here in a couple of days." This was a game changer. If this was the real thing, we could finally get a sample. And with that, answers. As a couple of days passed, I couldn't help but pay a bit more attention to Erica. Not only was she struggling socially, but she was having trouble with shapes and colors. She could spend all day drawing, but it always comes out as some kind of immaterial blob, and squinting at a distance. I couldn't make it out to look like anything. It was clear she was struggling with spatial dimensions, often going too fast, and tripping over herself. I started thinking she might need glasses. It was a difficult question to answer. Should I give her a caramel crayon if given the opportunity? I wouldn't without knowing what was in it, but did it really matter if I considered the results? I'd been given one without my consent, and I turned out fine. We all had. The question of whether or not I'd been good for us was already answered. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what would change if she ate one. What would she be like in, say, a year? And later in life, would she be thankful for the opportunity? Or angry that I took something away? And an updated does that there'd been trouble with the shipment. She wasn't sure if it was a case of porch pirates, or a failed delivery, but the package never reached her home. After getting access to a street camera, don't ask how. I have no idea how he did it. One of the members confirmed that no delivery truck had even passed by her house that day, meaning the package had most probably either been sent to the wrong address, or never reached the sorting line to begin with. Given how rare the crayon was, we set two tracking it down. Howard was ready to call the whole thing off, but we turned things around surprisingly fast. One guy managed to get access to the warehouse delivery manifest. Again, don't ask. Cross referencing the way to the packages with the order receipt that Shannon had. We managed to find a confirmed delivery to an address not too far from that match. Extremely enough, it was delivered to someone with a fake name. While some of them debated back and forth on the topic of whether this was delivered or not, I offered to simply go check. It wasn't a long drive, and I could bring someone from the group along just in case. It was just an inquiry. Howard suggested we talk about it first, but Shannon was all in. She was just as curious as I was. We ended up taking a trip out there later the same day. It wasn't that far, and I picked her up after dinner. Shannon was about two years younger than me, color coordinated and white and winter green, with her black hair and a complex braid. She had these razor thin glasses that were purely cosmetic. The address we'd found was technically on public property. It wasn't a house as much as it was a mobile home at the end of a long road. It wasn't a bad part of town, but it was somewhere people didn't go if they didn't have a reason to. If our package ended up there, it was a good chance that foul play was involved. We followed a dirt road to the very end. Finding a white camper van tucked away between the sparse vegetation. The lights were out, but we could tell someone had been there recently. The windows were covered up with cardboard, Shannon and I just looked at each other, thinking we ought to call the whole thing off. Just as I was about to turn the car back on, she got out, and I hurried after her. We walked around for a good minute or so, checking the camper van from other angles. I couldn't see a thing. We had a knife or details though, so maybe I was missing something. It's in there, she said, and there's something else. You sure? She pointed to the tires. You could tell they'd been standing there for quite a while, as grass had grown around them. Then she tapped her nose, taking a whiff I could smell something faint and sugary. There was an air vent on the back of the camper van, and the smell got stronger the closer you got. All right, I said, if you're sure we'll call the police. For a crayon, you think they'd care? It's a collectible. Still a crayon. Then she cracked a window with a rock. After my initial panic faded, and Shannon stepped inside, I couldn't help but to be intrigued. The smell got stronger when she opened the door, and I followed her inside. The camper van was more of a lab than a domicile. On the immediate right, there was a table full of small terrariums, housing about half a dozen centipedes. There was a portable stove with several kinds of pots and pans full of melted sugar. And there, on a small cutting board, was a caramel crayon. Someone had carefully removed the wrapping paper and cut off a piece with a scalpel, using a testing kit to get a closer look. Shannon checked the notes while I looked around a bit more. We were already in, might as well snoop a bit. I noticed this one paper that had an ink drawing on it. A detailed handmade diagram of what looked like a human spine. Next to an identically shaped centipede. Some of its legs were longer, and its body shape looked more like that of a linked sausage. Still, the shape of it matched the spine perfectly. There were also a couple of folders with newspaper clippings, test results, and transcripts. Some went all the way back to the 90s. A couple of words and sentences were highlighted in yellow marker pen, sense of taste affected, irregular sleep schedule, excessive caloric intake, memory loss. The last thing was crossed out, with a handwritten note added to the side, it's not memory loss. Looking up at Shannon, she was already taking pictures and sharing with the group chat. It was clear that this was no coincidence. Whoever had diverted the package had done so with intent. It says something about memory loss, I said. You know anything about that? Not really Shannon said. We'll have to ask the others, do you have memory problems? I can remember everything from my very first memory. What was it? Eating the crayon I said, turning a page, Shannon turned to me with a raised eyebrow. That's my first memory too. Taking a couple more pictures, we heard something outside, a car coming down the street. Shannon snatched what remained of the crayon, and as we turned to leave, we noticed a shotgun tucked away at just above the door. Whoever lived here was prepared for something. Hurrying outside and closing the door behind us, Shannon raised a hand at me to stop. As a car came down, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was howard. He stopped, got out and waved at us. We gotta go, he said, we don't have much time. We followed him for a bit until we got to a gas station. I stopped for gas while Shannon checked her phone. Howard met up with me at the pump. He was consistent in his fashion choices, still wearing a Hawaiian shirt, just with different colors. Blue sunflowers instead of tropical birds, but the same tacky style. I heard some radio chatter, howard said. I think they called the cops, but we should be good, right? Right, he nodded. I'm a goddamn guardian angel, you got anything? Turns out we have another thing in common, I said. We all have the same first memory, eating that crayon. What's that mean, you think? Well, we were all different ages, so I don't think it's a coincidence, but I can't put my finger on why that bothers me, and it really did. There was a part of me that edged at the thought. Like I was missing something obvious. I snapped my fingers a couple of times and said my thoughts out loud. Like, what happened to whatever we experienced before that point? What happened to all those years before I ate the crayon? Neither Shannon nor Howard had an answer. Leaving the question, looming over us as we called it a night, Howard gave Shannon a ride home as I checked the group chat, watching everyone confirm that none of us had any memory prior to eating that crayon. As I checked on Erica before heading to bed, I couldn't help but wonder if the same thing would happen to her if we gave her a crayon. Would she forget everything we'd done up to that point? Would she still prefer me reading to her over her mom? Pushing the hair from her chin, I couldn't help but wonder. It really bordered on a much larger question. How much was I prepared to give up on my child in order for her to reach her full potential? I wanted what was best for her, but there was no objective way to say what that is. No parent is a fortune teller. Being quick on your feet or good at school is no guarantee for a successful life. What even is success anyway? Closing her door behind her, I met Kayla in the hallway. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and lowered her voice. You find anything? Someone's been looking into this, I whispered. It's strange. You know what's in that crayon yet? No idea, but it made us forget things. What things? I peeked back at Erika, making sure she was out of sleep. Everything. Made us forget everything before we ate that thing. So you don't remember what you were like before? Not really, no. Huh. But I was just six. Nothing? I shook my head. Kayla frowned a little, growing increasingly concerned. So it turned you into a new person? I don't think so. If you don't remember a single thing from before you ate it, how do you know you were completely different? It was a good question. I talked to my parents about it the next day. Turns out, they had thought about that too. Prior to eating that crayon, I'd been a much louder kid, angrier even. I'd been energetic, kind of pushy, and very affectionate. After eating it, it was like I'd hit a hard reset. You talked less, mom shared over the phone. You didn't care much for TV in your whole sense of taste changed. We had to get new cereal. Would you say I was a new person? In a way, I suppose. But we raised you all the same. You can only get so different in the company of the same people. But I was different. I suppose you were. The group chat had similar conversations, according to one guy. He'd gone from right-handed to left-handed after eating the crayon. Another had a completely different posture. One changed their entire pattern of speaking. All of us had gone through a sort of transformation. Changing us on a fundamental personal level. We waited for Shannon to weigh in, but nothing happened. Hours later, as the sun began to set, she still wasn't answering. She'd been one of the most active in the chat up until that point. She wasn't answering her calls either. We were getting worried. She was fine when I dropped her off, Howard wrote. Want me to go check on her? I'll do it, I said. Be back in a bit. Kayla wanted to come along and meet one of the group. But Erica wasn't feeling well, and we couldn't bring her along. Someone had to stay home with her. I said I'd ask Shannon to come by sometime to meet the family. You don't get a lot of chances to make new friends at a first-time parent. I drove out to Shannon's place. She lived in an apartment complex downtown, top floor. One of those expensive places where you have to take an elevator up. She'd already shared the door code in case we had to come by and say hi. This wasn't the first time she'd gotten a visit from one of her crayon buddies. I went inside the building, stepped into the elevator, and typed out her four-digit code. As the doors closed, I double-checked my phone. Still, nothing. When the door was opened, I almost swallowed my tongue. There was only one apartment on the top floor. And the elevator opened right next to the front door. The door was wide open, revealing the coconut white interior. The one thing that stood out was a contrasting pool of red, covering the back of her sectional white leather couch. Right next to it was Shannon's lifeless body. Having dropped face first onto her minimalist class coffee table, strings of black hair cast a bloody contrast on her white carpet, as part of her head had been smeared across the room from a shotgun blast. She still wore her cosmetic glasses from the previous night. The blood had been dry for hours, and the flies were already feasting. All sounds faded as my eyes fixated on that shade of red. It looked almost cartoonish, fake. I could smell the iron of her blood, but it didn't make sense to me. It was the last thing I'd expected to see, and now I couldn't see anything but that. I couldn't see anything but the red. As my heart began to race, I realized there was a sound. It's distant, like from behind a paint of glass. I looked out on my phone that I've been holding, only to see that it's ringing. An unknown number. I pressed to accept and raise it to my ear. I can barely hear through my own pulse as my mouth runs dry. Step back in the elevator and go home, a voice says. I say the first word that comes to mind. Howard? Go home. Call anyone and I'll know. What are you doing? Do as I say, no one else gets hurt. The call ends and I leave. I don't touch the door. I don't touch anything. I feel cold as I sit back down on my car, like a block of ice has settled in my stomach. I carefully adjust the rear view mirror, force my shoulders to relax and check the speed every 50 feet or so. I don't just drive home. I'm exemplary. I'm collected. Professional panicking. As I parked the car on my driveway, I don't know what to do. I keep my phone ready. I've already typed in the emergency number, ready to push the call button. I placed my hand on my door and something in me seizes. What if I were to open the door to another splatter of red? As long as I stay outside and that door is closed, I can pretend a little longer, but I have to know. I step through the door. The lights are dimmed and the TV is running on low volume in the living room. There's no one there. A light is coming from the adjacent kitchen. I keep my shoes on as I round the corner, only to see Howard sitting on a chair by our kitchen island. He has a shotgun trained on me. It has a tube added on the top, some kind of silencer. It's the shotgun from the camper van. There's a small glass on the kitchen island, and he invites me down to sit down with the wave of a hand. I stay on my feet, finger on the phone, ready to make the call. They're fine, he says. They're upstairs. What do you want? Have a drink and I'll leave. What is it? Doesn't matter? I step forward and sit down across from him. The glass has a clear liquid and a powerful chemical smell. Howard's size as he leans back, keeping the shotgun pointed at me. I couldn't let you give it to that little girl. He mumbles or anyone. You know what that crayon is? You haven't figured it out yet? He scoffed. I thought you were supposed to be geniuses. It made us forget things, I said. Early memories. No, he says shaking his head. It ate them. What? It ate them. He spat. The damn thing they got into you ate the kid you were and left you behind. He poked the glass with the barrel of the gun, inching it closer to me. It's an anti-parasitic cocktail, he says. Tried to give one to Shannon, but yeah, it should kill whatever's in control. I have no idea what kind of person will be left behind, but at least it'll be human. I am human. No, you were human. He hissed before some sadist tricked you into eating the kind of centipede or tapeworm hybrid. The kind of thing you considered injecting your girl with. I wouldn't, unless I knew what it was. Now I never. never bull shit. He got up and kicked away the chair, making the cheap wood clatter against the kitchen tiles. Sweat is running down my face, making my eyes edge as I blink it all away. He keeps a distance to make sure I can't reach for the gun, but he doesn't let up. He never looks away. I was gonna save all of you. Howard yelled. I just needed more time to test it. That's all I needed at time. I'd fix you and you could come back to your family a real man. How do I know it won't just kill me, I say? What if it just kills all my memories a second time? I tapped my chest, making a point as I desperately continue. Who is this? Who is speaking to you? Is it the real me or whatever the crayon put in me? Go up and we'll find out. I don't want to leave them. I can't risk it. I won't. You'll be real or you'll be dead. Take a pic, Shannon made her choice. My mind spins. My breath grows shallow as my hand shakes. I pick up the glass. There's this warmth crawling up the length of my spine. I close my eyes, letting my mind drift. I can almost feel it. Little legs poking at my nerve endings, hijacking one process and replacing it with another. Maybe it's been there all these years, maybe I'm just imagining it. I raise the glass to my lips as the chemicals crinkle my nose. Then I stop. I hear a voice from the corridor. My tummy hurts. Howard and I turned to see Erica standing in the doorway. Howard lowers the weapon, giving me a knowing look. She must have slipped out while Kayla was locked in the bedroom. Maybe he thought she was asleep. Daddy's just having a drink. Howard says he'll be with you in a bit. Can I hold your hand? She asks. Sure, Howard smiles. We can go upstairs while daddy finishes his drink. He reaches out a hand towards her and I see something shift. Her eyes reflect in a matte sheen. It looks like she's yawning, but her mouth just keeps going wider and wider. By the time Howard notices, I see something unfolding from under her tongue as she bites down on his hand. Howard screams out and presses the trigger, lasting a hole through our kitchen window in a deafening boom. He collapses to the ground in a seizure as his eyes roll back in his skull. I rush over to pick up Erica as Kayla screaming from the bedroom. I rush to call for help as Erica curls into my arms and leans in next to my ear. I feel a lot better now. Howard reminds me of a dine spider curling in on itself, struggling to breathe, something black spreads from the bite mark on his hand. It doesn't take long for the police to get there. Howard was taken to the hospital and it took him four days to regain consciousness. They had to amputate his arm as it had been infected with a powerful toxin. They weren't sure what kind of toxin it was. I never drank from that glass and neither did anyone else. Some rejected the idea that we've been effective parasites completely. The surgeon avoided the topic altogether, but his silence was telling. He mentioned finding something on her x-rays, but he never shared exactly what. Erica has a small fold under her tongue. If she presses on it just right, it produces this foul smelling liquid from a leather like membrane. If she presses enough and spits it out, her stomach stops hurting. Once we figured that out, she started feeling a lot better. Kayla and I have been looking a little closer at Erica. It's clear she's not like other kids. She has started to feel more comfortable in herself. Turns out one reason she can seem distracted and clumsy at times is because she hasn't been sleeping as well. Most nights she was just lying there, faking it. Her sarcadian rhythm has been all over the place. She also can't taste very sour things, just like her dad. The strangest thing in her drawings we looked at them like random scribbles. But if you put them in a pile, you realize something. They are a cross section. It's similar to how you would render a 3D art project. She really was drawing her favorite Mr. Bunny. She was just doing it from a different perspective. Now that we've started to figure her out, she's been opening it up a lot more. She used to be scared of accidentally biting people, or them smelling her bad breath. Now that she can deal with that, she has a bit more confidence. At the end of the day, I don't know for sure what I am. I don't know if I'm a parasite or the remnants of a dying mind. I don't know these things, but it doesn't matter. Whatever I am, I have a wife that loves me. In a child that's just like me. The real me. She'll be in do better things that I never can. And her view of the world will be unique in so many ways. That'll never go away. I won't feed her a caramel crayon. She is perfect the way she is. She's just a kid. My kid. And whatever she becomes is hers alone. To this day, I don't have an answer as to who did this to me. I don't know the purpose or why we ended up the way we did. Maybe in our natural habitat, our days are longer. Maybe our diet is sour. It doesn't matter. At the end of the day, we are reading from the same picture book. My AirPods keep connecting to an unknown device. And I'm terrified by what I hear. Brand by, let's split up. I bought these brand new AirPods or, well, not brand new. Refurbished. New enough, anyway. That I wasn't expecting them to be glitchy. They paired with my phone just fine. Once I was outside and started my jog, the strains of creepy violins filled my ears. I suffered a minute or two of this and then took out the AirPods. Looked at my phone, but it was definitely my get pumped playlist. Still, the AirPods refuse to play anything, but ambient horror movie music. I resigned myself to a creepier run than usual. That chilling, low-fi sound, giving me goosebumps even though the day around me was bright and sunny, melting some of the snow into dirty slush in the glistening streets. I was still jogging when suddenly, the music amped up. The strains of the violins becoming loud and deafening. It hurt my ears. Just as I reached a crosswalk, the shriek of the violins merged with the blare of a truck's horn. A semi-truck went screaming right in front of me, splashing me with icy water. Asthole, I shouted, flipping the driver off. The music in my earbuds died back down to ambient low-fi. After I got home, I took out the earbuds and changed my clothes, showered, paired them with my phone again, and put them back in. This time I tried listening to a news podcast, but it was still just eerie music. If anyone has any advice for how to get these things to unpair from this spooky soundtrack, reach out. Okay, so I've had these glitchy AirPods for about a week. And what I've realized is that it's not just a generic horror movie soundtrack. The eerie music changes depending on what I'm doing, almost as if it's playing a literal soundtrack of my life. For example, a few days ago, while I was at a coffee shop waiting for my drink, the low-fi music shifted to off-key strains of violins. The music got really loud, and someone grabbed my shoulder. I actually jumped. A literal jump scare. When I turned around, it was just a woman behind me, who apologized and pointed out that I had dropped a card for my wallet while paying. I thanked her and, as I picked up my drink, the AirPods chimed with a discordant note. I sat down on my table and put the drink down, trying to figure out what that chime meant. Then I picked up my phone again. The discordant chime repeated. As I raised the cup to my lips, the music veered off-key and the notes clashed unpleasantly. I sipped my hot cocoa. Immediately, I spat it out. I went up and complained, and they checked the milk, and yes, it was spoiled. Even though it shouldn't have been expired yet. They gave me a new drink in this time. There was no discordant chime. I don't know why the AirPods play this weird soundtrack. But I can't bring myself to stop wearing them. I can feel myself becoming addicted to the audio, cluing me into events before they happen. Given the AirPods are refurbished, maybe their previous owner returned them because of this glitch? I've learned One most of the cues. Loud violins mean a jump scare. Discord and chiming means something off. A low, dull tone means frustration. Like trying to call someone, but the line is busy. Just once I've heard a long, mournful horn. It was for a friend calling in tears to tell me about how they'd had to put their dog down. There's only one sound I haven't figured out the cue for. It's a low, rhythmic percussion, almost like a heartbeat. One time I heard it while I was laying in bed. The drumming heartbeat woke me up out of a nap. Suddenly the percussion stopped and I heard a key slide into my front door lock. The lock rattled a little. Probably just a neighbor. My apartment building has five floors and all have identical layouts. So maybe it was the person upstairs or below me who got off the elevator on the wrong floor. The few other times it happened have all been in different locations and circumstances. I tried contacting the seller to find out who owned these AirPods before they were refurbished. I got a reply back within 24 hours. But I knew from the dull tonement years as I opened the email that it would be disappointing. They said they had no information. And then the OP updates a little while later saying help. I'm in my closet. That heartbeat sound has been going. And now it's so loud. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. And it's still going. Raging like my pulse. I scrambled into my bedroom and into the closet and shut the door and texted my parents to call 911 because I can't risk making the call allowed or making any sound. Because when I take the AirPods out, it is dead quiet. And yet the music is so so so loud. And it is getting louder and louder. The sound dialed up like the right before the main character gets killed in a movie. And now I can't stop thinking about the key jingling in my lock that one time. And did I lock the door? God, there is a shadow outside my closet door, posting now. And we have never heard from the OP ever again. And all right, guys, that wraps up some scary horror stories from Reddit. And what did you think about today's video? Would you like to see more videos like this in the future? If so, make sure to comment down below. I read every single comment. So yeah, just any sort of feedback, criticism or whatever you want to say. Just comment down below. And I will, you know, possibly respond to it. 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