2 Hours of Unnerving Reddit Stories

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to the channel and today we're getting into two hours of some unnerving Reddit stories and oh boy, do I have some creepy Unsettling and just Suspenseful and spying chilling stories for you guys today So make sure you stick around because these type of stories and this type of vibe of story are just my favorite the ones that are Suspenseful and just you know tense and just keep you on the edge of your seat the entire time I love this type of creepy story and so make sure you stick around and also make sure you like the video Subscribe to the channel and join my patreon for exclusive content bonus episodes every single week exclusive live streams every single Thursday Discord access early access content and at free content the link is in the first link in the description and the pinned comment and These stories are kind of all over the place in today's videos different genres and Would you guys like to see more specified and narrowed topics in the future like skin walker stories or stalker stories or Whatever other creepy Reddit story video or do you like these where it's kind of like different vibes for each one and different stories for each one I read every single comment so make sure you comment down below and let me know but anyways that's enough yapping I'm excited to get into these Reddit stories so without further ado sit back relax grab a drink and grab a snack and Let's get into two hours of some unnerving Reddit stories My girlfriend was diagnosed with early onset dementia. I Didn't think it could get this bad It started off small my girlfriend Steph would forget little details Things we had brought up in conversation before She would repeat her thoughts or ask me the same questions over and over and over again When she started to forget what she was doing or why she was doing something I Convinced her to go to the doctor She was embarrassed and didn't want to admit it But even she knew something was wrong The doctor said it was early onset dementia I think Steph was scared that I was going to leave her after she got diagnosed We were still young and she knew that I still had a whole life ahead of me She never said it out loud, but I could see it in her behavior She might not have remembered her diagnosis, but she could tell that she was losing herself That's something wasn't quite right She would spend nights sobbing in my arms about how she felt different Empty I'll never forget the way she described it It's like someone else is living my life and I have no clue what they do That's when she began to push people away Friends family pretty much anybody about me Instead of working reading or painting like she used to she'd remained curled up in bed glued to her phone For a while it was fine She was going through a hard time and I loved her. I wanted Steph to know that I wasn't going anywhere After all she was my girlfriend When the doctor said there would be personality changes, it was fine I thought that no matter how she changed she would still be the Steph I fell in love with That I'd be able to see her true self even as things got worse The real problems started a few months ago Shortly after I got home from work. I had just started preparing dinner when I got a text from Steph Come upstairs. It said I Turned off the stove Realizing that I hadn't checked up on her as soon as I arrived home It had been a long day at work and my mind was preoccupied Drawing my hands. I headed up to her bedroom where I could it usually find her Hey babe. What's up? I asked But Steph wasn't there I searched around the room. I checked under the bed in the closet in the bathroom But she was nowhere to be seen Where are you? I texted back It showed that she read the message, but she did not respond I checked her location on my phone Slightly concerned that she might have left the house Once she'd been diagnosed I made sure that I'd be able to see where she was at all times Steph resisted initially, but deep down. I think she knew it was for her own well-being I spent the next few minutes searching around upstairs for her, but when I could no longer find her I returned to the kitchen Wherever she was, she would come out eventually I froze The stove top was on again. I Distinctly remembered at turning it off Steph I called out she must have been here Who else would have turned the stove on But I heard nothing in response I Pulled my phone out again zooming in closer on her location Our icons were nearly overlapping She couldn't have been more than a few feet away. I Called out her name again, but I still heard nothing That's when I began frantically searching for her Maybe she left the house and forgot her phone. That would be even worse She'd have no way of calling for help If I could just find her phone then maybe I could track her down from there. I decided to call her just to see where it was That's when I heard the familiar tune coming from inside one of our cabinets The one right next to our sink What is she doing leaving it there? I froze when I swung the cabinet door open. I was expecting to see the phone there I thought maybe it would be sitting on the bottom with all of the old sponges and cleaning supplies I was not expecting to see it Steph crammed inside the cabinet all her limbs at odd angles Her body was nodded and twisted in ways. I had never seen before Hi James Steph breathed out it almost sounded like she was excited. I found her like it was some sort of game Her glassy eyes it stared past me Something she had been doing much more frequently whenever she spoke to me Her lips were upturned into a subtle smile. I was too baffled to move Steph should not have been able to contort like this Any grown adult would have been far too big to fit into a space like that Yet she showed no signs of pain only enjoyment I rushed forward Cupping her cheeks in my hands Her head was bent at an odd angle in a line of drool ran down her face I quickly wiped it away Steph what are you doing in there? Let's get you out. I reached for her arm as I guided her out of the cabinet Trying to hide the fear in my voice Steph didn't protest as I worked her from the space Slowly undoing her limb after limb as we made progress I could hear the cracks in her body from sitting uncomfortably for so long But Steph didn't show any pain or emotion This was worse than I thought I'd have to call Dr. Yoshihara tonight about updating her prescription I didn't say anything about how dangerous Steph was being About how she could injure herself. I was too horrified to speak, but Steph broke the silence first What's for dinner? Her tone was so casual that it caught me off guard. It was as if nothing at normal had even happened Maybe she didn't remember I was I was gonna make you some chicken alfredo your your favorite Why don't you sit down on the couch for a bit I can light up the fireplace so you're nice and cozy a change of scenery from the bedroom might be nice I didn't include that I wanted to keep an eye on her as well Steph nodded and moved towards the couch She grabbed one of the pillows taking her seat in my spot It was such a small detail, but it hit me like a truck Steph's favorite spot in the couch was the rightmost part She always said that it was the most comfortable That the stuffing of the cushions was softer there She knew that I preferred the right hand side and they eventually ended up being our assigned sections of the room The couch It was the first time I had seen her sit on my side I told myself it didn't matter But it felt wrong Steph loved the other side Steph Honey Why don't you sit on the other side of the couch You always said you preferred it I like this side She responded Her eyes followed me but I could see that she was looking at past me I didn't protest It wasn't until a few weeks later when I was sitting on the porch Reading a book with Steph when it happened again Once Dr. Yoshihara adjusted her medication I figured things would be better It was a beautiful sunny day out and I had poured us both glasses of lemonade to sit on on while I read up one of her favorite novels to her. About 15 minutes in, Steph abruptly got up and walked into the house without saying a word. I figured she was going to use the bathroom, and decided to stay where I was to soak up a little more sun. About a minute went by before I received a text from her, "Can you come help me with something?" it said. "I closed my book and immediately went inside. The house was silent. Maybe she's in the bathroom. But when I checked it was empty. "Where are you?" I texted back. "Come find me," she said. "My mind flashed back to the incident that occurred a few weeks ago. I thought of her nodded body inside the cabinet. No, but Dr. Yoshihara upped her dosage. There's no way it could happen twice, right? But my gut told me otherwise. I began searching through every hiding spot I could imagine. I was beginning to give up. I swear I had searched the entire house going through closets, cabinets, even under the bed. I was rooting through the linen closet when I heard a giggle from downstairs. It was soft. It sounded like Steph's old laugh, a door slam shut. I went to my head around and raised downstairs. My heart thumped as I once again thought of her crammed up into the cabinet. This game was too dangerous to keep playing. It was only when I entered the kitchen that I saw it. The oven was on. My breath hitched to my throat as I made a beeline towards it. I knew I was going fast, but it was as if time had warped every moment so that seconds felt like minutes. Please, please don't let Steph be in there. My slick hands reached for the handle, yanking the oven door as a warm blast of air met my face. And there she was, limbs tangled once again to fit inside the oven. I let out a yelp. There was no way she was able to do this alone. Steph's empty gaze once again met mine, a small smile on her face. She showed no signs of discomfort at the heat or her contortion. Her voice held a surprising amount of clarity for someone who was in a space they shouldn't have been able to fit in. You found me. Steph, what the hell are you doing in there? I reached up to turn the oven off before turning my attention back to my girlfriend. Her eyes, once so beautiful to me, now looked empty. One of her legs was wrapped around the base of her neck while her toes jutted out at strange angles. Her arms disappeared between the mess of legs and torso her body had become. She was completely folded over. Twice. Even a contortionist of Steph's size shouldn't be able to fit in there. How on earth did she do it? I tried to undo her tangled limbs, but there wasn't enough room. I would have to pull her out of the oven first. Oh god, I couldn't do that. I thought of her skin scraping against the metal rack. It was going to hurt her. I didn't sign up to get my girlfriend out of a hot oven. The Steph I knew a year ago would have never done this. Who was she become? But there was no time to hesitate. I slowly pulled her out, making sure that I was handling her gently. But that same smile remained at placid on her face, with cracking joints that sent my heart racing. She began undoing the knots she had folded herself into as I pulled her out. I wanted to vomit. That night, I called Dr. Yoshihara and described the incident in detail. I hated that I was talking to Steph's doctor behind her back, but this wasn't normal. It was dangerous and terrifying. But deep down inside, it wasn't just about Steph. I needed someone else to hear this madness. I can tell this is taking a huge toll on you James. Dr. Yoshihara said, I just don't know what to do. I don't want Steph to endure herself, but I can't watch over her every second. Maybe it's time to consider getting some external support. Just hearing about these incidents makes me think that her mental capabilities have declined significantly. It may be outside of your ability to continue caring for her. Her offer sounded tempting. I loved Steph, but it was exhausting having to re-explain things to her constantly. To watch her every move and tell her what she liked and didn't like. I didn't want to remind her of who she was anymore. It felt like I was begging for the old Steph to come back. But she was dead. Long gone. She'd been diagnosed. Steph made me promise that I would take care of her. That she wouldn't end up in the hands of strangers or in a home. She'd read stories online about how they would abuse their patients. It scared her. I owed it to Steph to respect her wishes for as long as I possibly could. It's what the old her would have wanted. I'm sorry, doctor, but I promised her I wouldn't. I understand. You're a good boyfriend for respecting her wishes, but if it gets out of hand, there's resources available. Bring her into the office and we'll run a few more tests. But I can't say that much can be done about this sort of behavior without professionals. Over the next few months, I began to keep a closer eye on Steph. Her disappearances became more frequent. Whenever she could, Steph would slip out of my sight and send me a message prompting me to find her. She preferred small spaces, the smaller the better. I would catch her trying to climb into vents, sinks, even the laundry machine one time. Each find was more terrifying than the last, not because of where she was hiding, but because of what could have happened. Her luck would run out eventually, and one wrong move would leave her dead. Maybe she'd break a rib by hiding in a small place too long and puncture her long. I didn't know what was coming, but I knew it was getting out of control. It felt like I was betraying her when I finally decided to reach out to assisted living facilities, but I'd done everything in my power to keep her safe and I just couldn't take it anymore. I was exhausted. I knew I'd be giving up a portion of my life to take care of Steph when she was diagnosed, but it was taking a huge toll on me. I was fired when I could no longer go to the office or work. I never called my parents and I'd decline invitations to go out with friends. I couldn't sleep without waking up to see if Steph was still beside me. Every moment of my life revolved around making sure that Steph wouldn't injure herself, ultimately distancing me from the people I needed most. It was a humid summer day when Steph wasn't missing. I had spent all day looking at different facilities, trying to find the perfect place for her. One place in particular piqued my interest. It was close to here. The building looked clean and well maintained, and there were professionals on standby 24/7. I'd given them a call during the day, but they hadn't picked up. That night Steph and I ate dinner in silence. She would barely eat. I had made chicken alfredo again, hoping it would spark her appetite, but I don't think she liked it anymore. I watched as she took slow bites, a vacant expression on her face as she chewed. Steph used to devour this dish when we first started dating. She always said that it tasted better than any restaurants, and I'd respond that it was because I made it with extra love. I was just about to ask her how the food was when my phone rang. It was the facility I'd called earlier. I excused myself from the table and stepped out onto the patio, making sure that I could still see her through the windows as I picked up the call. I explained the situation to them and inquired about the pricing. I swear I didn't look away for more than a few seconds, but when I looked up again, Steph was no longer sitting at the dinner table. Terrified, I ended the call quickly, saying I'd call them back as soon as they dealt with an urgent matter. My phone dinged. Come find me. I scoured the entire house multiple times. Calls and texts stopped going through, and I could no longer see her location on my phone. After I spent hours looking through every crack and crevice in the building, I finally decided to call the police. They checked every inch of the house from top to bottom. They searched all of these spots. She used to visit before she was diagnosed with dementia, even her childhood home, but nobody was able to find her. As in family, joined in on the search, just as distraught as I was. I never had the heart to tell anybody outside of the police about the places she'd been hiding before she went missing. I knew it was an important detail, but I wanted her to be remembered as the beautiful staff that I had fallen in love with. with, not an empty shell that liked to twist her way into dangerous places. It's been around two weeks since Steph went missing, and a weird stench had begun to permeate through the house, like rotten meat. Ever since the smell got worse, I haven't been able to bring myself to find her. I knew she was here. I had the house because Steph refused to leave as her condition worsened. I knew she was in the living room because that's where it smelled the worst. And now I know she's in the chimney, because that's where the maggots keep coming from. Nobody ever checked the chimney. But I'm scared. Too scared to see the infested remains of the person I once loved more than anything in the world. Now, I'm too scared to think about what was going through her mind as she decided to stay there until her last breath. And I'm even more scared now, after receiving a text from her, "Hello, James. Come find me. Come find me. Come find me." I'm starting to think it's something worse than dementia. And before we move on to the next story, I just want to quickly let you guys know about my Patreon, because it helps support the channel a ton, and you guys get some phenomenal content. But every single week you get exclusive bonus episodes where I read some of the most degenerate, disgusting, and wild Reddit stories, Reddit threads, and viewer confessions that I could not put on YouTube. You also get exclusive live streams every single Thursday, where I hang out with you guys, chat, read some stories, and it's done all around it great time. You also get exclusive Discord access where you can chat with me, chat with other members of the community, and that's always fun. And you also get exclusive early access videos and ad free content, all for just $5 a month and so please consider joining. The link is in the first link in the description, and the pinned comment. And now onto the next one. I was hired to cat set, but there was no cat written by Saharls the best. I want to be clear about something before I start. I know how this looks. I know what you're going to think when you read it. You're going to think I'm guilty and I'm making all of this up. That's what they all think. But I need someone out there to know what actually happened. Maybe a true kind junkie, a journalist, just anyone really. Because I didn't hurt anyone and I don't want the truth to die with me. So here it is. Every detail I can remember. My name is Kyle. About 8 months ago I was homeless. I'm not going to dress it up or make excuses for myself. I had drug problems and I couldn't keep a job. So I couch surfed when I could and slept outside when I couldn't. I at least still had a phone, a cracked Android that was too old and crappy to pawn off. I had on it a rover account I'd made back when things were better. I still used it to get work. It kept a little money trickling in but not close enough to fix my situation. Just enough to eat. I'd usually do dog walking but if I were lucky, I'd get a pet sitting job and have a place to stay for the night and that night I had a 4 hour cat sit booked. 4 hours just to cat sit was odd to me. Even then, cats don't need that much supervision and can generally be left alone for a full day without any issues. But the owner, whose name was Jeff, put in their notes that Jasper had major separation anxiety and thus needed someone around to keep him calm. It sounded to me like the typical over zealous millennial pet parenting you come across all the time on the app. So I didn't give it another thought. It was 4 paid hours indoors with heat, running water and a couch to sit on. It sounds pathetic but I was genuinely looking forward to it. The area the apartment was in however, I was not happy about. The building was located in the kind of place where you stop flinching at police irons because they never really stop. It made me feel unsafe just standing there, even as a 6-3 homeless guy. I stood outside the apartment and knocked and anxiously waited to be led inside. After a moment I knocked again. No answer. My phone buzzed. It was a message through the rover app from Jeff. It was unlocked. Go ahead smiley face. I hesitated a second. How did he know I was there? I then noticed the ring camera attached to the door. I gave it a sheepish wave and then turned the knob. To my shock, it was open. I couldn't imagine leaving my door unlocked in a place like this. As soon as I stepped inside, the smell hit me. It was wrought in bleach fighting with each other and neither one was winning. I actually sniffed my jacket and shirt on instinct. When you've been on the street so long, you get it used to assuming the bad smell is coming from you. I told myself my nose would adjust and never did. The apartment was dim and cluttered in the way of a place that had been lived in for years without ever really being reorganized. Used by the door and uneven pairs, a half full to blanket draped over the couch, the walls were covered in framed photographs of European vacations, birthday parties, and can't been tripped by the lake. In every single one, there was a smiling young couple, a man and a woman who looked like they belonged somewhere nicer than this crap hole, but times were hard. I understood that better than anyone. It took me a minute to notice the camera. It was sitting on a shelf in the living room, half hidden between a stack of books in a row of Funko Pops, small, old-fashioned looking, with a little red stand by light pointed directly at the couch. It was a cat cam. Well, I muttered at it. Hello there. My phone buzzed. Hi, so glad you're here. Not many people want to take this job, it's rough area, but the best part of cat sitting is you never have to leave the house, smiley face. Sirens passed outside as if to punctuate the point. I instinctively started looking for the cat. Another buzz came. Cat's name is Jasper. He hides from new people. Don't take it personally. It has separation anxiety and yet it hides from me. I guess I am a stranger, so fair enough I thought. I took a seat on the couch and waited for my next instructions. Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable. I raised my eyebrows at that, but I let it go. I was a stranger in their home. I didn't have a lot of room to be offended. Last and certainly not least, do not go in my bedroom or use the bathroom, the text red. The gas station down the street will let you use theirs if you don't look too homeless. So you better buy a pack of gum or something if you gotta go lol. No offense. I can factor that into your pay. I stared at the screen in disbelief. I can't use the bathroom. Almost instantly my phone buzzed. I have a thing about other people's fluids being where I bath. I put the phone down and shrugged it off. I didn't have to go that bad anyway. I got up and used the kitchen sink to brush. The soap dispenser was empty so I used my own bar, scraping the grime out from underneath my fingernails. I was halfway through when my phone buzzed. Wow, you sure brought a lot for 4 hours. Making yourself feel more at home? The cat cam's red light blinked at me from across the room. I kept scrubbing. Shoes off. I looked up at the camera. I forced a smile and took my shoes off. It felt strange to do it for an audience but what was I gonna say? Thank you. Comfy now? Winky face? I didn't answer the text. I turned on the TV and started waiting out the clock. After about 3 hours I realized I still hadn't actually seen the cat yet. That was a problem. If I was going to get paid to cat sit, I should probably be able to confirm there was a cat. I checked underneath the couch, behind the TV stand, the kitchen where empty cleaning bottles lay scattered across the floor like they'd been swept there and forgotten. No cat. Jasper I called. Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Nothing. I texted the owner. Can't find Jasper. Is he a real LOL? The response was instant, same as always. He's real, just sneaky. Try under the couch, the closet, or the TV stand. I had already checked those. I checked again but there was still nothing. Then I opened the closet. It slid back with a dry scrape. old clothes, stacked boxes, and a knife. It was big, heavy, clean in a way that felt too deliberate. I picked it up without thinking, felt the weight of it, and set it back down. On the floor near my feet was a collar tag, Jasper's name on one side. I picked it up. There was a dark smear on it. I told myself it was rust, cat food, anything but what it really was. My phone buzzed. Found his collar tag I see? I wasn't near the cat cam. I stood very still for a moment. Great, you're on his trail. His collar must have slipped off again. He's lost a lot of weight lately. He should be nearby. I looked at the tag again. Then at the knife. I brought both clothes to my face without meaning to. They smelled of that same chemical rot that was in the air. The smell that was at its worst near the bathroom door adjacent to the bedroom. Both were closed when I got there, and hadn't been opened, so the cat shouldn't be hiding in either of them, but that smell. That smell was too strong to ignore. I approached the bedroom door covering my nose as I did. When I reached for the door knob, my phone buzzed instantly. Remember what I said? No bathroom. I stepped back and texted him. Look, I can't find Jasper anywhere. You sure he isn't hiding in either of those rooms? Yes, I made sure of it before I left. Now keep looking, the tech said. I took a deep breath and did just that. I checked every corner again, behind every shelf again. I checked everywhere again, except the bedroom in the bathroom. I sat back down on the couch, exhausted. I took a long drink from my water bottle and prepared to be out of there soon. My four hours were almost up. Then I got another message. Thirsty from all that hard work. I looked straight at the cat cam and took an exaggerated obnoxious gulp. Then I stood up and walked right up to the camera until my face filled whatever frame it had. All right, I set into the camera. I'm done. Your cat can be alone for a few hours. I'm leaving. I slung my backpack over one shoulder and turned for the door. That's when I saw the curtains moving. Not swaying, but being pulled inward from the wind. They pulled back just enough to show me the dark gap where the glass should have been and the night air was now pouring through. The distant whale of a siren set me into a panic as I realized how much I effed up. I crossed the room and shoved the window shut, fumbling the lock until it clicked. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone. The window was open. I sweared and didn't open it. I think Jasper might have gone out. I waited for the incident to reply like before, but none came. I stood there staring at my phone, thumb hovering, and then I heard it. Meow. From deeper in the apartment, from behind the bedroom door. Jasper, I called softly. Another meow answered. But something about it made the hair on my arms stand up. It was too slow and stretched out at the end. Every instinct told me to leave, but to do so, I had to walk past the bedroom door. I slowly walked toward the exit. As I passed the bathroom, the smell hit me again and this time I wasn't trying to ignore it. This time I let myself actually smell it. And let my instincts acknowledge what I was trying so hard not to. The chemically cleaned knife, the dirty collar, the smell. I could be stupid, but I wasn't that stupid. Meow. It was closer now, almost right behind the bedroom door. My phone buzzed. A text read, "You know what? Now that I think of it, Jasper may have been shut in behind the bedroom door. You should go check before you leave, smiley face." The bedroom door knob shook a little, as if something was trying to nudge it open, like a cat. I slowly reached my hand out, but then from behind the door, I hear another much deeper meow. That's not a cat. I backed away from the bedroom and instead turned towards the bathroom door. I got a text as I did. Check the bedroom, check the bedroom, check the bedroom. I already knew what was going on. So when I opened the door, I didn't scream. I wanted to, but I didn't. I had finally found Jasper and what looked like a woman. Both of them were in pieces. My phone buzzed. Don't even think about calling the cops. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type. You're sick. I typed. He responds with, "You tell anyone they'll arrest you. Your DNA is everywhere. You touch the murder weapon. You are the homeless guy in the apartment. Who will they believe?" I typed back. They'll see the messages. It's your apartment. It's your girlfriend in there. And then it responds and says, "Who said this in my apartment? Did you even count the limbs, winky face? I looked back into my horror. I noticed the extra arms and legs among the viscera. As I looked on it in horror, the bedroom door creaked open behind me. I didn't dare look back as I ran. I tore through the apartment door, heart hammering, and threw myself out into the hallway. The stairwell was just a few steps away when I felt a strong shove come from behind me. I lost my footing completely. I don't remember the fall very well. Just concrete steps in my head hitting something hard. When I came back, there were red and blue lights flashing through the stairwell windows. Someone was dragging me to my feet. I was being handcuffed. I tried to explain but the words weren't coming out right. My phone was gone. My ID was gone. They'd found the bodies. They'd found the knife. And there I was. Unconscious at the bottom of the stairs. A homeless guy with no alibi fleeing the scene of a double homicide. The story wrote itself. I told them about the rover messages but the accounts no longer existed. I told them about the ring and cat cam but no such devices were recovered from the scene. I told them about the person in the bedroom, the one who'd been making those sounds. The one who'd pushed me. They told me I should confess for a lighter sentence. I was exhausted, hurt, and facing the death penalty. But I was innocent. I knew I was and I knew that the real killer was walking free. So I decided rather foolishly to keep fighting. I'm riding this from a cell. I don't have much time as they'll be bringing me my last meal here soon. It's babyback ribs, mashed potatoes with gravy, and honey biscuits just like Mama used to make. I know that whoever did this planned it perfectly and covered every angle. And with my execution, the last piece of evidence of their guilt dies. But maybe, just maybe, if they ever try to pin it on someone else like they did to me, my story can help save a life. If you're reading this, I'm not asking you to try and save me. It's too late for that. I just need someone to know the truth. My name is Kyle and I didn't kill anyone. I love you Mama. I'm coming home to see you very soon. My neighbor has been standing in his driveway for six days, written by overall difficulty eight. My neighbor Graham has been standing in this driveway for six days. I don't mean he spends a lot of time outside or that he keeps returning to the same spot whenever I happen to look. I mean, he has been standing on the same square of concrete in the same clothes holding the same white coffee mug at waste heights since just after seven on Monday morning. Graham lives across the street with nobody but an elderly ginger cat that hates everyone. He's 62, retired from something electrical, and the sort of neighbor who knows which counsel bin goes out before you've checked the calendar. We aren't friends, but we've borrowed tools from each other and one spent 20 minutes arguing about whether possums can open wheely bin lids. He usually wears shorts even when it's cold. So when I first saw him standing there in jeans and a blue check shirt, I mostly noticed because he'd dressed like somebody was coming over. It was seven away on Monday morning. I remember because I checked my phone while making coffee before work and grams. stood halfway between his garage and the footpath with his shoulders relaxed. His right hand around the mug and his left arm hanging beside him. My wife Aaron came downstairs 20 minutes later. Glanced through the blinds when I mentioned him. And said he was probably waiting for somebody while she searched for Sophie's lunchbox lid. There was nothing strange about an older man standing in his own driveway at 730. So I went upstairs to work. By 10, he was in exactly the same place. I watched long enough to see a shirt move in the breeze, which reassured me because for a few seconds I had honestly wondered whether he'd put some kind of mannequin in the driveway. At lunch time, I walked the letterbox even though our post doesn't come until the afternoon and waved across the road. I felt stupid before I had even opened my mouth. Around and Graham, he gave no sign he had heard me. I waited long enough to wonder whether I should cross the street. Then remembered I had a meeting starting in 10 minutes. Once it began, I managed to forget about him again. At 540, Aaron came home with Sophie and Graham was still there. I had checked often enough during the afternoon that I knew how strange I was going to sound before I started explaining. Aaron followed my stare through the front window while Sophie dropped her schoolbag in the hallway. "That's weird," I said. "What's weird?" Graham, he hasn't moved. He's probably been in and out all day. "I've been here all day." You've been working all day. You went to the shops. You had calls. Her explanation was reasonable enough that I felt embarrassed by the relief it gave me. Sophie had followed us to the window and was looking across the street with her head tilted. She tugged once at Aaron's sleeve. Why is he wearing his visiting shirt? His what? The one he wore when Graham came over that time. None of us knew what to do with that. And so if he lost interest before we did, Aaron started dinner. I helped with homework. For the next few hours, the ordinary machinery of the house did what it always does when something outside it has no obvious place to fit. At 11, I looked through the front window before going upstairs and found Graham still under the driveway light. His shirt washed pale by the bulb above the garage and the mug held at exactly the same height. I waited five minutes for something ordinary to happen. And eventually he blinked once. I woke Aaron and made her come downstairs. She was annoyed until she realized I was serious. Then mostly tired, and we stood together behind the curtain while Graham remained motionless across the road. The longer we watched, the more I wanted him to scratch his face or shift his feet just enough to make the whole day feel stupid. He didn't. Maybe he can't sleep. After 16 hours, I don't know, David. Maybe he went inside and came back out. He's holding the same mug. Aaron stared through the gap for another few seconds. Then rubbed her face and started back toward the stairs. She had accepted the shirt, the mug and the hour without looking frightened by any of them. At the time I thought she was exhausted, and I was the one turning a neighbor's odd evening into an emergency. He likes coffee. Tuesday morning, Graham was still there. Rain had fallen overnight, and the driveway around him was wet while a shirt had darkened across the shoulders. Either he had spent the whole night outside, or he had gone in, dried himself, changed into identical clothes, and were turned to precisely the same Patrick concrete with the same mug before I woke up. I tried again with Aaron before she left for work. I'm not saying it's sinister. I'm saying somebody should check on him. Maybe he's having a rough time. His wife died, remember? Four years ago. So, people don't grieve by standing in a driveway all night. People do strange things when they're unhappy. One night, I called Graham's landline. We had the number because he'd fed our fish once while we were away. And through his open kitchen window, I could hear the phone ringing inside his house while I watched him from mine. Graham didn't turn his head or move his hand. And the answering machine picked up after six rings. I left a message asking him to call me. Then stood there listening to my own voice carry faintly through his kitchen window. But noon I finally crossed the streets. Up close there was nothing vague about the stillness. Grace stubble along his jaw, dried rain at the collar of his shirt, a fly walking over the knuckles of the hand holding the mug. He was breathing, but so shallowly that I had to watch the fabric over his stomach for several seconds to convince myself. His eyes looked focused rather than glassy, although they did not follow me when I stepped into his line of sight. Graham? He blinked once. His face otherwise stayed completely still. And when I moved closer, I could smell damp cloth and old coffee. I had the ridiculous thought that the blink had been an answer. Then felt ashamed of myself for wanting meaning from something as automatic as that. I tried again anyway. Do you need an ambulance? Nothing changed. I watched his throat for a swallow and saw none. Then moved close enough that I could see the fine red veins in the whites of his eyes. He still did not look at me. If you can hear me, blinked twice. He blinked once. I waited so long for a second blink that my eyes started watering from not blinking myself. But it never came. I told him I was going to call someone, stepped back onto the pavement and rang the police non-emergency number because I still felt foolish saying ambulance out loud. The woman who answered said somebody would perform a welfare check. A patrol car arrived 40 minutes later. Two officers walked up Graham's driveway while I watched from across the street and the older ones stood directly in front of him for about a minute. Graham did not move his mouth, lift the mug or change his expression. But the officer nodded several times and eventually stepped back. He looked over at me and gave me a small thumbs up. "Is he okay?" Seems fine. He didn't say anything. The officer frowned at me. The younger one, already halfway back to the car, stopped and looked over with a cautious expression. I could see Graham between them, still facing the road with the mug at his waist. Neither officer behaved as though anything unusual was happening. We spoke to him. I was watching. He didn't move his mouth. He says he's enjoying the fresh air. For 30 hours, the officers exchanged a glance. The older one said Graham was an adult on his own property and had declined assistance. And when I asked how he had declined anything without speaking, he repeated that there was no issue requiring police involvement. For a few seconds after they left, I wondered whether I really had missed Graham talking. The thought came with such immediate relief that I almost accepted it. And that frightened me enough to drag our old security camera from a cupboard and aim it through the front window. That evening, Sophie sat at the dining table, cutting cardboard rings for a model of Saturn. I'd promised to help her paint it after dinner. And I managed one half before I found myself at the window again. Aaron noticed before Sophie did and told me I had checked six times since dinner. I went back to the table, turned my chair away from the window, and stayed there until Sophie went upstairs to brush her teeth. The police spoke to him. At some point that has to be enough. They didn't speak to him. You said that already. At 11.30, Graham was still standing beneath the light. The camera recorded continuously all night. And on Wednesday morning, I watched nine hours at 32 times normal speed while cars streaked through the frame and shadows slid over the house. A possum crossed the driveway sometime after four. A cat disappeared under a hedge in the sky lightened behind the roofs. Graham remained fixed in the center of the recording. I showed Aaron before she left for work. She watched the timestamp, asked once whether the camera might have skipped. Then watched long enough to see the night collapse in the morning around a man who did not shift his weight. For a moment, I expected the proof to change something. Instead, she picked up her handbag and checked whether Sophie had a water bottle. So he stood there all night. You hear what you're saying, right? What do you mean? For perhaps two seconds, her answer seems completely adequate. Graham had stood outside all night. Strange certainly, but people did strange things. And I actually felt embarrassed that I had expected Aaron to react differently. Then the video caught my eye again. And the feeling broke. I copied the recording to my computer because the urge to delete it had arrived so quietly that I did not trust myself with the only proof I had. By Wednesday afternoon, I had stopped working properly. A client had to repeat a question because I was looking through the gap between my monitor and the window. And when Sophie came home, she put Saturn on the table and asked whether we could paint stars around the base after dinner. I told her, of course, and meant it. Two hours later, Aaron found the paints untouched beside the model while my laptop sat open on Graham's footage. She waited for you. Sorry, I lost track of time. "You're losing track of everything," she said. "Something is wrong across the street. Maybe, but something is wrong in here, too." Sophie had apparently asked whether Graham was going to die because dad kept watching him. She had also asked Aaron why nobody had taken him to the hospital. And hearing that from an eight-year-old made my non-emergency call feel suddenly indefensible. I promised I would stop watching for the night and made it until three in the morning before I went downstairs. I stood behind the curtain counting Graham's breaths until I reached 140, then stopped because I had no idea what I intended to do with the number. Thursday morning, his beard was visibly longer. The skin beneath his eyes looked darker, too. And seeing his body continue ordinary processes made the rest of him harder to explain away. At nine, I called his daughter Rebecca, whom I'd met twice at neighborhood barbecues. Helen next door had given me her number. Rebecca sounded surprised to hear from me, but not worried. She said she'd spoken to her father that morning and he was fine. And I was looking at Graham while she said it. Both of his hands were visible. Neither moved. On the phone? Yes. What time? Around nine. At nine, I was looking at him. His landline didn't ring. Then he called from his mobile. Actually, he called me. What did you talk about? Dad stuff. What does that mean? When she answered again, her voice had hardened. Across the street, Graham stood with the mug at his waist and his face pointed toward the road. I could see the wet shoulders of his shirt in both motionless hands. He says you keep washing his house and coming on to his property. He asked if I thought he should call the police. Rebecca, your father hasn't spoken to anyone since Monday. I'm not doing this with you. He didn't call you. He called me this morning. Check your call history. For several seconds, I heard nothing but faint movement at Rebecca's end and thought she'd hung up. When she came back, the uncertainty I expected was not there. She sounded irritated, almost offended. She seemed to be moving around as if looking for something else to do while I annoyed her. My phone to leave things sometimes. Does it? Leave Dad alone, David. She ended the phone call. Ten minutes later, Aaron called from work because Rebecca had contacted her to say I was harassing Graham. I kept opening my own call history after that. Feeling a small jolt of relief every time Rebecca's number remained where it should be. Once I caught myself thinking that perhaps Graham had used another phone, and the thought felt completely ordinary until I looked outside and saw both his hands and the positions they had occupied since Monday. By lunchtime, a conversation I was certain I'd never happened had traveled through two households and become evidence about my behavior. That afternoon, I crossed the road again. Graham's front door was unlocked, which wasn't unusual during the day, but I stood on the porch for several minutes before I went inside because concern had stopped me being a complete excuse for what I was doing. I called his name through the open door, waited, then stepped into a kitchen that smelled stale and looked as though somebody had expected to be gone for five minutes. His wallet and keys were beside the toaster, his mobile phone lay dead on the table, and half a sandwich sat uncovered beside the sink. Graham's ginger cat came out of the hallway yelling loudly enough to make me jump. Its water dish was almost dry. The food bowl held only crumbs, and the milk and the refrigerator smelled wrong despite being within date. I fed the cat, refilled its water, and plugged Graham's phone into a charger, telling myself the animal was the reason I was there. When the phone started, I opened the call's history. The last outgoing call had been to Rebecca at 842 on Sunday evening. It lasted four minutes and eleven seconds, and there had been no calls since. I took a photograph of the screen and looked through the kitchen window at Graham standing in the driveway. Then I called a non-emergency number. This time I said 62-year-old man, conscious but almost unresponsive, apparently outside for days, with no sign he had eaten or drunk anything. I told the dispatcher about the dead phone, the spoiled food, and the cat without water, and I did not mention anything supernatural. She kept me on the line until the ambulance arrived. Two paramedics came up the driveway with a monitor in a bag. A woman clipped a pulse oximeter onto the hand, hanging at Graham's side, and the display settled on a heart rate of 32 while his oxygen saturation held at a 97. She watched the numbers for several seconds, moved the sensor to another finger and got the same result. The male paramedic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Graham's arm, and the screen settled on 68 over 44 without flashing an error. The woman took Graham's wrist manually and counted under her breath. She looked from his wrist to the monitor, where 32 still glowed beside the pulse symbol, then said the pulse felt fine. The male paramedic asked Graham to squeeze two of his fingers, but Graham's hands did not move. He wrote something on his forearm anyway. His blood pressure is 68 over 44. We've got it. You're looking at it. The woman removed the pulse oximeter and said Graham was alert, oriented, and declining transport. There were instruments between us now. Numbers brought enough that I could read them from a step away, and neither paramedic behaved as, though, the numbers were concerning. She packed the center into the bag while the man crouched in front of Graham. "You happy for us to leave you here, mate?" Graham did not move. The paramedic waited a few seconds, nodded to himself and stood, and the woman began winding the blood pressure cuff back into its case. Before they left, she asked whether there was somebody who could stay with me for the afternoon. I watched the ambulance pull away while Graham remained exactly where he had been. My phone rang before I went back inside. Aaron had seen me cross the street on the doorbell camera, and then seen the ambulance arrive, and she wanted to know what I was doing. I told her about the cat, the call log, and the numbers on the monitor. The line went so quiet that I checked the screen to make sure the call had not dropped. Come home, David. I found the call log. Just come home. He called Rebecca Sunday night, nothing after that. Then send her the photo on come home. I did. By the time Rebecca replied, Aaron had come home from work and was standing beside me in the kitchen. Rebecca said she remembered the Sunday call and that her father had mentioned I was acting strange then too. She did not answer when I asked why he would have complained about me before I had noticed him. Aaron read the exchange over my shoulder and went very still. She said she was taking Sophie to her sisters for the night. She said she wasn't frightened of me, but every conversation in the house had begun turning back toward Graham. Sophie carried sat on against her chest because the glue on one ring was still drying. At the door she asked whether I was coming to her presentation on Friday, and I had forgotten it until she spoke. I promised I would be there. Sophie looked past me toward the front window before she left. Then asked a question so quietly that Aaron didn't hear. Her eyes stayed on the narrow stripper glass beside my shoulder. Do you think Mr. Graham is scared? I said I didn't know. Sophie nodded as though that was a real answer. Hug to me and follow Darren outside. After their car disappeared, I opened the security recordings because I wanted to find a mistake in them. Instead, I found things I had not been looking for. Helen had walked past Graham on Monday afternoon and waved. Graham did nothing. But Helen stopped as if he'd answered, waited a moment, smiled and continued down the pavement. On Tuesday a leaflet distributor spoke to him, paused twice as though listening, then laughed at something Graham had apparently said. In the welfare check footage, the older officer nodded through a conversation Graham never performed, and at one point shifted sideways as though allowing him to step past before moving back into place. I watched that movement 10 or 12 times. Nothing about the officer looked frightened or dishonest. His body simply made room for a man who had never moved. In another clip, Helen lifted her hand as if Graham had pointed something out behind her, then turned to look at an empty patch of street. By 2 in the morning I could no longer tell whether the footage made me feel better or worse. Only that everybody in it seemed to inhabit a version of the driveway I could not see. Friday morning I went to Sophie's school presentation. I sat in the back beside Erin while Sophie explained the difference between Saturn's rings and Jupiter's, and for 20 minutes I did not think about Graham. When she finished, she found us in the crowd and looked at me first. I was glad I had come, and I knew one morning at school did not repair the rest of the week. On the drive home Erin asked whether I'd slept. I told her a little, and she said that was good. Neither of us mentioned whether she and Sophie were coming home that night. When I turned onto our street, Graham was visible before I reached the house, and I made myself park without staring at him. For almost an hour I answered emails and washed dishes. The knowledge of that footage had started to lose its sharpness, and once I caught myself wondering whether six days was really as impossible as I had been treating it. I stood at the sink trying to understand why that question had occurred to me. Then I went to close the blinds and saw Graham's wrist lower or less than a centimeter. A narrow brown line appeared over the rim of the mug and ran down the outside. There was still coffee in it, and from across the street I could see the surface tremble. For a moment I thought, absurdly, good, he's finally having a drink. Then I realized the mug had moved less than a centimeter and had never approached his mouth. I crossed the road before I could talk myself out of it. The coffee was cold and had developed a skin across the surface, but the mug was nearly full. And Graham's fingers were pale, where they wrapped around the handle. Up close I could smell rain, old coffee, and the sourness of somebody who had been wearing the same clothes for days. His eyes remained fixed ahead until I stepped into his line of sight. Graham, if you hear me, blink twice. Nothing happened. I moved closer until his face filled most of my vision and tried to keep my voice steady. The first time I had asked him this on Tuesday, he had given me one blink, and I suddenly could not stop thinking about the possibility that one was all he could manage. I asked again, please, just two blinks. He blinked once. There was no second blink, but the fingers around the mug trembled hard enough to make another threat of coffee creeped down the side. I touched his forearm and found living warmth, then put two fingers against his wrist and found the same slow pulse the paramedic had counted the day before. Even expecting it, I counted twice because the gaps between beats felt too long. I had called the non-emergency less than a day earlier. I could still see 32 on the monitor and the blood pressure reading beneath it, and I could still hear the paramedic telling me his pulse felt fine. I did not reach for my phone. Then his eyes moved. His head stayed pointed toward the street while his gaze slid sideways and settled on mine. I stepped backward hard enough to stumble off the edge of the driveway, and his eyes followed. I ran home and locked the door. Aaron answered on the second ring, and I told her Graham had finally moved. For half a second after saying it, I heard how ordinary that sounded. Good. No, his eyes moved. So he moved. After five days, that should make you feel better. How does that make it better? Because you've spent all week saying he doesn't move. I pressed my forehead against the kitchen cabinet. I had wanted him to move, therefore this was good, and for a second the sequence felt complete. Then I looked through the gap in the blinds. His head still faced the road, but his eyes were fixed on my house. You don't understand what I'm saying. I understand you, David. I just don't understand why everything he does has to prove something. Where behind her, I could hear Sophie and television, Aaron asked whether I wanted them to come home, and I almost said yes. Graham's eyes were still on the house. I told her not tonight. Saturday morning was day six. I kept the curtains closed, although that somehow made Graham more present because every room now had a wall I was refusing to look through. That night, somebody knocked on the front door. It was the older police officer from Tuesday. Helen had seen the ambulance and later seen me touching Graham's arm. And Rebecca had apparently told the station her father had complained about me more than once. The officer said this as though we had already established how those complaints had been made. I kept one hand on the edge of the door because I did not want them stepping inside. He's asked you to leave him alone. No he hasn't. David? He has not said a word in six days. That's simply not true. Then call him. The officer stared at me irritation crosses face first followed by the patient expression people use when they think agreeing to a small demand will end an argument. He rubbed the bridge of his nose without taking his eyes off me. Call Graham right now. What would that prove if he answers I'll stop after a moment he took out his phone. He found Graham's number showed me the screen as if the gesture itself should settle something and pressed call about 30 seconds later a telephone began ringing across the street. Graham's kitchen window was still open and the sound carried clearly enough that both of us turned toward it. As the road Graham remained in the driveway with his right hand around the mug. The officer put the mobile to his ear and smiled. Hi Graham. The telephone kept ringing inside the empty kitchen. Graham's mouth remained closed and his hand stayed fixed around the mug. The officer listened with the mild concentration of someone on an ordinary call. Yeah, sorry to bother you. The landline rang again across the street. The officer nodded once at whatever he believed he was hearing. Graham did not move. Just checking everything's okay. The answering machine picked up. Through the open window, Graham's recorded voice asked the caller to leave a message while the officer waited as if somebody else were speaking over it. His expression stayed easy. Thanks mate, appreciate it. He ended the call for a few seconds, neither of us spoke, and his smile faded as he looked down at the screen. I asked who he had been talking to. He said my neighbor, "No you weren't." For the first time since I had met him, uncertainty reached his face. He looked at his phone, then across the street at Graham, then toward the open kitchen window. His mouth opened slightly, and I thought I had finally put too many pieces in front of him at once. Then his shoulders loosened. He must have answered his mobile. You called the landline. The officer looked down at the screen. I watched his thumb move over it, and he shook his head. The number was still visible in his recent calls. I recognized it because I had dialed it myself on Tuesday. No I didn't. That is his house number. He stared at it for several seconds. I saw the same brief gap I had seen in Aaron on Thursday, a moment in which the explanation I had not arrived yet. His eyes lifted toward Graham again, and for one second he looked simply confused. The officer swallowed. [BLANK_AUDIO] ringing in the house, maybe call for it in. From a landline he didn't answer. He did not reply. Instead he looked at me with sudden concern and said he thought I needed to talk to somebody. While he was speaking, the possibility occurred to me that I had remembered Graham's number wrong, and it arrived complete, reasonable, and strangely soothing. I pulled my own phone out so quickly I nearly dropped it. Graham's contact was still there from when he'd fed our fish, and the number matched the one on the officer's screen. The relief vanished. Six days of asking other people to recognize what was happening had led nowhere, and I stepped outside before the officer could stop me. Graham's eyes moved toward me as soon as I crossed the street. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled, but his feet didn't slide. His body didn't lean and there was none of the resistance you'd expect from a person bracing himself. He simply remained where he was. I put more weight into him and felt how warm he was through the damp shirt. Graham, what are you doing? His eyes stayed on mine. The officer was coming across the road behind me, telling me to take my hands off him. I kept hold of Graham anyway. What were you waiting for? The fingers around the mug twitched. His mouth changed by less than I can describe. One corner tightening and then releasing as though the muscle had received an instruction they could not complete. Behind me, Helen had come outside and another neighbor was standing on his porch. Helen folded her arms while the officer reached for my arm. You saw that? Saw what? His mouth. People smiled, David. I looked back at Graham. Whatever had happened to his mouth was gone and his face was still again, but his eyes remained on me. I asked him once more if he could hear me. His eyelids lowered once and rose. "Two blinks," I said. "Please," there was no second blink. The officer took hold of my arm and told me to go home. And I tried one last time to assemble the facts in a way another person might keep assembled. He did not even look at Graham while I spoke. He's been standing there since Monday. "So what?" I stopped pulling against the officer. The effort of holding every fact in place had begun to feel physical, like keeping a door shut with my shoulder. I let him lead me back across the road. Graham's eyes followed until the front door blocked my view. I spent several hours at the station while they contacted Aaron and arranged a medical assessment. Nobody arrested me, and the officer described the incident as a welfare dispute that had gotten out of hand. Aaron picked me up that afternoon and drove us to an after-hours clinic with Sophie in the back wearing headphones and holding satir on her knees. One cardboard ring had bent where she'd carried it around too much. The doctor asks about sleep, stress, drugs, and whether I'd ever experienced paranoia before. I answered honestly, showed him the call log photo and I told him about the ambulance monitor. But by then, even my own evidence felt like objects from a case somebody else had built. He said sleep deprivation can alter the significance we attach to ordinary sensory information. I wrote that sentence down because I did not trust myself to remember how it sounded at the time. At Aaron's sister's house, I slept for 14 hours. I don't remember falling asleep, only waking up to use the bathroom and finding my phone on the floor beside the mattress. I did not look out any windows. When I woke on Sunday, Aaron was beside me scrolling through her phone. She asked whether I felt better and I told her I did. The pressure that I'd been sitting behind my ribs all week was gone. And I could remember everything that had happened without feeling that any of it required an immediate response. We went home just after lunch. Graham was in his driveway when he arrived. He wore the same blue shirt and jeans and held the same white mug. Aaron took our bags from the boot while I stood beside the car looking at him. The weather had cleared and the concrete around his shoes was almost dry. Come inside. How long has he been there? I don't know. Since Monday, okay, it's Sunday. I know what date is. Sophie came around the car holding Saturn. She glanced across the street and slowed when she saw Graham. Her eyes settling on the mug and then on his face. I put a hand between her shoulders and turned her toward the front door before she'd ask anything. After a few steps, she looked up at me instead. Will you help me fix the ring before school tomorrow? Yeah. Of course. Later, Sophie held the bent ring in place while I added fresh glue. Nearly an hour past before I realized I had not checked the window. I noticed the fact. Pressed the cardboard down with my thumb and kept working. Sophie did not mention Graham again. I opened the document where I've been recording everything after Sophie went to bed. There are timestamps, photographs, call times, and six days of footage showing car, rain, animals, and people moving around Graham while he barely changed his position. I can read what I wrote on Tuesday and understand why the person who wrote it was frightened. Some of it feels excessive now, but I have left it intact because I remember being certain that mattered. Then I looked through the window. Graham is still there. And while I'm watching, he turns his eyes toward the house. A moment later, he lifts the white mug a little. No more than a neighbor might lift a hand in greeting. And I raised mine back before I have time to think about it. It is the first normal thing he has done all week. Maybe he was waiting for somebody. Maybe he likes the fresh air. Or retirement gives you strange habits. Or I was tired and turned something unusual into something impossible because I kept looking at it for too long. Those explanations used to sound ridiculous. Now they just sound considerate. I do specialize cleanup work for apartments where people have died. But I've never seen anything like this before. Written by Kira1006. I'm a self-employed specialist cleaner for apartments where people have died. Usually old people. Grandparents whose families want the place emptied and cleaned so it can be sold as quickly as possible. It never bothered me. At least not until tonight. I had taken on too many jobs again. Blinded by the extra money. So by the time I reached the last house, it was already dark. The place stood in the middle of nowhere. When I parked at the entrance, I had the uneasy feeling that this would not be a quick job. The moment I stepped inside, I realized the house had not been emptied yet. Everything the old man had owned was still there. Exactly where he had left it. Normally the family would have removed the furniture and personal belongings before calling me in, leaving me to do the final cleanup. A sheet of paper rested on the desk near the entrance. Sorry, but there were complications with the transport service. Please just clean up as much as you can. The place where he died is the living room. I frowned at the note. Why hadn't they simply called me? Maybe they were afraid I would refuse the job if I knew beforehand. But I was already here, and I guess I would do my best. I had been right about one thing though. This would not be quick. As I moved through the house, a strange sadness slowly crept over me. Family pictures covered the walls, the old man smiling into the camera, the old man eating dinner with his family, the old man sitting in an armchair with thick glasses on, reading the book while a cat rested in his lap. He had looked happy, and now he was gone. The house itself was small, a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Nothing more. The subtle stench of death hit me the moment I entered the living room. There was a dark stain on the floor, roughly the size of a human body. This had to be where he died. The problem with elderly people living alone is that their bodies are often discovered days after death, once decomposition has already begun. Someone had clearly tried to wipe this spot clean before I arrived, but it had been pointless. Bodily fluids had soaked deep into the floorboards, and removing them properly required special chemicals. I pulled on my mask and got to work on the stain first, just like I always did. The stain was stubborn, but after roughly half an hour, I finally managed to get rid of it. It took a lot of scrubbing and even more cursing. After the long One day, my back had started to ache, so I stayed sitting on the floor for a moment, letting myself rest while my eyes wandered through the living room. A small dinner table for two in the middle, and there, in the corner, was the armchair from the photographs. To the right, today's bookshelf filled with old novels whose authors meant nothing to me. On the left side of the chair stood a large full-body mirror. I glanced at my reflection and saw a tired, miserable face staring back at me, silently asking why the hell I always had to be so greedy. I could have been home by now, in bed with Laura. I shook the thawed away, pushed myself to my feet, and opened the windows to air out the chemical smell. Then I headed back outside to grab the coffee I had bought on the drive here. It was going to be a long night, and I needed the caffeine. When I returned to the living room, I still felt completely drained. There was an old television in the corner, and I figured having some background noise might make the work a little less miserable, so I turned it on. Only static greeted me, and I sighed and switched it off again. The moment I placed the remote back onto the table and turned away, the television flickered back to life behind me, filling the room once more with loud static. I cursed under my breath. The old thing was annoying, but I didn't want to admit to myself that it genuinely unsettled me, even though I was a grown man. I turned it off again and forced myself back to work. In hour later I finished the bathroom. Two hours after that, the kitchen was done as well, and I returned to the living room. The smell of chemicals had finally faded. I closed the windows again, quietly humming some half-forgotten melody to myself, allowed noise suddenly echoed through the room, making me jump. I spun around too quickly and nearly made myself dizzy, a book lay on the floor in front of the large bookshelf. It must have fallen out somehow, but how? I stared at it for a moment. Everything happened. Pressing my lips together, I slowly approached it. There was no title on the cover. No author's name, just black leather, worn and cracked with age. I bent down, picked it up, and instead of putting it back immediately, I opened it. A strange symbol filled the first page, a triangle with smaller markings branching from each corner, almost resembling the letter T. Beneath it was a single sentence, "Ecy Donas Haas Of Rotas Kanas, Remata Lum Ev Kolum." I read the words aloud, "Latin maybe?" The rest of the pages were blank. "Miao, I looked up from the book and froze. The black cat from the photograph sat only a few feet away, staring directly at me. So that was how the book had fallen. And I had started imagining things already. Jesus." I slid the strange book back into the shelf, trying not to think about what kind of man the owner must have been, and turned toward the cat. "Hey buddy," I muttered, "you scared the hell out of me. I should probably take the animal back to the family who hired me. The poor thing was likely starving. Maybe abandoned after the old man died." I didn't even want to consider that possibility for too long. "Hey, I slowly knelt down and held out my hand toward the cat. Try not to scare it. Let's be friends." "Miao, the cat turned around calmly, leapt forward, and disappeared straight through the mirror." I froze. On the other side of the glass, I could still see it walking away from me. "What the hell, I whispered?" Slowly I got to my feet and approached the mirror. The apartment on the other side looked exactly the same, except for the cat, now sitting with its back turned toward me, while lazily looking at his paw. This couldn't be real. I reached out carefully, and expected my hand to hit cold glass. Instead it passed straight through. My breath caught on my throat. Before I could saw myself, I took another step forward, then another, a second later my entire body had crossed through the mirror. Now I was standing on the other side as well. At first glance the apartment seemed unchanged, but something felt wrong immediately. Everyone's drifted in from the kitchen, the clatter of plates, the soft scrape of metal against ceramic, and beneath it all lingered the unmistakable smell of freshly cooked food. The cat slowly turned its head toward me. My knees nearly gave out. Its eyes were gone. Two dark, rotting holes scared back at me from beneath matted black fur. Ash around its mouth had decayed away, exposing yellow teeth in parts of its jaw. More patches of rotten skin was around its neck. I instinctively stumbled backward toward the mirror. This time my back hit solid glass. No matter how hard I pushed, it would not let me through. Meow. The sound was no longer soft or harmless. It came out low and wet beneath the ground. Noises from the kitchen stopped abruptly. Silence flooded the apartment. A second later I heard footsteps approaching fast. An old man stepped out of the corridor, drawing his hands on a kitchen towel draped loosely over his shoulder. He smiled warmly at me, then looked down at the cat, "Ah, fluff," he said gently. You brought a friend with you, then his eyes settled on me, and his smile widened just a little too much. I hope he didn't bother you too much. "No, no," I managed to choke out. "Good, good," the old man gestured toward the small dinner table. "Come, sit down, have dinner with me." I swallowed hard. I'm sorry, but I really can't stay. I still need to finish my work. I remained standing close to the mirror, trying to sound calm while silently praying in my head. Nonsense, the old man replied cheerfully. I haven't had guests in such a long time. I can't let you leave hungry. He motioned toward the table. "You've worked hard back there." He nodded toward the mirror. "At least let me repay you with dinner." I just finished cooking, you know. You arrived at the perfect time. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But the look in the old man's eyes told me that refusing him would be a terrible mistake. So, I nodded slowly and forced myself toward the table. The old man disappeared back into the kitchen and returned moments later carrying two plates. Rice and stir fried vegetables steamed gently beneath the dim light. He placed the plates on the table alongside forks and knives before sitting down across from me. "Oh, this feels wonderful," he sighed. He tilted his head sharply to the left. Crack then slowly to the right. Crack. The sound of bone grinding against bone echoed softly through the apartment. I really did miss having company. He said with a smile. "I'm sorry," I said, clearing my throat. I accidentally stepped through the mirror, but it seems I can't go back. "Oh, no wonder you can't." The old man laughed softly and unfolded an napkin across his legs. These young people nowadays, honestly. I stared at him in silence. You can't go back because you left the key behind, dear. "The key," I asked carefully. "Sorry, I don't understand." "The key," the old man repeated, sounding mildly irritated. As though I had asked something painfully obvious. The book dear, the key. I glanced down on my hands. They had started trembling slightly, and I quickly hid them beneath the table. So I can't leave, I asked. Everything looks the same here. There has to be another book somewhere in this apartment, too, right? The old man sighed deeply. "No, no, the book is one of a kind, dear." For a moment, my stomach dropped completely. But of course, you can't leave. He added suddenly with a smile. Relief flooded through me so fast it almost hurt. Someone simply has to read the words aloud from the other side, then the mere opens again. My heart beat hammered painfully in my chest. Now the old man said pleasantly, picking up his fork, let's eat. Then he froze completely. His fork remained suspended in the air while his eyes stared blankly ahead, unmoving. One second passed, then another. I didn't dare look away from him. Almost a full minute went by before he suddenly resumed moving again, as though nothing had happened. before taking the first bite. He paused once more. "Oh, forgive my terrible manners. He smiled warmly at me. My name is Roland, and your friend?" "Lars," I answered quietly. I had no intention of touching the food. "So, you live here?" "Yes, yes," Roland replied happily. "Well, I lived here once, and now I live here again." The way he said it made my skin crawl. "You're not eating, dear." He observed gently. "Is something not to your liking?" Before I could answer, Panic suddenly flashed across his face. "Oh, forgive this foolish old man. He slapped his forehead dramatically and pushed himself up from the table so quickly the chair nearly tipped over. You see, at my age, I must be careful with what I eat. My stomach isn't what it used to be anymore. Panic eyes locked on to mine. But you, a wide smile, spread slowly across his face, "You're a young man. Young men need meat." I watched him frozen silence as he hurried across the room, scooped the cat into his arms and returned to the table. "Forgive me for being such a terrible host. The cat let out a sharp cry, crack. The sound of its next snapping echoed through the apartment. Before I could react, Roland placed the dead animal onto my plate. Dark, rotten blood poured slowly from the cat's mouth, running into the rice and soaking the vegetables. The smell hit me instantly. Sweet decay so thick I nearly gagged. There we go. Roland said happily, "Eat now, dear. It's getting cold." I. I forced myself not to vomit. I'm sorry, I forgot to wash my hands after the cleaning work. I tried to keep my voice steady. Could I use your bathroom first? Oh yes, make yourself at home. I stood up and made my way toward the bathroom. Try not to move too quickly. Try not to run. The moment I stepped inside, I locked the door behind me. Every instinct screamed at me to get out of this place. I hurried to the window and pushed it open, my breath caught on my throat. There was nothing outside. Just endless darkness stretching in every direction. My pulse hammered painfully my ears as I grabbed the bar of soap from the sink and threw it out into the void. I watched it fall and fall and fall. Far longer than it should have before the darkness swallowed it completely. There was no ground. I stumbled backward from the window in horror. I couldn't escape through there. A loud knock against the bathroom door made me flinch violently. Everything all right, dear? Roland's voice called from the other side. Dinner is getting cold and you really should eat. I. I'm fine. I answered quickly. I'd just like to stay here a little longer. My voice trembled uncontrollably. And it clouded my thoughts as my eyes desperately searched the bathroom for something I could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Oh, but I can't allow that. The warmth of vanished completely from Roland's voice. Surely you know that it's rude to leave the dinner table. Then came the last sentence and the voice speaking it could not possibly have belonged to a human being. So come out. I froze. The doorknobs slowly began to turn. Metal squealed. Then the wall beside the lock started to crumble with a dry cracking sound until the entire lock tore free from the frame. The doors swung open. Roland stood there calmly, staring at the debris scattered across the floor. Oh, dear, he sighed. What a mess. And after you cleaned everything so nicely to my apologies, then he smiled again. Now, please return to the table. I didn't dare argue. As I stepped past him, terror twisted painfully in my stomach, and I instinctively quickened my pace. He was strong, not human strong, something far beyond that. I sat back down at the table, staring once more at the dead cat line on my plate while Roland calmly returned to his seat across from me, "Eat." The patients had vanished from his voice now. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm not hungry." Roland looked at me silently for a moment. "You know," he said softly. When I was a boy and refused to eat with my mother plates in front of me, she would take my father's leather belt and teach me how I was supposed to behave. He paused. "Maybe we should begin with teaching you not to leave the dinner table," Roland said softly. It seems you never learned that lesson, either. His smile widened. "It will be an easy one, dear. After all, you can't run away from the table if you're no longer able to stand, don't you think?" Panic hit me so violently that my body went numb for a second before adrenaline flooded through my veins. Without thinking I grabbed the knife from the table and drove it straight into his left eye. The blade sank in with a wet crunch and remained lodged there. Roland didn't even flinch. I stared at him in horror, unable to breathe. "Oh, dear," he sighed. calmly he wrapped his fingers around the knife handle and pulled it free together with the eyeball still attached. And here I was, trying so hard not to eat meat. He opened his mouth and bit the eye off the blade, crunched. The sound was wrong. I nearly vomited it as he chewed slowly. Then instinct finally took over again. I stumbled backward from the table and sprinted toward the mirror, desperately shouting the strange words from the book, "Nothing happened." The mirror remained solid. "Now," Roland's voice growled behind me, "no longer human in the slightest. Let us begin the lesson." I spun around just in time to throw myself aside. The thing that had once been Roland slammed into the wall where I had been standing only a second earlier. He barely even resembled a man anymore. His flesh had turned yellow and purple with decay. One arm was so unnaturally long that its fingertips scraped across the floor while the other stretched across the bookshelf like the limb of some enormous insect. I grabbed a chair and smashed it against him with all of my strength. The chair broken pieces. Roland barely reacted. I ran. I rushed into the kitchen while heavy footsteps followed behind me at an almost casual pace. He wasn't even hurrying. There was nowhere to hide. I bolted it into the bedroom and flattened myself behind the door. A second later, Roland charged into the room so fast the floor shook beneath him. He tripped and crashed onto the mattress of the snarl. Ah, he groaned in that distorted corpse-like voice, young people these days, no respect for their elders. I sprinted back into the living room. The mirror still refused to open. Then my eyes landed on the cleaning chemicals scattered across the floor. An idea hit me instantly. As Roland emerged from the hallway, I snatched up the bottle and hurled the contents directly into his face. The creature let out a scream, not pained, angry, clined wildly at its remaining eye. There is no escape, it snarled. I can still hear you, but by then, the plan had already formed in its mind. Roland lunged toward me again. This time his claws caught my shoulder, tearing through flesh and long burning lines before I managed to roll away. The pain nearly made me black out. Still, I forced myself toward the entrance door. Behind me, I could hear him charging after me. I grabbed the door knob at the very last second and threw the door open before pressing myself flat against the wall beside it. Roland tried to stop, but his massive body carried him forward too fast. Just as he reached the doorway, I slammed both hands against his back with every ounce of strength I had left. The creature stumbled out into the darkness beyond the entrance. A furious roar echoed through the void as it fell. In fell. In fell. Its screams grew quieter and quieter until the darkness swallowed them completely. Then there was silence. I collapsed against the wall, sobbing for breath while tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. After a long time, I forced myself back into the living room. I don't know how much time has passed since then. I tried everything to return home. Nothing worked. Eventually, I realized that certain things I do on this side somehow appear on the other one as well. This is how I managed to leave this message behind. And if you are reading this now, then somehow it worked. Please, I'm begging you, I'm still trapped here. Help me. After thinking about it for a long time, I believe the book was never truly important. I think any large mirror might work. The words simply need to be spoken from the opposite side. So please, go to your mirror, draw the symbol I described, speak the words aloud, and call my name. Please help me. come home. My great grandfather fought in World War I. On his deathbed, he made a terrifying confession, written by Horde Junkie 123. Great Grandpa George was born in 1896. He celebrated his 130th birthday this past June. That makes him the oldest known person alive. I always thought it was impossible. Birth records were lost more often around then. Maybe he was mistaken. Now, I know he was telling the truth. I got the call from my mother last Thursday. Great Grandpa George was finally on his deathbed. I felt numb at first. Grandpa George was the only semblance of a father figure I had left. But then I realized how much suffering he must have been in. After being alive for that long, death is almost a blessing. I pulled up in front of Grandpa George's house alone the next day. I sat in my car for a moment before going in. I forced back tears on my way up the steps. I knew that this was probably the last time I'd be seen Grandpa George alive. Once I composed myself, I knocked on the door. My grandmother answered it. She wrapped me in a hug. Then she pulled away and looked me in the eyes. Thank goodness you're here. He doesn't have much longer. I think he knows it too. He's been asking to see you all day. You always were his favorite. I nodded. I've known this was coming for a long time. But it doesn't make it any easier. Grandma padded me on the shoulder. It never does. You know where his room is. Best not keep him waiting. Grandma returned to begging in the kitchen. I took a breath before walking to the door at the end of the hall. I knocked. Grandpa, it's Alex. Is it okay if I come in? Yes, yes. You know you're always welcome. I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Grandpa George was popped up by pillows. He had been reading a newspaper. He set it down to greet me. Alex, my boy. I'm so glad you were able to make it. I gave Grandpa George a light hug before taking a seat by his bed. How could I not? I heard you wanted to see me. Grandpa George smiled at me. That was one thing I was really going to miss about him. The warmth in his eyes when he smiled was like magic. I had to see you one last time. The end is near for me. Don't say that grandpa. You can't let that kind of thinking consume you. Grandpa George turned to the window where golden light filtered through. It's okay. I'm ready to go. I've been here far too long already. What do you mean? If you ask me, you haven't been here long enough. Grandpa George led out of the chuckle. Moments later, as if a switch had flipped, his eyes darkened and his smile disappeared. He began to speak, but he didn't make eye contact with me as he did. Alex, there's a reason I called you here today. And it's not just to say goodbye. Grandpa George finally met my gaze. I have a confession to make. I'm not twisted in my gut. I didn't know how to respond, so I stayed silent. Grandpa George turned back to the window and began to speak. When I was 21 years old, I was drafted to join a war. At the time, your great grandmother and I were trying for a baby. I got the news in a letter a month after my deployment. I was going to be a father. That was just days before it happened. The incident that caused all of this. A tear ran down Grandpa George's cheek. He swiped it away before continuing. I remember the exact date. November 12, 1917. The war was raging and I was on the front lines. We were advancing on an enemy bunker. My squadmate, Adams, was leading the charge. He was focused. He didn't even notice the German soldier charging toward him with a bayonet. In that moment, my instincts took over. I had a split-second decision to make. That scene is played over and over in my head for the last hundred years. I should have shot the man. That much is obvious, but instead I shoved Adams out of the way. When all was said and done, the German received a bullet. And I got a bayonet to the scut. I still remember how that ground felt. How cold it got as the blood pulled around me. I remember how afraid I was of death. I truly thought that I was going to die that day. In all honesty, I should have died. But Adams pulled me back from the brink. I've never forgotten the words he said to me. I can't let you meet your maker today, George, not after you saved me like that. This vile contains eternal life. Be wary. From this day forward, you will not be able to die. The only way out is to pass the ability to a direct male predecessor or descendant. Use it wisely. Adams made me drink a glowing green liquid. It tasted like lead. Minutes later, I made a full recovery. My wound healed and I was back to the battlefield the next day. It was a miracle in every sense of the word. A shiver rippled through Grandpa George's body. Gaining immortality was both a blessing and a curse. No matter how much my body was ravaged by war, it was always stitched back together, which meant I had to fight until the end. I saw things on that battlefield beyond comprehension, things that I don't wish upon my worst enemy. Grandpa George turned to me. He placed a hand on my shoulder. When I left that place, I was a changed man. The only thing keeping me sane was the thought that my wife and child needed me to come home. Not knowing how long the war would last, thinking I'd be forced to fight forever, it was torment. Silence fell between us. Grandpa George sounded like he was on the verge of tears, but his face didn't show it. Suddenly, he smiled as if recalling a fond memory. The day I got to return home was the happiest day of my life. Holding my wife and child in my arms, that was a feeling of ecstasy better than any drug could deliver. But then tragedy struck. Your grandfather fell ill half a year later. He contracted the Spanish flu in June of 1919. I didn't have a choice, he wasn't going to make it. I paused. Grandpa, did you? Yes. That was the first time the immortality passed between us. John kept it up until he was 16, old enough to know. The day he returned it to me, I had gotten into a nasty motorcycle accident. I burst my lips. So part of this immortality, does it cause those who have had it to experience more frequent uncommon occurrences? I never received concrete confirmation, but yes, I believe it does. It started slow at first, but it ramped up over the years. That's why I was reluctant to pass it to your father until I was sure he was going to die. Once you've had it, it puts a target on your back when you give it away. But you had it to give it to dad eventually, didn't you? Grandpa George sighed. I did. When he was 23, your father OD'd and went into a coma. The doctors weren't sure if he would ever wake up again. A tear trickled down Grandpa George's cheek. It was the only way. I had to pass the immortality to your father so that he could live. You should have seen the look on your doctor's faces. When they saw him sitting up and talking like nothing had happened, you would have thought they'd just witnessed the second coming of Christ. Grandpa George took a tissue from his nightstand and dabbed his cheek. Your father kicked the drugs after that, but our good fortune didn't last. When you were a child, your father died in a boating accident. Your grandfather drowned trying to save him. Tears welled in my eyes. I was six when it happened. So what you're saying is this thing, this curse, it took my father from me. Grandpa stayed quiet for a long time. Yes, I believe it did. The silence that hung between us was heavy. Eventually Grandpa George broke it. He took hold of my hand. Your mother told me that you're trying for a child. You and Amelia will make fantastic parents someday. I nodded. It's a shame that I won't be there to meet them. Now, Alex, I know that what I'm about to do is selfish, but this old [BLANK_AUDIO] is tired of living, I'm ready to move on. If years from now you remember any of my words from this day, let it be this. I love you more than anything in the world." Grandpa George smiled at me one last time. It took me a second too long to register what he meant. Before I could pull my hand away, a green glow emitted from his flesh. It traveled to mine and sent electric shocks through my fingertips. Once the light faded, I looked over to Grandpa George. His eyes were closed. I knew that he would never open them again. The look on his face told me that he was at peace. Dread crashed over me like a tidal wave. That was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me, because neither my father, nor my grandfather had brothers. And I hadn't gotten a chance to tell Grandpa George about my test results. After multiple examinations over a span of weeks, my doctor informed me that I'm in fertile. If you find a crying child on the trail, don't follow them. Written by Ablaunti. My girlfriend and I are seasoned hikers. We've tackled everything from rugged mountain trails to swampy mosquito infested paths, and we've always made it out unscathed. But this time was different. This time, the trail almost didn't let us go. It started with a warning. I know, that sounds over the top, but it's true. The guy at the Ranger Station, a wiry, middle-aged man with a leathery face, looked up from his clipboard as we signed in. "You two stick into the main trail?" He sounded like he must have smoked four packs a day for the last decade. Planting on, taking the loop trail up to the summit, I replied. "We've been looking into it for a while, and we think the weather's right for it this weekend. We've never been through a baroque park before, but we've heard it's beautiful. My girlfriend curled her arm through mine and rested her cheek on my shoulder. It's going to be great. I think you might have something special planned for us. I didn't. My smile turned nervous." The Ranger hesitated, his pen hovering over the paper. Could he tell I didn't have a ring? Was he about to out me? No. He braced a hand on the counter and leaned forward, eyes serious beneath bushy eyebrows. "Stick to the marked paths, and if you hear anything strange like a kid crying, you keep walking. Don't stop, don't look, just keep going." "What?" My girlfriend gave a nervous laugh. "Don't want you to get lost." The Ranger's eyes didn't waver. "People go looking for where they shouldn't, and not all them come back." We decided it would just be some backwood superstition to spook tourists. What else could it be? So after we brushed off the nerves, we shouldered our packs and started up the trail. The first few hours were uneventful. Just the two of us surrounded by towering pines. The crunch of dirt and leaves underfoot in the occasional bird call. If you've ever been on a hike before, well, there you go. Stand or day. My girlfriend kept looking over at me. Eyes gone too honey. I didn't know why she thought this was a special proposal trip. It wasn't until we parked. I even realized that's what her expectations were. In my attention, yeah. I was trying to figure out what I was going to do to cushion the blow when we hit the summit. Then we heard it. A child's voice crying. We stopped dead in our tracks. Amber froze. Her eyes wide. "Do you hear that?" I nodded. My stomach twisting into knots. It sounded like a little girl, maybe six or seven years old. "Help me," she was calling out. Her voice breaking with sobs. "Please help me, mommy, daddy." Her voice grew quiet with fear. "Anyone?" "Hello, are you okay?" I called. My voice bouncing off the trees. The crying stopped. For a moment, the forest was silent. Two silent. No wind, no birds, nothing. Then the crying started again. Loud of this time. Closer. "We need to check it out," Amber said. Already stepping off the trail. She waved her arms to the side to keep her balance as she made her way down the incline. Every instinct I had screamed at me to stop her. The ranger said. "Screw what the ranger said," she snapped. "If it was your kid out there, wouldn't you want someone to help?" She had a point. Against my better judgment, I followed her down the incline and into the trees. The crying led us deeper into the woods. "Help me, someone, please," she sounded frantic. But the further we went, the more I noticed something was off. The voice wasn't changing direction. Normally, if someone is lost, their voice shifts as they move or turn their head. But this sound, it was static. Like it was coming from a fixed point. The ranger's warning came back to mind. My steps started to slow down. Amber, I think we should go back. Something's not right. I can't find you. Please, I'm scared. The kid was sobbing now. Stop acting like a jerk. Amber snapped. She's got to be right ahead of us. Amber was right. 20 more feet than we saw her. She was sitting on a fallen log. Her back to us, wearing a dirty pink jacket and clutching her knees to her chest. "Hey, sweetie," Amber called gently, stepping closer. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?" The girl didn't answer. She just kept crying. Her shoulders shaking with every sob. "Please help me," Amber crouched down, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Wait," I said. My voice barely above whisper. Something about this felt wrong. Why was she just sitting there? When Amber had called for her, why hadn't she tried to find us? Amber, we should, uh, we should go to the ranger. Come on. The girl's crying stopped. In one smooth jerky motion that she turned to face us. Her eyes weren't right. They were too dark, too large, reflecting the light like an animal. You found me. Her mouth stretched wide into a grin that split her face unnaturally, revealing rows of sharp needle-like teeth. I knew you would. I knew if I called for you, you would find me. Then her skin, her entire skin, began to split down the middle like a zipper. I don't know what I was expecting to see underneath, but it wasn't this. It wasn't the sinewy, raw looking creature that crawled out of its human shell like a spider shedding its exoskeleton. Amber screamed, stumbling backward. I grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet, shouting, "Run! So loud that it made my throat sting." We bolted, crashing through the underbrush, branches whipping at our faces. Behind us, I heard the creature give a low, guttural growl, followed by the unmistakable sound of something running. Fast. It was chasing us. We hit the incline, then the trail and didn't stop running until we burst back into the ranger station, gasping for air. The ranger looked up from his desk. His face grim. You heard it, didn't you? We nodded, too shaken to speak. He sighed, "Get in up and lock in the door." "You're lucky you ran." Most people don't. We didn't ask what he meant. We didn't want to know. We have hiked dozens of trails since that day, but we have never gone back to that forest. And if we ever hear crying in the woods again, we'll keep walking. They're just interesting and creepy, and they're so, so entertaining. I hope you enjoyed it as well. And also, I would love to shout out some of the most recently joined patrons. And if you join the Patreon, your name can be possibly read out in a future video at the credits and in the intro. And so a major shout out to Alana S. Lucie G. Waffle Fry. Dylan W. Kira B. Crabby Mike. And Minda be a major shout out to those who joined the Patreon. And your name could be possibly read out in a future video. If you just joined the Patreon for $5 a month, you get a lot of content. and help support the channel. But yeah, would you like to see some more videos like this in the future? And if you enjoyed this video, I'm sure you'll enjoy some other videos on the channel. And so go check out some other videos on the channel. And once again, thank you guys so much for watching from the bottom of my heart. It truly does mean the world. And this was Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.