The Elevator

In a dilapidated office building somewhere in Connecticut is one of the few elevators in the Western world that has a button labeled ’13' amongst its choices of floors. If you enter after midnight, crawling through the loosely boarded up window on the South side of the building, you will find the elevator doors standing open, with soft florescent lighting and muzak spilling from it, even though nothing else in the whole of the building seems to have power.

You can, if you choose, pick through the debris of raucous teenaged parties and office meetings past. The path seems to be mostly cleared through the broken, dirty, stained and vintage office furniture and burned out joints, cigarettes and crushed beer cans, all the way to the light in the door.

All of the buttons work in the elevator, and will take you to its designated floor–despite the creaking of the cables–though there seems to be a layer of grime on their plastic covers. All but the button labeled ’13', which seems to glow brightly.

No one’s quite sure if that one goes to the thirteenth floor. But there’s a story about a group of high school teenagers who had a party after their prom there, in the early nineties. A dare was made, and four of them piled into the rickety elevator, taking it to the thirteenth floor. When they came back down again, they were pale and shaking, but all of them swore they’d seen nothing more than a normal office floor, covered in dust and shadows. Two of them died in an accident on the car ride home that night. Another, three weeks later, took a bottle of pills from the medicine cabinet, climbed into a hot bath, slit her wrists and dropped her hair dryer into the water with her. The fourth disappeared from the face of the planet two months later. None of them said anything of what they’d seen on the thirteenth level of the building, and when asked, would only ascertain (loudly, if necessary) that nothing had happened.

But you can, if you so choose, crawl in through the window and see for yourself.

Credited to Flea.

Gai Kao

There are times in ones life where one feels unsafe. Insecurity permeates their being, and despite their best efforts they cannot quell the fear that builds within them. They seek some form of solace; a refuge against the tumultuous and unpredictable storms that seek to overwhelm them. Some weather the storm stoically, holding to some deep-rooted faith, divine or otherwise, that this moment will pass. Others lose what vestiges of their sanity remain, their paranoia evolving into madness…a thunder of sorts to match the lightning of this overpowering gale. But there is a third option, one known to only a few. The Taiwanese call it the Ritual of Gai Kao.

To engage in this age-old rite, you must first be riding the waves of sadness driven before this chaotic storm. When you feel you are at your most desperate, seek out a place that is often frequented by many people at once. The patio of a coffee shop, a bowling alley, an RV park…any place where the traffic of humanity has left the residue of souls. These are places of great power, and will aid greatly in your efforts. It is also easier to do just prior to 8:24 PM on October the 26th, as that is when the Kao is at his greatest strength.

Once there, sit calmly and engage in a mundane activity. Reading the newspaper, stirring your coffee, something like this. Do NOT speak to anyone, or your efforts will be in vain. You must be in a meditative state, engaging in only such mindless activities so that your mind can focus on the worry at hand.

Soon you will become keenly aware that the sounds of the world have dulled. The crappy coffee shop music is gone, the sound of crashing pins has faded, the engines of vehicles lost in the void. At this point you MUST look down. This symbolizes the approach of Gai Kao, the spirit of security, and to not show your reverence by averting your gaze will result in the most dire of consequences. From this point on you must do EXACTLY what I say. Do not deviate; I will tell you what will happen later if you do.

After a few moments, you’ll hear a heavily-accented voice bid you to raise you eyes. When you do, you will be looking straight into yellow, slitted reptillian eyes. Everyone else who was in the room will be gone; you will be the only one who can see this creature. Do NOT gasp in fear, and do NOT speak. The creature will have a yellowish-green, scaly hide and speak around a gross, oversized tongue in its mouth.

The creature will engage you in a few lines of small talk. Do not speak unless you are answering a question. If he deems you worthy, he will then tell you the remedy to all of your current problems. He will know you as well as you know yourself, though whether he is reading you thoughts or not is unclear. Feel free to ask clarifying questions during this time, but always begin your statment with “Great Kao”. NEVER, EVER thank him for his answers, or he will depart.

After he has addressed your every worry, he will begin to speak of nonsequitur events once more. This is important: DO NOT LISTEN. He will talk of things that interest you, offer to discuss real-life events, anything to get your attention. Instead, avert your eyes as before and wait for the noise of the room to return. Once this occurs, you may look up to find the room just as it was and no time will have passed. You may then go forth, and feel comforted.

But be warned! Should you in ANY way deviate from this process, and the Kao will put upon you a curse. This is a curse of degeneration; you will slowly regress the evolutionary path. You will sprout hair from your knuckles and brow. Your teeth will go awry as your jaw reforms and your forehead takes a neanderthal-like appearance. This is an insult from the Kao; a cut at your humanity and an insult to your intelligence.

If done correctly, your every care will be comforted and you will once again feel joy. However, from that day on you will feel the Kao’s presence upon you. He will observe you to note your contentment. You will never shake his gaze. The gaze of those large eyes. It will always feel like somebody’s watching you…and you get no privacy…

The 50's Restaurant

In the most deserted part of Wyoming there is a restaurant. There are no roads leading to it, no signs advertising it. It’s just there, in the open.

Walk inside however, and you will learn two things. One, it’s jam packed with people talking, eating and enjoying themselves. Two, the entire place looks like it’s a scene from the 50's including the people, the food, the newspapers, the music, everything. Take a seat, observe the atmosphere, relax.

When the waitress comes to get your order, make it a cheeseburger with mashed potatoes. Afterwards, a red-haired lady should ask you to dance to a tune on the juke-box.

Find the song on it that has the same number as your current age, pick it, then dance you heart out.

When the song ends, a flash of light with engulf the whole scene, and you will be standing outside your home the following morning. You now should have the power of clairvoyance for the remaining year.

If you didn’t do this correctly, then woe is you. For you also missed out on the best meal you’ll ever eat.

Happy 33rd Birthday

On your 33rd birthday, go to your local gas station and pick up the newspaper.

The classified ads will have a small segment commemorating your birth and asking you to turn around.

Upon looking behind you, a man dressed in a black cloak will be advancing in your direction.

If you choose to run away, he will hunt you for the rest of your life, eventually killing you.

However, if you await his arrival and show no intent of fleeing, he will give you a small package. Inside, you shall find the object you most desire.

The Operation

On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there sits a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location, there is also at any given time two to three Security Guards there. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th, you will see that on this night, even those few security guards refuse to work.

The gates are left unlocked, and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. Go directly to the main doors and step within, there will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog. If you look to either side upon entering, you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. The further in that you walk, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed.

When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table where a man in woolen medical clothing, stained brown from blood, will be bent over a corpse. The body’s face will be covered, and the man will turn silently, screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid, filled to the brim. He will hand this abnormally heavy object to you, before turning back to his work.

Instantly, you will be outside of those cast iron gates. From that point on, disease and injury will never affect you, but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents… you will find a heart, pulsing and beating loudly in your palm. A sudden feeling of horror and revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes, that you have just pulled your own living heart from your chest.

Frozen Release

A few years ago, I went hiking in northern Oregon with five close friends. Although we had planned the trip for months, we had no control over the weather, which had turned especially snowy and cold upon our arrival. Regardless, we decided to carry on with the hike. We were all quite experienced and well-prepared, so none of us really gave it a second thought.

The wilderness was stunning. The blankets of snow had given the landscape a dreamlike quality; it almost seemed like a crime to disturb the unbroken, white expanse before us with our footprints. As time passed, the sky became noticeably darker, while the temperature dropped even more. At -23°F, you can’t afford to leave any skin exposed for more than a few minutes. It really is amazing how sensitive the body is to extreme cold.

I had the feeling we were being watched. I would catch momentary flashes of movement or a brief glimpse of something pale in the underbrush, but I could never make out the form. It was unsettling, but I tried not to think about it. In any case, it was hard to think about anything besides the temperature, which had fallen to -29°F.

One night, I ventured out of my tent to urinate. As I approached the perimeter of a heavily wooded area, I saw undeniably human eyes staring back at me from the darkness. As soon as I saw them, they retracted back into the shadows. Spurred to action, I drew my hunting knife and ran towards where I saw the eyes. I sprinted through the blackness of the woods, chasing after what seemed to be a naked human form. After following the figure’s winding path, I found myself at a huge, blank clearing that continued to the horizon, where I saw a faint gold glow in the distance. The vacant white field before me seemed haunting, yet inviting. I knew the gold light was civilization. I had no choice but to go there, since there was no chance I could find my way through the woods back to the camp site.

I started walking. The frigid air pierced my layers and made me gasp for breath. The cold around me was almost dense enough to be palpable. Slowly, figures began to take shape around me. They were pallid, naked people that appeared to fade in and out of the air. All of them were staring at me and speaking in hushed, synchronized whispers.

Set yourself free…

I kept my eyes to the ground and kept walking. In my state of mind, I didn’t care about the paranormal phenomenon I was witnessing; I was worried about the cold. My hands and ears had begun to go numb.

Don’t fight the cold. Become one with it…

I blocked out their whispers. They couldn’t possibly be real anyway; I must be hallucinating from hypothermia. Is that possible…?

You’ve reached your limit. Now embrace the cold and be liberated of all limits…

I couldn’t help but smile. I wasn’t planning on dying today. I was close to death, but even closer to salvation. I looked up to see two lines of the naked, ghostly figures on both sides of me, all staring.

Don’t curse the cold. You can’t understand its beauty until you transcend the confines of living…

Ha! Don’t they understand that the confines are what give life value? Of course death sets you free, but that would be meaningless without the vulnerability you face in life! I shivered. At this point, my hands, ears, and nose were completely numb.

A new existence awaits you. One without fear or pain…

A gust of frosty wind stopped me in my tracks. The cold was agonizing, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I was the most tired I had ever been in my life, but I couldn’t lie down. Not yet.

Do you take pride in your weakness? Why do you fear invulnerability?

I don’t fear invulnerability! I would love to be freed from the shackles of mortality; to experience the world in ways I couldn’t in life! My vulnerabilities prevent me from truly living out my dreams…but no, I can’t die now. Suddenly, a white, naked ghost appeared in front of me with a grin on his face.

Then join us.

The wind stopped. Silence filled the air. I looked at the spirits around me. Unburdened. At peace. Free. My whole body was tingling with frost. I took off my jacket, threw off my gloves and hat, and pried off my boots. I shed every piece of clothing I had and I threw myself on my back. I gazed at the stars above me. Even as my vision started to fade, I smiled when I realized I was viewing eternity.

Credited to Dan.

The Diary of a Madman

May 26, 2009

Hello Diary,

My name is Daniel Franklin. I just got this leather-bound beauty of a book in a garage sale. Its covers are smooth and black; the pages, yellowed and antique in texture—no doubt a detail I will become fond of as time goes on. Hell, I already like it. Gives the book a classical feel—such a delightful thing, don’t you agree?

But I digress. Today was just full of ventures to break the rut into which my life had sunk. First, I tried that new eatery on Eighth, and then, I bought this book at an old out-of-the-way garage sale in Eatonville. Such a kind old woman selling them, and the cookies she gave to buyers were just delicious. I may go back just to get one, if not to acquire the recipe itself!

Well, my cat Bartolome is keeping me company tonight, and I must cut this first, rather short entry to a close. I hope to update this with the memoirs of my life many, many times.

May 27, 2009

Hello Diary,

Daniel again. Today was as boring as usual. Even my favorite book couldn’t alleviate the cloud of boredom over my head. I’m starting to find my “best friend,” Mark, to be a tad annoying. Mark is nothing special—normal American family man from the suburbs.

Is there something wrong with me if I start to think some human beings as disposable? It earlier crossed my mind how uninteresting some of the robotic creatures I liked to keep in my company really are.

Ashley, with her endless list of pet names for her latest boy toy.

Stuart, his mumbling about the paranormal, UFOs and the like. Though his theories are interesting, they’re still about the same thing every day.

Is it really wrong to think of these beings as just packs of meat that shouldn’t have even been given a working brain? Death will be a mercy to them, once they reach that fateful day—

Wait, what am I writing? These are my friends; what the hell came over me?

…

Well, I did stop by that sweet old woman’s house today. We shared a plate of some of those delectable cookies with some tea, the flavor of which I just couldn’t place. Such a sweet old woman; it is too bad much of her family is dead or has forgotten about her. Her name is Susan Anderson, and her home is filled with so many curiosities from the ages of old, and it just fascinates me so. I must go back there again sometime.

I must pull this entry to a close. I am still asking myself how I could think such horrible things as I did about my closest co-workers.

May 28, 2009

Diary,

I am going to be rambling tonight. I woke up because of a….well, I don’t know if this was a bad dream or a good dream. I remember it so vividly, even though dreams have almost never stuck in my head since the days of my puberty, and many of them were less confusing and a little more…wet.

This one was strange, felt more like a memory than a dream, though before now I hadn’t been aware of such a memory. It was when I was barely five years old. I was the son of the town butcher. My teenage sister at the time loved me, and I loved her. I never knew she was sad in any way; she always seemed happy enough. I never knew her true thoughts. Even as I write this, I still don’t understand.

In my dream, I was toddling through the house, but, something struck me as being amiss. One of daddy’s knives was missing. I looked up at the wooden knife block, seeing the curious gap in the row of black grips. Daddy always said to tell him when there was a knife gone from his counter.

For whatever reason, I didn’t pay attention to his rule and continued on in my dream. Suddenly, I was pushing my way into my sister’s room. She was on her bed, her arms hanging off of each side of her bed, dripping with some dark red liquid. It looked almost like… juice.

I walked over and dragged my finger across one of the pools of red liquid before placing my finger in my mouth and sucking. It was not a pleasant taste… rather, it tasted like some of those shavings left over when Daddy sharpened his knives.

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. Mommy walked in and found us, she screamed and fell on the bed over my sissy. I tugged on her dress.

“What’s wrong mommy? Sissy’s just sleeping… and she made juice!”

…that’s all I remember of the dream. It was chilling. I remember it, and I think I will continue to think about it. I can’t shake it. Is it an actual memory that I put behind me?

I can still taste the “juice” in the dream. It tasted heavily of iron… but also… sweet.

June 9, 2009

Diary,

I have an explanation as to why I have been absent.

Mark has died… he got in a car crash and bled to death. Oh god… poor little Justine; she’s going to be five next week and now she doesn’t have a father with whom to spend her birthdays.

Mona, his wife, is a wreck. His funeral service is on Sunday. I will miss him dearly. I’ve known him since we were both just in kindergarten, you see.

I have been like a ghost these past couple of days. The boss told me to take some days off from work at the office, at least until after the funeral. It will be hard to cope with this loss, but I believe I will come through all this with my head held high.

-A small trickle of blood is shown on the side of the page-

Oh my, a paper cut… such trivial little things—tiny, thin, they heal in less than an hour if they are treated right, but they bleed like the dickens until they do. Agh, that memory…

They only sting, but you can always feel them nagging at you for the time they’re there. Also, the blood… it has that same taste of the blood in my memory. Most people find the taste too metallic. No one tastes the sweet side of the bodily fluid.

What am I saying? It is revolting! Such a barbaric thing to do, drink blood, to say it’s sweet… even if it is.

June 12, 2009

Diary,

I have been fired

I have drunk my own blood

It is delicious, so sweet, so thick. I just love it. I gave it some thought for the last couple of days, and the liquid is almost magical, isn’t it? Such a deep red… mysterious and again, thick.

I love it; I would drink all the blood out of my own body if it wouldn’t kill me—but now that I gave thought to it, trying to keep this new taste of mine at bay was just plain asinine. It is a beautiful thing, prettier than the average rose. Nothing can beat it.

Though… my thoughts are now starting to wander. If my own blood tastes this good, how am I to know that other people’s blood doesn’t taste better? I must find out. Let the consequences not sway mine hand. I will have my sweet elixir, my sparkling cider. My red wine.

June 15, 2009

6 o’clock PM

Tonight, I will sample another’s blood. It will be that sweet old Susan Anderson. She won’t be missed anyway, so why not have her be my first? It will be like a mercy to her, being so old and near death already. I bet her blood has aged like sweet, sweet wine.

I will bring my two closest friends with me. You see, Mark is coming along for this excursion into the night, along with my sweet sister Alexis. They understand and support me. They know how sweet blood really is. They know that I need it, I crave it, my body yearns for it. Yes, with this knife and this glass, they will help me sample the selfishly unshared blood of Susan Anderson.

7:02 PM

She welcomed me! She thinks I am just here to share another cup of tea. She did not even question the knife and glass; hell, she even put them on her cabinet, as if on display! Oh well, I do not need a knife. I have this pen, and as everyone says, the pen is mightier than the sword. As I said, I will have her blood

But, who says I can’t have a little appetizer? Just a simple prick on the finger, that is all I need… yes, yes, simply delicious! I must have more!

-The ink has taken on a red tinge, as if tainted by some outside liquid-

I must have more! The finger is not enough for me anymore; this is just child’s play. Now, where should I cut to find more?

Ah, of course, I’ve known the answer all along. That dream wasn’t just a memory; it was a telling of the future! The veins and arteries in my wrist will have the sweetest mixture; my sweet, sweet sister was just showing me where to find it! My word, this must be the nectar of god himself! Just so divine! Blood is the answer to all of my prayers!

-Large spots of blood drip on the page-

I must have more… more… more… sister is showing me the way.

July 1st, 2009

What a pleasant diary! Such a nice feel to it, the cover the most exquisite shade of red, the pages old and yellowed, just like some journal back in the times of Lewis and Clark!

I simply demanded to know where Susan got it, but all she said was that she had many of the like. She must be rich! Such a book deserves to be put into a display case! She also invited me into her house, where I am now, which is filled with so many oddities! Old guns, shards of plastic grouped with destroyed clocks… she even has a kitchen knife and an exquisite wine glass on one of her cabinets.

She led me to a grand book case and I was amazed at the various books lining its shelves! Some of them looked centuries old, but the newest one looks like a twin of this one, simply in black! I asked her if I could read some of them, but she simply shook her head with a smile. Oh well…

Where are my manners? My name is Martin Sampson of Eatonville, Washington, and I cannot wait to write the memoirs of my life on these welcoming yellow pages.

Credited to Guest.

Sibilance

Sleep, strangely, is seen as the best refuge of the sufferer. You’ve never understood why this is; it’s the place where your subconscious has reign – that alien, unknown part of you that hides out of sight and has total control over your body. If anything, sleep frightens you. Having a stranger living in your mind, watching everything, capable of stopping your heart or healing your illness… It’s scary. Terrifying, even. And the fact is that when you sleep this person – this monster – can show you anything it likes. What if you’ve made this creature angry? What if you’ve done something wrong?

You’re lying in bed, fingers gripping the covers with white-knuckled panic born of too many scary stories and horror films. Of course, you’re well aware that in reality nothing like that happens, but the darkness grips your imagination and twists, wringing out all kinds of half-formed pictures of monsters and semi-imagined noises. Your breathing grows ragged, your pulse quickens, and a bang from downstairs makes you jump. There’s that brief moment of utter terror when countless scenerios of strange creatures and madmen run at full-tilt through your horror-drunken mind, where every creak is a new threat and you see things moving in the darkness.

And then it’s over. You calm down, remember you left the washing machine running. You relax, perhaps even chuckle nervously at your own silliness. Still a little shaken up, you go to turn onto your side, wanting to be closer to the wall.

There’s movement on your arm; the skittering, gossamer-light movement of lots of legs. Almost without thinking, conscious thought locked into a cage constructed of fear, you slam a palm onto the creature. It explodes, and you race for the light, flooding your sensitive eyes and momentarily going blind. The lack of sight exacerbates your childish fright, and by the time the black blossoms have faded from your eyes, you’re a gibbering wreck. You stare at the mess on your arm; a few limbs, a smear of guts and blood. Just a spider. Just a dead spider.

You let yourself calm down, wiping away the horrible thing with a tissue from your desk and sitting heavily on your bed, feeling silly now that the room is light. You’re not frightened anymore; just tired. Tired.

You drift off, forgetting the dangers of sleep. It doesn’t matter; nothing happens. At least, nothing happens until you start to feel a faint movement on your eyelids. It’s practically nothing, just a light pitter-patter of legs. Legs. Lots of legs. Your body reaches a conclusion before your eyes do, shooting upright and opening your mouth in a scream. You slap at your face for whole minutes, cold sweat coating your back, before you realise that nothing is there. You burst into tears, driven to distraction by the ridiculousness of not being able to sleep.

And that’s when you start to feel something prickling the inside of your skin. Your first reaction is more weary then afraid – your mind wants to know what now? What’s next? You glance at your hand, look up, glance down, freeze. Under your skin you can see legs. Legs and a little round body, skittering up and down your musculature. The more you stare, the more you see; there are hundreds of them, appearing and vanishing inside you. Pain flames and dies in your nerves as you feel little gnawing mouths everywhere. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out… Just little, hairy legs. Pouring out of your mouth. There’s a popping noise as they start to emerge from your eye sockets, but you barely hear it; you’re more concentrated on the fact that your eardrums have been long since sacrificed to the onslaught of spiders.

You grip helplessly at the air, but there’s nothing to help you. You barely feel it as your skin breaks open. As you thrash and bleed, your lips pull back in some hellish grin.

Your subconscious smiles.

Credited to bez00mny.

The Onieronauts

We are Onieronauts. We are explorers of the Dream World. We blur the line between waking life and sleep.

And we’re watching you.

It’s strange how many people forget that you spend 1/3 your life sleeping. People have forgotten the importance of dreaming. Less and less people even remember their dreams, and instead get up in the morning, shower, drink their coffee, and drive to work. They’re lives are repetitious and safe. They feel secure in their 2-bedroom condo overlooking the city, and they don’t dream. Instead, they plan their next day. They browse through clothing and furniture catalogs. They watch their cable TV with 999 channels. And yet, they don’t dream.

We do. Not only that, we know we’re dreaming. When you realize you’re dreaming, you realize you’re free. You instantly lift yourself off the ground and fly through the Dewy clouds. You Become a Jedi and eat ice cream while receiving a blow job. You’re free to do anything you please.

Over the years, a select few of us became profoundly gifted. We pushed the limits of the reality within. We would taste the color of nothingness, see 360 degrees around us, and, most astonishingly, communicate with each other. That’s right, we learned telepathy. We learned to enter each others dreams and explore the world together. After that venture, the skies the limit.

Then, the most startling, most shocking discovery of all was made.

We learned how to transcend the dream world. We learned how to communicate, from our dreams, to the waking world…in fact, This is my dream. You’re reading the words I’m currently dreaming. How does that feel, to know that reality and dreams are no longer separated?

Credited to Coff_Syrup.

Sick

I slept fine last night. Didn’t sleep so well Sunday though. It was my own fault, really. I did tell him he was welcome in if he pleased.

My dream began like one of those horror games you might see, like Silent Hill or Alone in the Dark. It was night out, and almost pitch black. I was holed up in some building, hiding from something. Or waiting. I peeked out; the door was glass and had some rule stickers on it. I suppose I was in a corner store. Upon looking out, I see a deserted street, lighted by a few dim streetlamps. The street was dead empty, dead silent. I seemed to be in the middle of a city… yet there was nothing.

I tentatively opened the door, creeping out into the cold night. Ever have on of those dreams where you can feel what’s happening? This was one of those dreams. I turned left out the door and began walking. The street was sloped, and I was going down. Suddenly I stopped in front of a building. Looking to my left at it, it seemed like a small house. Not one like you’d see in the city. It was in shambles, a light grey blue color. I felt the need to go in, to see the inside. I crept up to the door and turned the handle.

Opening the door, I looked in. There wasn’t much but a few boxes, a table, and a bed. I moved silently towards the bed. On it slept a person. I glared down at her for a few moments, her sleeping figure taunting me. I bent down, picked up an object, and swing.

The brick ensured that she would not wake up soon. Dropping the bloody, hair-matted brick, a message flashed through my mind, clear as day, a dark, deep, raspy voice speaking through my mind. “The sinew will sew together the darkness and damnation.” I only know of one kind of sinew; it’s the stuff inside of you, connected to your muscles and bones, that let you move the way you can. Looking over to the table, I saw the moonlight glinting off something. I walked over and there sat a knife, placed perfectly in the center, the blade facing away from me. He knew I was coming. He knew he could tell me to do this. He knew I would oblige.

I picked up the knife and walked back over to the unconscious form in the bed before me. Her blonde hair was spilled out around her, her head bleeding profusely. I feel now as though I recognized her… but I can’t be sure. I tore the sheet off of her and brought the knife down to her, stripping her flesh from bone, until he muscles were all visible. I began grabbing at the sinew, slicing at it, and piled it all up. Once I’d gathered all I could, I began wrapping it around itself. It formed a blindfold.

I put it on, and all was black. Until the darkness was filled with an image. A house far off, silhouetted against the night sky. Atop it was a figure, and a dog. The dog howled, and the figure turned towards me. His tattered cowl flapped in a soundless wind. His blazing eyes bored into me, the blood red beads that were his pupils boring into my soul. He grinned at me, knowing he’d just gotten one step closer to corruption. I began calling him. Like in many dreams, there were things I could not control; my voice was strained, and even though I shouted as loud and hard as I could, the sound traveled mere feet. I woke up soon after that, feeling as though I had not slept at all.

And I knew I hadn’t. That wasn’t sleep. He’d brought me into his world. He’d done so many times before, and he’d watched what I did as I was placed in a deserted carnival, in a school of ravenous creatures waiting to devour me and my closest friend. He’s there sometimes, my friend, but I think I know why. I think he’s sick too.

I looked around and knew where I’d been. I knew what I’d seen. “The sinew will sew together darkness and damnation.” And it had. He’d shown himself to me. He was no longer what he’d been. A shapeless shadow. A shadow with eyes. One with a cowl and a demon grin. One who’s eyes glowed hot with flames. One who spoke to me, and caressed my face with clawed, shadowed hands.

No.

He has a shape now. He’s real. He’s come so far there’s no way I can get rid of him now. He needs a vessel, and he’s chosen me.

Besides, everyone is a little sick, even if they don’t want to believe it.

The Algorithm

Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence

The next morning I throw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartments communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would shop.

I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals, following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill a small plastic basket; brands that I never have eaten, strange tins of ethnic ingredients I can’t recognize, foods that I’d never thought of buying. Soy milk. Tofu. I can feel my stomach reborn in anticipation of an untainted meal.

I prepare the meal in a fog of nervous anticipation, trying to focus on savoring the aromas and the grease spitting sounds of the frying pan. It tastes clean, but then, so has every other meal before this. I try to tell myself that the mounting pain inside me is simple fear and anxiety, but before the stroke of midnight, I am again crouched in the dingy bathroom, surrendering the days work into the porcelain mouth of the sewer.

The next day, I pack up the remaining food and dispose of it with the same care. I eat out that day, layering debt onto the last of my credit cards at restaurants on the opposite side of town.

He is more clever than I could ever imagined, and I am awash in despair as I spend another sleepless night gagging and sobbing on the tile floor. I imagine the Algorithm, the perfect predictive models at His disposal, brilliantly charting my every move across the city; every time I thought I’d outwitted Him, I was willingly walking into his web.

I buy a candy bar from a vending machine in a theater, and hold it close like a talisman. When I get home, I fill the bath a few inches deep with rust colored water, and hold the little plastic wrapped bundle beneath the water and squeeze. I know that I will see it, but it still breaks my heart when I do. A thin almost invisible stream of bubbles picks out the point where a foreign object has pierced the protective layer. Through the haze of piercing hunger, I convince myself to try, just one bite, and to take the chances. It’s a gamble that I do not win.

In the small hours of the morning as I press my fists into my empty protesting belly, I imagine the legion of His followers sliding silently through the restaurants and produce aisles of my life, slipping hypodermic needles into carefully selected packages of food. They are ruining and corrupting at His whim, surgical and efficient, before vanishing into the throng of the city at my approach. They will always be one step ahead of me, until I learn to think in new ways, to chart new cognitive pathways, and turn the game back upon Him. So, I tell myself, this is what I must do.

The first day of my new life, I spend in the small living area of my apartment, organizing my thoughts with clean and sterile efficiency, and conserving what energy I can from my wasting body. Night brings the retching sickness, but all that arises is water… and pills, half digested in the bilious water.

The pills. Of course. Not for the first time, I feel a sharp twinge of respect for crystalline perfection of His plans. I dump the last of my dozen prescriptions into the toilet.

On my third day, I feel a clarity and a sense of purpose that shocks me in it’s intensity, and my will penetrates the starvation malaise. I must win, or I will die. The rashes and sores in my cheeks are deeper, and I can feel the gentle sway of loose teeth in my desiccated mouth when I grind them in thought. He is winning, but not for long. There is still time.

Water, I collect from the roof in a small army of cheap hardware buckets. I know that somewhere in the byzantine plumbing of the aged building, there must one of His infernally clever devices; a tiny pump, squatting like a predator and pulsing it’s vile contents into the water main. I’ll have to give up bathing. A small sacrifice. The rain water will keep me alive for a while longer, but I must find a way to eat.

The answer comes to me in small unconnected puzzle pieces over the next few days. While gently working another loose molar from my bleeding gums, they suddenly snap together, and a warm smothering blanket of epiphany coats my aching frame. The clattering of the tooth into the sink basin is like the ringing of bells.

Late in the evening, I begin another unconscious dérive, drifting through the city on shaking and atrophied legs, knowing full well that He is watching. But this, my beautiful solution, is beyond even His reach.

I choose the house at random, and then, in one final attempt to baffle the Algorithim, turn around and choose another house across the little tree lined street. I sift through the mail; it’s a small sample size, but enough to confirm the most necessary of facts. A single occupant.

The poor man is surprised to have a visitor at all, and his face contorts with fear as force my way inside. I am flooded with guilt and regret as I push him to the floor and strike quickly with the crowbar I pull from the folds of my jacket.

No.

I must steel myself. This is His fault. He has brought us to this, and this poor man is just another of His victims.

I make quick work of the meat, the muscle memories of summers spent hunting in the mountains flaring up with each quick cut. I allow myself a quick bite, a feast to my shrunken and withered stomach. The iron and mineral salt taste floods my head like a vapor and I bawl in relief, like a child. When I have the meat packed tight into my rucksack, I light a single candle on the top floor of the little house, and turn the gas range on high.

I’m not yet home when I hear the low rumble in the distance; the pulsing lights of fire engines highlight the black cloud hanging in the sky.

For the first time in more than a month, I sleep well, my body rapidly healing as pure, untainted nutrients penetrate my cells. I am not yet well, but after a few more meals, I will be ready, once more, to fight Him. I know I can beat him now. I know the Algorithm can only predict the actions of my past self, bound by the laws and morals of the old world.

That world is dead.

I am a free man.

Credited to Josef K.

My Fear of Water

I’ve always had a terrible fear of being submerged completely in water. Not that I can’t swim or anything. My dad made me learn; he said I almost drowned when I was really young.

I was afraid of it because, for as long as I can remember, whenever I am under water and look up at the surface I see a woman reaching down to me with a warm smile, with glowing golden hair and dark blue eyes. Even if its just in a bathtub. It always happened, it was just normal for me, but I never got used to it.

It was unnerving, but also soothing at the same time. She always made me feel like it was okay. I still avoided it, though, because I was just a kid and it was really freaky.

I never told my dad about it as a kid, but I did ask him about my mom. He never wanted to talk about her. Sometimes he even got mad at me for trying too hard to bring it up.

It was only recently that I described this apparition to him. He nearly drove into a telephone pole; obviously he knew something. I asked him, again, about my mom. He still wouldn't say much, except that she died when I was very young, and that she loved me very much. He also admitted that her hair and eyes were those colors, just like mine.

So I did some research on my own, looking up her name for myself on my birth certificate and trying to find any references I could, any news clips about a boy nearly drowning, any thing. I mostly wanted a picture, something I could match to my guardian angel.

Today, buried in our town library, I found it.

WINCHESTER: Marie Withie, 28, drowned to death yesterday evening after climbing a razerwire fence and fleeing to a nearby resevoir. A funeral is scheduled by her family for the 25th. Marie was institutionalized just six months ago, after being found “not guilty” of attempted murder on grounds of insanity. Her husband Daniel Withie had acted quickly enough to rescue their infant child when she was found trying to drown him in a bathtub.

11/11

A young girl suffered from insomnia, and throughout the night she’d often wake up for no reason. One night she awoke, and in the daze of half-sleep, she blinked in the darkness. Just for a second, she thought she saw a pair of reptilian eyes, gazing at her and glowing red. She sat up and stared at them, quickly realizing that it was only her clock. It was 11:11. She sighed and tried to go back to sleep.

The next night, she awoke and instantly looked at the clock. It was exactly 11:11. This began to repeat itself night after night. Sometimes even during the day, for no reason whatsoever, she would stop whatever she happened to be doing, and spin around to look at the nearest clock; always at 11 minutes past 11 o’clock.

As her insomnia got worse, she thought she’d try some white noise to help her sleep. She turned on her clock radio to play music softly. It worked well, so she kept doing it for the next few nights.

One night, she awoke with a terrible start, covered in cold sweat. Rather than being in a sleepy daze, she was completely awake now. The radio was still on, but instead of music she heard static, and a lot of erratic clicking noises. Breathing heavily, she stared at the glowing numbers. You know what time it was.

BANG. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. A door had just slammed to her right, outside of the room. She heard a pair of inhumanly rapid footsteps running from the sound of the door slam, all the way around her, behind her head, and to her left. Another BANG as a door was slammed shut.

Her blood ran cold. Her bedroom was on the second story, and the wall behind her faced outside; there were no doors or floor there. Suddenly she felt an urge to run. She didn’t care where. She leaped from her bed and ran faster than she’d ever run in her life. In what felt like less than the blink of an eye, she’d run through the hall, down the stairs, out the door and to the end of the street.

She doubled over, panting. After a moment she looked back at her house, at her dark bedroom window. She stared at it for a long, long time.

When at last she began to feel calm again, she carefully walked back to the house. She’d left the front door ajar, and a lot of cold air had gotten in. She closed it behind her and turned on all the lights as she made her way back to her bedroom. She hesitated the most as she turned on her own light. The room looked perfectly normal, but as soon as she heard the static coming from the radio, she rushed over and switched it off.

After that night, she never listened to that radio again. The girl didn’t sleep a wink for many, many nights.

She told only a handful of people what had happened. Her parents, a few of her friends. The responses were all more or less the same.

“It was just a dream, it only -felt- real.”

“You were so tired, maybe you just imagined it?”

“I believe YOU believe it happened, [name removed]…”

What you need to know is that this story is very true. To this day, the girl (well, she’s a woman now) has never slept soundly. None of us know for sure what is so special about 11:11. But she did tell me this: whenever that moment strikes the clock, she feels the same strange sensation. She says it’s just like that feeling you get when you know you’re being watched.

Barricade

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once

Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterile clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

This particular hallucination, the quiet and the smoke and the emptiness, was always my most frequent; I haven’t had it in six years but the familiarity of it stings. I shut my eyes tightly, and jab my hand at the panels of chipped buttons. Moments later I am on the top floor, walking half blind the path to my door with practiced familiarity. Once inside I sit on my bed, gripping tight the handle of my cane, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Focused. Calm. Clear. I open my eyes.

I can’t be outside like this, I know this. I was hit by a car when I was homeless, wandering dazed into the street, while my fevered mind saw only emptiness. I’ll need a replacement hip before I’m forty. I can hear the slivers of bone grind a little with every labored step. I call my boss, and leave a terse message, apologizing for being too ill to work today.

I hold my breath as I open the one tiny window in my studio. It’s so close to the building next to me, I can almost touch its brick wall and I can’t see the street from this height and angle: but as I strain to lean out the window, sounds of yelling and a few whining engines drift up to me. The pall of unearthly quiet is broken, and I feel a great sense of relief, knowing that my episode is over.

I am counting the pills in orderly columns on the table, proving a fifth time to myself that I have taken my daily regimen, when I start to hear the screaming. It builds from far below; riding the struts and supports of the tower until it seems to emanate from the bones of the building.

An hour later the sounds seem like they are right outside; horrid, terrified, inchoate clumps of half formed words and pleas, punctuated by wet, ragged shrieks and heavy muffled thudding. The breathing and relaxation exercises aren’t helping, and I’m gripping the edge of my bed, soaked in sweat. The idea appears fully formed in my mind: I need to barricade the door. I struggle to suppress it. It would be like- giving up, all progress I’ve made would be for naught if I entertain the notion that the episode is real.

But the screaming… this is a new one for me.

There’s the shuffle of movement outside, and the knob of the door twists violently and shudders against the deadbolt. I try to cry out, but my throat is parched and only a dry croak comes out. The door starts flex slightly as heavy blows land on the outside, and a mad, gibbering chorus of voices spits out a strange nonsense of broken syllables.

It only takes me a moment to decide now. I burst to my feet and throw all my weight into the bookshelf, crashing into it with bright white bolt of pain. It topples slowly, leaning at first like a tree and then smashing to the ground. On top of the bookshelf goes my desk and chairs, my hip screaming with each step. I collapse again on the floor, grasping for breath, and listen to the pounding subside and the horrid voices retreat.

That was two days ago.

They come back every day and scratch at the door, whispering in that vile gibberish. Sometimes I allow myself to think I can recognize the voices. The phone is dead, and the power is out. When I lean out the window and yell for help, the only answer I get is the occasional shriek or ululating babble.

When I was younger, when I was at my worst, my episodes would last for hours, at most. I am at a loss. I have very little food left and the water pressure has already dropped.

Lying in bed in the late summer heat, in a moment of near total silence, the inevitability of it occurs to me. If I stay, I’ll starve. What happens to me on the other side of the barricade only depends on how sick I really am.

I want to believe with a sudden desire I am just ill, simply and profoundly ill. The sureness of it wells up in me, and I feel suddenly awake and lucid. I need a doctor, surely, but soon the hallucination will lift and my mind will heal. I just need to break through this.

I need to go outside.

I remove the bookshelf slowly, rotating it away from the door gently to rest with the other furniture. This is right, I assure myself. This is healthy. I turn the deadbolt, put my hand on the handle, and try to suppress the rising terror in my guts. I give it a little pressure.

Outside, I hear a dry shuffling and a low rising murmur of unfathomable voices, and my surety drains from me, leaving only cold and naked horror in its place.

My hand is on the door.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

Credited to entropyblues.

The Day Everything Clicked

The great geniuses throughout history had one startling thing in common, they all went through a day where everything clicked, everything seemed to make sense, and everything they did from that day on was perfect.

This is a very rare phenomenon, but cherish it if it happens to you.

There is an opposite side to this coin, however, where one will have a day that is so devoid of feeling, so depraved, that every day from that point on they will be slowly deteriorating into a physical manifestation of pure insanity.

If you start to have one of these days, kill yourself immediately, for after 24 hours you won’t be able to die.

You’ll just roam the world getting worse and worse…

The Deepest Fear

You’ve been dating your girlfriend almost two years now. You often stay late over the summer and on weekends and arrive home long after the rest of your family go to sleep.

Every night you drive the deserted rural roads back home from a pleasant evening at her house you become overwhelmed by fears that you will arrive home to find your family dead in their beds. Each night you peek into your sister’s room and see she’s fine and hear the reassuring rumble of your father’s snore as you pass your parents door.

You chuckle at your silly worries and drift off to sleep. Finally one morning you decide to tell your mother about your late night fears amidst some jovial conversation for a nice laugh. As you tell her a concerned look comes over her face. She sweeps the hair away from her face as she says, “Oh honey, you know we were all shot almost two years ago.”

You scream as you see the gaping bullet hole in her forehead.

The Mirror Box

Though written about in fiction occasionally, the mirror box is quite an old invention. Being inside of one can be enlightening or traumatizing for the witness who bears its burden. The procedure is simple, though finding and preparing the materials required might take some time.

The materials to construct the box are:
-Six square metal sheets, slightly taller than the witness. The length should never exceed the height of a witness with raised hands. One of them should be larger than the rest by at least the thickness of the sheets themselves. The material should preferably be made of graphite or lead alloy for the most prominent effect.

-Five nearly perfect, aligned mirrors, sealed upon the metal plates. Each of the 5 will form the sides and bottom of the inner box. One larger mirror should be attached to the large metal plate, which will be used for the top.

-A simple light source of pure white or bright yellow. The light source should emit in almost all directions. Candles can be used, but carbon dioxide and monoxide poisoning is a problem. The light source should not be planted upon the mirrors or receive any outside energy. Construction techniques are left up to the witness.

-Two or three alarm clocks. An extra alarm clock of any kind is also needed. Watches are alright, but not suggested due to the small type face and hands.

-Wear simple clothing.

-Do not bring any other objects. Witnesses have often crowded the box, causing it to become either useless or highly dangerous. This includes jewelery, food, weapons, or religious materials such as beads and crucifixes.

-An assistant is required to help the witness in and out of the box and get help in case of emergencies. The assistant should be trusting and as strong willed as the witness.

-Two ladders

-Several Blankets, water, medical remedies, and a first aid kit.

When the box is complete and ready to use, prepare the alarm clocks to ring around ten minutes after the witness’ planned entrance. Depending on the material used for the box itself, the time of day will not matter, but a night during a new moon is suggested. Despite intuition, sound does not play a large role in the event. The witness should use a small unattached ladder to enter the box. The top should already be placed upon the box, with an opening large enough for the witness to enter.

Once inside, the witness should be handed the light source and the clocks (one should be kept with the assistant). The outside assistant should ask sincerely whether the witness is alright. Once confirmation is given, the top should be moved to seal the box. The witness may turn on the light source once the box is sealed.

At any point should the witness ask to leave the box (if soundproof, tapping should be used), ONLY the top should be opened. The witness may do it themselves, since the top of the box should be easily reachable. Once ten minutes are up, ALWAYS remove the top, regardless of what the witness says. Some witnesses may plead to stay inside the box, even suggesting great danger should it be opened. The assistant should never trust those pleas. Suffocation is only one of many concerns should the witness stay too long in the box.

Once the top has been slid opened, place the second ladder in the box to allow the witness to leave. If the witness has any serious wounds, or discoloration, call for medical help.

Should you happen to meet a witness, never trust what they say about their experience, and never ask them for the time or where the antumbra meets.

Most Terrifying Stalker Story I’ve Ever Read

A week or so before my 10th birthday, I walked to the corner store with a $5 bill and picked up a jar of Ragu for my mom. On my way home, a man I’d never seen before fell in step with me and began talking.

"Hi!" he said, cheerfully. "My name is Dr. Ramsey. I’m a pediatrician. Do you know what a pediatrician is?"

I walked along silently, not replying and fervently hoping he would take that as a sign he should leave me alone. Subtleties were not his strong suit, though, because he kept right on chattering.

"Are your parents looking for a pediatrician for you? Of course, you’re almost a big girl now, you’ll be needing another kind of doctor soon, won’t you? That’s okay though. They can still bring you to me until then. What’s your name? You have beautiful hair. I was just on my way to get some suckers for the candy jar in my office. Do you like suckers?"

Thankfully, we were nearing my house, so I ran forward, up the back steps and into through the kitchen door. I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of a very long, very scary ordeal. It didn’t take long after that for “Dr. Ramsey” to begin showing up. At first, it seemed benign enough…at least to a kid. He would drive by nearly every day, smiling and waving. I told my mom, who said maybe it was on his way home from work. But then, the phone calls began.

My dad called me into the living room, and sat me down. He asked about the day Dr. Ramsey followed me home, and if I talked to him. He said I wasn’t in trouble, but that I needed to tell him the truth. I told him no, and he asked if I was sure…could I be forgetting something? I told him no again, and he frowned, then asked “Then how does he know your name?” I didn’t know.

It turns out, that was not all he knew. He knew my sister’s name as well. Pretty soon, neither my sister or I were allowed to answer the phone. He called several times a day; at first, neither of us knew what he was saying. Then, one night, one of my brothers told us that he was telling my parents that he was going to hurt me (and later, my sister).

Things got complicated after that. My dad had called the police, but as this was before there were any stalking laws, there was not a lot they could do. They told my parents to call back if he “tried anything”. My dad then called a friend of his from back in the day, who happened to be a cop. For the next month, my dad’s friend escorted me to and from school. Suddenly, life as I knew it came screeching to a halt. I couldn’t walk to school alone, I couldn’t play outside, I couldn’t walk to SuperAmerica (sort of like a 7-11 for those who don’t know).

When access to me was completely denied, things escalated. It was around this time he began threatening my sister as well. Then one afternoon my sister, two of my brothers, my mom and I were in the kitchen. One of my brothers saw a glimpse of someone in the garage; they’d seen him too. Dr. Ramsey came bolting out of the garage, my brothers chasing after him. They ran all the way to Cherokee Park, where he lost them in the trees. My parents called the police again, but nothing came of it. The only information they had was a description and a name that was almost certainly fake.

A couple weeks later, we woke to find our dog hanging from the side porch. She was a gorgeous saddle-back German shepherd, born the same day I was. We were all devastated. The cops said there was no evidence it was him, and ruled it accidental, but none of us believed that.

His phone calls became more informative in the meantime. He would talk about who was home, and who wasn’t. If my brother would say my dad was home, he would tell him who was really in the house. He also would talk about the house itself…about the window in the kitchen he could easily open with a knife from the outside even when it was locked, and about the french doors that connected the living room to the side porch and how the lock could be finagled from the outside if you jiggled it just right. That night, my dad put in some carpenter nails at the bottom of the french doors until he could get a new lock ordered.

My parents had to go to a company event for my dad’s work. My older brothers were at Saints West roller skating rink. My sister was on the phone with her best friend. My little brother was on the floor asleep. I was watching Devo on the Midnight Special with Wolfman Jack. It was late. Suddenly, the top of the french doors swung inward, and in the few miliseconds before the nails in the bottom caused them to snap back, I could see his silhouette. My sister whipped the phone at the television, and we ran up the stairs. About halfway up, we realized our little brother was still asleep on the living room floor. As quietly as we could, we slipped back down the stairs to get him. We all went into our bedroom and didn’t turn on the light; this way we could see outside. We watched out the window for a while, and when we didn’t find him, we crept down the hall to our brothers’ room to look. We looked down and could see someone standing at the backdoor. He knocked, loudly.

"What do you want?" my sister asked out the window. He stepped back and said "Is this the Mercy residence? I have a pizza for delivery. Can you come to the door?" She scoffed at him, declaring she was not stupid, she could see he didn’t have a pizza, and she was calling the cops. He left.

A short while later, my brothers returned home. We told them what happened and they walked around the yard, watching for him. They came back in, and things settled down. By now we’d pretty much given up calling the cops because it never helped, so we just went back in, each of us (except my youngest brother, still asleep) carrying a knife from the kitchen “just in case”. Eventually, one of my brothers went into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal as a snack.

You know that sensation you get when you can just feel someone watching you? Yeah, he had that in spades. He kept looking around the kitchen, through the doorway into the dining room, at the windows. He didn’t see anything, but he could still feel eyes on him, so he went closer to the door to try to see better. The kitchen lights were reflecting on the windows of the door (it had 3 rows of 3 windows), so he still couldn’t see. He stepped closer, then closer again, until he was right up to the door, then cupped his hands on either side of his head so he could see. There on the other side of the window pane was Dr. Ramsey, smiling back at him. He turned to yell for my older brothers, and when he looked back again, he was gone. They went out again to look for him, but didn’t see him.

The next night we were at the table playing crazy 8’s, and my brother was restless. My sister asked him what’s wrong, and he said he always felt like any minute now there would be a ‘boom boom boom!’ on a door or window. Almost immediately after he finished his sentence, “BOOM BOOM BOOM!” on the window right behind him. In the chaos, the two eldest ran out, but he was already gone.

A couple of weeks later, I was at school and we were outside on the playground during recess. I was swinging upside down when I saw that now-familiar blue Ford Galaxy cruising by, moving slowly. There he was, smiling and waving. He called my name, and I ran to the teacher and told her. The school had been told all about him, and she took me inside right away and called my mom. That same day my mom had gotten a call from the school office asking her to verify that my dad was picking me up, as he’d called to say he was on his way. He wasn’t.

Not long after that, I woke up one night, thirsty. I went down to the kitchen for a drink and there, sitting alone in the dark, was my dad. On the table, a gun. He was tired of the the police waiting until Dr. Ramsey “tried something”, he was tired of his children being terrorized, he was tired of being afraid every time he left for work that something would happen to us while he was gone. I sat with him for a time, watching, before he sent me back to bed.

These events, and many more, took place over a period of around 18 months. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. He had vanished from our lives; the phone calls, the drive-by with the creepy waves, everything. For a long time, during and after the Dr. Ramsey days, I would have a recurring nightmare in which I would wake up to find him standing over me as I slept. It took a long time before I felt like a kid again.

I found out years later that when he was calling, Dr. Ramsey would tell my parents that he was going to rape and kill me, and later my sister…and that there was nothing they could do about it. I don’t know what happened to him when he disappeared. I don’t know if he was in a car wreck, locked in prison, in a coma…but sometimes I wonder if the wait ended for my dad when he was sitting in the darkened kitchen one night. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to.

 

written by reddit user sweetmercy