Something Walks Whistling Past My House Every Night at 3:03

 

Every night, no matter the weather, something walks down our street whistling softly. You can only hear it if you’re in the living room or the kitchen when they walk by and it always starts at exactly 3:03. The sound starts faint, somewhere near the beginning of the lane near the Carson place. We’re towards the middle of the street, so the whistling moves past us before fading away in the direction of the cul de sac.

When I was younger, my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen some nights to listen. Mom and dad didn’t like that and we’d catch Hell if they found us out there but they were never too hard on us since we always stuck to the one Big Rule.

Don’t try to look at whatever was whistling.

My neighborhood is a funny place. I’ve lived here since I was six and I love it. The houses are small but well-kept, good-sized yards, plenty of places to roam. There are a lot of other kids here my age, I turned 13 back in October. We grew up together and would always play four square in the cul de sac or roam around from back porch to back porch in the summer. This was a good place to grow up, I’m old enough to see it. And there’s only the two strange things here; the night whistling and the good luck.

The whistling never bothered me much. Like I said, I couldn’t even hear it from my bedroom. But mom and dad don’t like talking about it, so I’ve stopped asking questions. My dad is a strong guy, tall and calm. He has an accent since he moved to the US as a kid. His family, my grandparents, they’re from the islands. That’s what they call it. My dad, the only time he isn’t so calm is if the whistler comes up.

He talks a little quicker then, eyes move faster, and he tells us not to think about it so much and to always remember the one rule, the Big Rule: don’t try to look outside when the whistler goes past.

Not that we could look even if we wanted. See, there are shutters on the inside of every window, thick pieces of heavy canvas that pull down from the top and latch to the bottom of the window frame. Each latch even has a small lock, about the size of what you’d find on a diary. My dad locks those shutters every night before we all go to bed and keeps the key in his room.

My mom…I don’t know what she thinks about the whistling. I’ve seen her out in the living room before at 3:03 when the sound starts; I could see her if I cracked my door open just an inch to peek. She’s not out there often, at least I haven’t caught her much, but once or twice a month I think she sits out there on our big red couch just listening.

The whistler has the same tune every night. It’s…cheerful.

Da da dada da dum. Da da dada da dum.

Remember how I said there are two odd things about where I live? Well, besides our night whistler, everyone in my neighborhood is really lucky. It’s hard to explain and dad doesn’t like us talking about this part much, either, but good things just seem to happen to people around here a lot. Usually, it’s small things, winning a radio contest, or getting an unexpected promotion at work, or finding some arrowheads buried in the yard, you know, the authentic kind.

The weather is pretty good and there’s no crime and everybody’s gardens bloom extra bright in the fall. “A million little blessings,” I’ve heard my mom say about living here. But the main reason we stay here, why we moved here in the first place, is my sister Nola. She was born very sick, something with her lungs. We couldn’t even bring her home when she was born, only visit her in the hospital. She was so small, I remember, small even compared to the other babies. A machine had to breathe for her.

We moved into our house here to be closer to the hospital. As soon as we moved here, Nola starting getting better. The doctors couldn’t figure it out, they chalked it up to whatever they were doing but we all could tell they were confused. But my parents knew, even I knew, Nola getting better was just another of the million little blessings we got for living in our neighborhood.

So that’s why we stayed even after we found out that, for every small miracle that happens here every day, now and then…some bad things happen. But they only happen if you look for the whistler.

See, our neighborhood has a Welcoming Committee. They show up with macaroni casserole and a gift basket and a manila folder whenever someone new moves in. They’re very friendly. Four people showed up when we moved in seven years ago. The committee made small talk, gave me a Snickers bar, and took turns holding Nola. It was her first week out of the hospital so they were extra careful.

Then the committee asked to speak to my parents in private so I was sent to my room where I still managed to hear nearly every word. The Welcoming Committee told my parents about how nice the neighborhood was, really exceptionally, hard-to-explain kind of nice. And then they told my parents about the even harder-to-explain whistling that happened every morning at 3:03 and ended at the tick of 3:05. The group, our new neighbors, warned my parents that the whistling was quiet, would never harm or hurt us, as long as we didn’t look for what was making the sound.

This part they stressed and I pushed my ear into the door straining to hear them. People who went looking for the whistler had their luck change, sometimes tragically. A black cloud would hang over anyone that looked. Anything that could go wrong, would. The manila envelope the committee brought over contained newspaper clippings, stories about car crashes and ruined lives, public deaths and freak accidents.

“Not everyone dies,” I heard the head of the committee tell my dad. “But the life goes out of ‘em. Even if they live, there’s no light in them ever again, no presence.”

My mom, I could tell she wasn’t taking it seriously. She kept asking if this was some prank they play on new neighbors. At one point my mom got angry, accused the committee of trying to scare us out of our new home, asked them if they were racist on account of my dad being from the islands. My dad calmed her down, told her he could tell our new neighbors were sincere and they were just trying to help us. He explained that he grew up hearing these kinds of stories from his mom and that he knew there were strange things that walked among us. Some of those strange things were good and some were bad but most were just different.

After the committee left, dad went out to the hardware store, bought the canvas blinds, the latches, and the locks and installed them on every window in the house after dinner. That first night in our new house, I crept out of my room at 3 a.m. only to find my dad awake sitting on the living room couch, holding my baby sister. My dad held up his finger in a shh motion but patted the couch next to him. I sat and we waited.

At exactly 3:03 we heard the whistling.

Da da dada da dum. Da da dada da dum.

It came and it went just like our neighbors said. The whistling returns each night and we never look and we enjoy our million little blessings every day. Nola breathes on her own and she’s grown into a strong, clever girl. My dad even joined the Welcoming Committee. We don’t get new neighbors often, why would anyone want to leave? But when a new family moves in, my dad and the committee bring them macaroni casserole, a gift basket, and the manila folder. I can always tell by the look on my dad’s face when he comes back if the family took the committee seriously or if we’d be getting new neighbors again very soon.

Not long ago a family moved in directly next to us. The previous owner, Ms. Maddie, passed away at age 105. She’d lived a good, long life. Our new neighbors seemed like they’d fit in just fine. They believed the Welcoming Committee, took my dad’s advice about the locking shutters since they had a young child of their own. Whatever newspaper clippings were in that manila envelope, whatever evidence, my dad never let us see. But I imagine it must have been awfully convincing since our neighbors got along with no issues for the first month.

One night, when our new neighbors had to leave town, they sent their son, Holden, to stay with us. He was 12, a year under me in school. I didn’t know him well before that night but as soon as his parents dropped him off after dinner I could tell it was going to be a bad time.

“Do you know who is always out there whistling every night?” Holden asked the moment the adults left the room.

The three of us were sitting in the den, some Disney movie playing idly on the television.

My sister and I exchanged a glance. “We don’t talk about that,” I said.

“I think it’s that weirdo that lives in the big yellow house on the corner,” Holden said.

“Mr. Toles?” my sister asked. “No way, he’s really nice.”

Holden shrugged. “Must be a psycho killer, then.”

Nola tensed.

“We don’t talk about it,” I repeated. “Let’s go in my room and play Nintendo.”

We spent the next few hours playing games, eating popcorn and then watching movies. A typical sleepover but I could see Holden was getting antsy.

After my parents had wished us a good night, locked the blinds, and gone to bed, Holden stood up from his bean bag and walked over to where Nola and I were sitting on my bed.

“Have you ever even tried looking?” he asked. “It’s nearly time.”

Like most sleepovers, we’d conveniently ignored any suggestion of a bedtime. I was shocked to see he was right; it was almost 3 a.m.

I sighed. “We don’t-”

“See, I can’t, I can’t even try to look because my dad locks the blinds every night and hides the key,” he continued, ignoring me.

“So does our dad,” said Nola.

“No,” replied Holden. “No, he doesn’t.”

“You saw him do it,” I said, a little sharper than I meant to sound.

Holden grinned. “Your dad locks the blinds, yeah, but he doesn’t hide the key. He keeps it right on his normal key chain.”

“So?” I asked, worried I already knew what he would say next. Because I had noticed that my dad didn’t bother hiding the key anymore after all of these years. Because he knew we took it seriously.

“So, after your dad locked up but before your parents went to bed, I went to the bathroom. And on my way, I may have peeked into their room, and I may have seen your dad’s key chain on his nightstand, and I maybe went and borrowed the key to blinds.”

Nola and I stared and his grin only grew wider.

“You’re lying,” I said.

Holden shrugged. “You can check if you want. Just open your parents’ door and look, you’ll see his keychain right there on the nightstand.”

“Stay here,” I told both of them. “Don’t move a muscle.”

I hurried over to my parents’ room but hesitated at the door. If Holden wasn’t lying…my dad would be angry. Beyond angry. I was scared thinking about it. But more scared of an open window with the whistler right outside. I opened the door, barely an inch, and looked in but it was too dark to see. Taking a deep breath, I walked into the room.

Two steps into the dark I froze. The whistling started. And I could hear it clearly…from my parents’ room. I never realized but they must have heard the sound every night since we moved into the house. They never told us. I don’t think I could have slept through it.

I stood there, listening to the whistling come closer, unsure whether I should turn on a light or call out for my dad. Soft sounds from the living room brought me back to reality.

“Nola,” I yelled, running out of my parents’ room.

Holden and Nola were standing near the front door next to a window. Holden wasn’t lying. I could see him fumbling with the lock on one of the blinds. I heard a click. He did have the key.

Holden let out a quick laugh. Nola stood next to him, hunched up, afraid but maybe curious. The whistling was right outside our house now.

I think I made a sound, called out. I can’t remember. Time felt frozen, clock hands nailed to the face. But I found myself moving. I’m not fast, I’ve never been athletic. Somehow, though, I covered the space between myself and Nola in a moment. My eyes were locked on her but I heard Holden pull the blind all the way down so it could release. I heard the snap of it start to raise, and I heard the whistling just on the other side of the window.

But I had my arms around Nola and I turned us so she was facing away from the window. At the same time, I jammed my eyes shut. The blind whipped open.

The whistling stopped.

I felt Nola shaking in my arms.

“Don’t look, okay?” I told her. “Don’t turn around.”

We were positioned so that she was facing back towards the hallway and I was facing the window. My eyes were still closed. I felt her nod into my shoulder.

I reached out with the arm not holding Nola and tried to touch Holden. My hand brushed against his arm. He was shaking worse than Nola.

“Holden?” I asked.

Silence.

I reached past him and gingerly felt for the window, eyes still sealed shut. The glass was cold against my fingertips. Colder than it should have been for the time of year. I moved my hand up the window, searching for the string to the blind. The glass began to get warmer the further I reached and there was a gentle hum feeding back into my fingertips. I tried not to think about what might be on the other side of the window. Finally, I touched the string and yanked the blinds shut.

I opened my eyes. In the dim light leaking out from the kitchen, I could make out Holden, pale and small, staring at the now closed window.

“Holden?” I asked again.

He turned towards me and he screamed.

Everything became a flurry of motion. Lights sparked to life in the hall, then the living room. My parents’ footsteps thudded across the hardwood floor. I didn’t turn to look back at them, my eyes were glued to Holden.

He was pale, had bit his lip so hard there was a thin red line of blood running down his chin and he’d wet himself.

“What happened?” my dad asked from behind me.

I managed to swivel away from Holden and look back. “He looked.”

I’d never seen my dad scared before but I saw it that night, in that moment, an old, ugly terror stitched on his face. A parent’s fear.

“Just Holden?” he mouthed to me.

I nodded yes.

My dad let out a breath. He looked so relieved I nearly expected him to cheer. But then he turned to Holden and my dad’s face changed. I wondered if he felt bad for feeling good that Holden was the only one that looked.

There was a knock at the door.

We all froze. Holden whimpered.

“Don’t answer it,” my mom said.

She stood at the threshold of the hall. I’d always thought she was a skeptic and just humored my dad about the windows and the whistler but that night we were all believers. I noticed that both of my parents held baseball bats they must have taken from their bedroom.

The knock came again, a little louder this time.

“Please don’t open the door,” Holden whispered.

My dad walked over to him, hugged him close.

“We won’t,” my dad promised, still holding his bat. “Nothing is coming in here tonight.”

Thud thud thud

This time the knocking was loud enough to rattle the door. Holden screamed again and Nola clutched her arms around my neck. My mom came over and knelt down next to us, wrapping my sister and me close.

Thud thud thud

“Call the police,” my mom whispered to my dad.

The knocking instantly stopped. My dad looked over his shoulder at us.

“Do you think-”

He was cut off by frantic knocking that trailed off to a polite tap tap tap.

“Police,” something said from the other side of the door.

The voice from outside sounded exactly like my mom, like a parrot repeating the words back to her.

“Police. Call. The police.” tap tap tap “Police.”

My mom pulled us closer.

“Police. Police. Police. Police.”

“Please stop,” I heard her whisper.

“I don’t think calling them will help,” my dad said. “How will we know when they’re the ones at the door?”

The knocking came back harder than before. The door shook. Then it stopped. After a long moment, I heard the knocking again but it was coming from our backdoor.

We all turned together towards the backdoor but the knocking immediately returned to the front door. Front to back, back to front, loud then quiet then loud again. Suddenly, the sound was coming from both doors at once, big, heavy blows like a sledgehammer. Then something started rapping against all of the windows in the house, then the walls. It was like we were living inside a drum with a dozen people trying to play at once. Or we were a turtle and something was attempting to claw us out of our shell.

“STOP!” Holden yelled.

The knocking died.

“I won’t tell,” Holden said, staring at the door. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what I saw. Just please go away.”

We waited for nearly a minute. Then we heard it, a soft tap tap tap coming from the window Holden had looked through earlier.

Holden started to cry, sobbing like a prisoner watching gallows being built outside their cell.

My dad held him, brushed his hair but never lied to him, never told him things would be okay.

The tapping at the window went on for the rest of the night. We huddled together in the living room for I don’t know how long. Eventually, my mom tried to take us kids into my room while my dad stayed to watch the door. But the second we moved into my bedroom the knocking came back, so loud it was possible to ignore. I was afraid the door couldn’t take it.

We went back to the living room and the knocking stopped. Only the tap tap tap on the window remained. None of us slept that night.

The tapping stopped around 7 a.m. That’s about the time the sun comes up here. We waited another two hours before my dad opened the blinds from one window. He made us all go back to my parents’ bedroom first. I heard him open the door then come back in.

“Okay,” he told us. “It’s done.”

Holden’s parents came back around lunchtime. My mom and dad walked Holden over to his house and they all went inside for quite a while. Nola and I watched from the window. She stuck to me the whole day, right at my side, sometimes holding my hand. When my parents came back they looked grim but wouldn’t tell us what they said to Holden’s family. It was a Sunday so we all spent the day together, ordered pizza and watched movies.

That night everyone slept in my room, Nola and my mom in the bed with me, my dad in a chair he’d pulled over. There was no knocking that night or any night since.

We didn’t see much of Holden or his parents for the rest of that week but by Thursday there was a moving truck in their driveway. Nola and I watched them packing up the whole afternoon after school. What sticks with me most is how tired Holden and his parents looked. All three had the same pallor, grim mouths and light-less eyes. Even from across the street I could tell something was very wrong. Holden and his family were gone before sunset.

I remember what the original Welcoming Committee said to my parents when we moved in. Not everyone who looks at the whistler dies, but even those that live have the light go out of them and the rest of their lives are full of misfortune. A million little tragedies.

I think Holden’s parents must have looked, either to comfort him if they didn’t believe or share the burden if they did. I watch Nola some days, happy and young and alive, and I wonder if I’d been slower, if she’d looked out the window that night…would I have looked too? To comfort her? To share that burden? I’m glad I don’t have to find out.

We still live in that house, in that neighborhood. We still hear our whistler walking past every night. The blessings, the luck, the good things here are too good to leave. But we’re careful. We don’t have friends over to spend the night anymore. And my dad hides the key to the blinds very, very well. Not that I’ve gone looking. Some things you just don’t need to look for. 

---

Credits:

GTM

Milk White

  

I was born and raised in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Unless you live nearby you’ve probably never heard of it. Even people in the large Wisconsin cities (Madison, Milwaukee) don’t know we exist. Wisconsin in general is known for our cheese, our cows, and our love of beer. And of course for our excess of mental institutions and serial killers.

Ed Gein and Jeffery Dahmer hail from my home state. In case you’ve been living under a rock, they are two of the most infamous serial killers in America. I don’t know if it’s the cold climate or what, but we seem to breed quite a bit of crazy up here.

Sheboygan is not immune from the crazy. We have this old abandoned asylum by the highway. Here’s a picture of it from an old post card. It used to house the criminally insane, at least according to local folklore. This is where the Milk White legend came from.

Milk White was supposedly a patient at the asylum. He was born there, his mother being one of the inmates. No one knew what to do with him so he just crawled around the asylum, eating scraps. He had no other kids to play with. He was an albino and any form of light would horribly burn his skin, so he was never awake when there was daylight. Milk White grew up learning madness from the other inmates, desperate for human companionship. Something about that madness turned him from a human into a demon.

The story is that one day he found a way to get in and out of the asylum. He got it into his head that he could go find friends from the city. He peered into the windows of every house to see if anyone was awake. If he found a child awake, he would steal them away. Of course children are loud, so instead of taking them alive he would use his huge teeth to crush their necks. He would prop up the corpses of the children in the asylum basement, pretending to have an entire room of friends. He would sing them nursey rhymes in the dead of night.

The asylum was shut down a long time ago. Milk White had nowhere to go. So they say he still lives in the abandoned building, going out at night and bringing back the bodies of any kid still awake after dark.

This was all regarded as an urban legend. But I remember that story back from when I was a kid. There was an odd little rhyme that we used to sing on the playground. It went:

.

Hush now, sleep tight

Or else beware of Milk White

He doesn’t fuss, he doesn’t fight

He’ll kill you dead with just one bite

.

Parents would use this tale to scare their children into going to sleep. It worked well, or at least it did for me. I fully believed the myth up until middle school. I remember that’s when a new kid moved to town. He was from New York City, so we all thought he had to be way cooler than any of us

His name was Jimmy. He had a New York accent and everything. He wore chucks and had a leather jacket. He wore it all year round, even in the middle of winter. He was never quiet about how much he hated it in Sheboygan. My friend Hans and I made an uneasy friendship with him.

Hans was seventeen but dumb enough to be held back to middle school. He was huge compared to us. We’d been friends for a while. I actually grew up with his brother, Peter. Peter disappeared on a camping trip when we were seven. After that I started becoming closer with Hans. We’d hang out, play video games, and just do nothing. He wasn’t very smart (hence being held back for so long) but he was a good guy. I liked being his friend.

I was a pretty typical 12 year old – scrawny, trying to appear cooler than I was. I wasn’t particularly special but I guess I was a good kid.

Jimmy was the one with all the confidence. He could talk to girls and get himself out of trouble easily. He also thought he knew everything.

It was Jimmy’s idea to scope out the asylum. I think he was bored of the snow and wanted to do something exciting. That’s when I told him about Milk White.

“What a crock of shit,” he responded. “That’s a fucking baby story. You don’t really believe that?”

I looked at Hans, who shook his head stupidly. Hans was pretty happy to have friends, so he would have done anything for Jimmy or me. I was scared, but I shook my head too.

Jimmy decided we would go to the asylum that night. He joked about Milk White, calling him a pathetic excuse for a ghost story. Hans and I were horrified that he would mock the creature that haunted our childhoods. But we tried to act calm about it.

We snuck out around midnight and met up at the over pass. I was bundled in about seven layers of wool. Jimmy, like always, just wore his leather jacket. He led the way as we trudged through the snow towards the abandoned building. It must have been impressive once, but now it just looked decayed. While we were walking Hans grabbed my arm and pointed to the ground. A set of footprints were in the snow. The prints were large, like that of a grown man. But there were toe marks as if the person was barefoot.

I debated showing them to Jimmy but I knew he would just laugh at me. I shrugged at Hans. “Come on.”

We got to the main entrance of the asylum just as a fresh falling of snow began to accumulate. Jimmy tried to open the door but it was shut firmly. He kicked at it but to no use.

Hans was shivering. “Looks like we can’t get in.”

Jimmy laughed at him. “You fucking pussy. We haven’t even tried yet.” Jimmy has a terrible mouth on him. Hans and I were good Midwestern boys, we never swore. But Jimmy was very different than us.

He moved around to a boarded up window. It was low enough that he could use his hands to pry under the boards. With a violent jerk he pulled a plank away. We could see that there was no glass inside. Jimmy made a loud “Aha!” sound and fought the other board loose.

“You coming, pansies?” He pulled himself up to the window and slipped inside.

Hans and I looked at each other nervously. If we went in, we’d be confronting the very thing we had feared since kindergarten. If we didn’t, we’d lose our friendship with Jimmy and probably any shred of reputation. I took a deep breath of cold air and hoisted myself through the window.

I landed on a pile of broken boards. Apparently other people had tried to get in as well, because there were planks everywhere. Jimmy was rubbing his leg. “I think I fucking cut myself.” His jeans had a long gash in them. I stood up and dusted myself off.

Hans flew through the window with a heavy thump. He shrieked and held up his hand. A nail was embedded into his palm. Jimmy went over to him and yanked the thing out. Tears poured down Hans’s cheeks. Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You’re a big fucking baby, aren’t you? Scared of a ghost and a little blood.”

He turned his back on us and started towards the hall. We all had thought ahead to bring flashlights, but they weren’t much help. The halls were pitch black. We walked along the wall, keeping a hand steady to balance. We heard a squeak from behind us and I almost jumped out of my skin. Jimmy just laughed. “Scared of mice now too, queer?”

The entire time we explored the asylum I barely breathed. It wasn’t just the darkness – it was the unknown. We found empty wheelchairs and creepy looking metal cots. Our flashlights scanned the blackness but nothing moved. Once we had been exploring for an hour or so I felt my heartbeat slow. Jimmy was obviously right. Milk White was just a baby story to scare kids.

It was Hans who found the door to the basement. He pointed at it with his flashlight. Jimmy tried the handle but it was stuck. He tried kicking down the door but he just hurt his ankle. I stood silently. Jimmy shone his light into Hans’s face. “You, big guy, kick the door. I want to see what’s down there.”

Hans started trembling and shook his head no. Jimmy pushed him. “Come on, you big idiot. Do something useful for fucks sake.”

Hans looked down, embarrassed. I stepped towards them. “Maybe we show go.”

Jimmy sneered. “Or maybe you should-“

We all stopped because of what we heard. It was footsteps. It sounded like there were coming up the stairs from the basement door. I stared open-mouthed at Jimmy, who was frozen in place. The footsteps were loud. They sounded like skin slapping on metal.

“Turn off your lights, now!” Jimmy hissed.

We all shut our flashlights off and huddled against the wall. Hans was shaking really bad and I could smell that he had peed himself. Jimmy was swearing under his breath.

The footsteps kept going until they were almost right next to us. Then there was the sound of a doorknob creaking. It was completely dark so we couldn’t see a thing. All we could do was listen as the door slid open.

That’s when we heard the voice. It was the deep voice of a man but sung unreasonably high. It sang/whispered, “Hush now……sleep tight….”

Jimmy was rocking back and forth. I could feel the fear emanating from him. He had his jaw clenched and his teeth made a horrible crunch. The voice kept singing, “Beware……beware…..of Milk White.”

I must have trembled because my thumb knocked the on button of my flashlight. In a single second it illuminated the hallway and we could see the source of the voice. All of us gasped as one. It stood barely two feet away. It might have been a man once but now had the posture of a scorpion. It was naked, standing with its feet spread apart like an insect. Its head reared back like it would spit venom. The nails on its feet and hands were so overgrown they curled back into its skin. The teeth jutted from its mouth. They hung down as if it were too heavy for it to list its head properly.

Its skin…it wasn’t white. Not like the rhyme said. It was stained red.

It took a step towards us and whispered, “Kill you dead with just one bite.”

And that’s when Hans bashed my head in with his flashlight.

---

I woke up on the floor of the asylum. Daylight had only just creeped into the sky. My head was pounding. I struggled to stand but I must have gotten frostbite in the night. My fingers and toes were completely numb. I looked around and saw Jimmy passed out near me. He had a giant bruise on his temple. I tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t stir.

I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to stand up and drag Jimmy out of the window. I wasn’t strong enough to sling him over my shoulder so I had to drag him through the snow. He made soft pain sounds but didn’t wake up. I made it to the tavern by the highway. They weren’t open but I pounded on the door until my knuckles bled, screaming for help.

The owner finally came to see what the noise was and let us in. He was visibly shaken by our appearance. He called the police and our parents. Soon I was wrapped in blankets and slowly beginning to feel warm again. Jimmy eventually woke up in the hospital with minor memory loss.

I told the police my story and they searched the entire asylum. They didn’t find anything. No evidence of any foul play except the blood Jimmy had lost. No one knew where Hans was. His parents were devastated. Now they had lost two sons.

Jimmy had no memory of the night’s events. At least that’s what he said.

My parents made me see a psychologist who told me I created the whole thing in my mind. She said Hans must have done something terrible to Jimmy and I, and I just blocked it out. After all, Hans was so much older and bigger than us. And then he left town so suddenly. The psych implied it was sexual abuse. She said I made up the image of Milk White because I knew that from my childhood. It was easier than facing the truth.

I went to bed before dark every night until I went away for college. I never went back to Sheboygan. My parents hound me to visit but I refuse to return. They think it’s because of what Hans did to me.

But I know what I saw. And I know that Hans only hurt me to knock me out.

He knew that Milk White can’t get you if you’re asleep. 

---

EZmisery

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 4) [FINAL]

  

So it all ends with me dying. Not literally, of course. Not figuratively either. Philosophically maybe? How did we get here? How does a simple home video lead to such violence,death, and the utter dismantlement of my perceived reality? I guess that’s what you’re here to find out.

Justin kept trying to call me, kept sending me messages, but I was still in no condition to respond. I’m not sure if you’ve caught on to this, but my mental state can sometimes be described as rather flimsy. When facing distress, I have this slight tendency to fall into bottomless pits of anxiety, and there’s really not much I can do about it. Except petting Dave, that is.

So that’s what I did, for half an hour straight. Just kept stroking his silky feline exterior, the shiny orange fur soon enough stained with crimson patches of blood. I still hadn’t found time to clean up. Where could I clean up? My bathtub, and by extension my shower, was filled with what remained of my “mom”, mom, and I felt no inclination toward dealing with that mess.

New texts from Justin kept pouring in, and at some point they became too frequent for me to ignore. I scrolled down the near endless list of capitalized profanity and hatefulness, focusing on the latter five, of which seemed a fair bit more level headed, albeit infinitely more disturbing.

Justin: Come see me at grandpa’s cabin, Jeffy.

Justin: Come alone if you want the boy to live.

Justin: You don’t want it to happen again, do you?

Justin: You don’t want more blood on your hands.

Justin: Be seeing you.

There was a lot I didn’t understand, and there was a lot I didn’t want to understand. I could feel them, locked away deep in my mind; a resurgence of memories pushing ever onwards. I couldn’t let them free, though. No chance in hell. There was just no way I was going back to that place. Padded cells, padded mind.

I hadn’t been to the cabin for ages, probably even before grandpa died, but it was quite a ways out, and I knew I didn’t have the time or energy to dare the journey on foot. Luckily my neighbors kid had an old moped parked haphazardly in the middle of the street, and those suckers can be hotwired with the single turn of a screwdriver, so without hesitation I stuffed Dave under my jacket, and off we went.

We were on the road for three-four hours maybe, and I had to stop to refill the ridiculously small tank three times over. Dave kept his calm about him as per usual, but I could tell that he was getting antsy by the time we turned off the main road, heading up the bumpy road to the Quintessential Point, where grandpa’s old cabin could be found. I had to ditch the moped about halfway up, so I let Dave run free as we hiked the last couple of miles by foot.

The cabin was an eyesore. It had always been an eyesore. Grandpa had fought tooth and nails to keep the property after certain incidents of federal nature forced him into hiding for a couple of years. It was situated on the very edge of the Quintessential Point, dangerously so, and there was a vertical drop of maybe thirty feet just on the other side of the ramshackle railings of the balcony. I felt a cold chill run down my spine as I spotted the silhouette of Justin in the window. I had no plan, and no idea what to expect. The Justin I knew was gone, replaced by a violent psychopath harboring unknown motives.

I picked up the loitering Dave, and knocked exactly three times on the front door.

“Jeffy,” Justin said, smiling warmly as he opened the door. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

He seemed flustered, but otherwise in fine shape. A warm glow pulsated from the stove behind him, illuminating worn-down furniture and faded walls, and as he beckoned for me to enter, I heard a soft, muffled cry.

“Uhm,” I said. “Is that Jenna’s, uhm, baby?”

“Indeed,” he grinned. “He’s all right, don’t worry. Fed him some formula just now, so he’s happy as a stiff at a funeral. Come in, Jeffy. Sit down. We have much to discuss.”

I sauntered into the living room, nervously scanning the interior. Nothing had changed really. It was still the same tacky craphole, moldy old animal hides and broken antlers decorating the dead wooden walls. I sat down in grandpa’s old rocking chair, placing Dave in my lap, desperately trying to identify where he kept the baby. Justin gave me a brutal pat on the back, and sat down in the couch opposite of me.

“Jeffy, Jeffy, Jeffy,” he sighed. “What are we going to do with you, Jeffy?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here, Justin,” I said, gaze wandering around the room. “But I suppose you’re about to tell me.”

He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Sure you do, Jeffy. Sure you do,” he said. “You know I killed mom, and I know you killed dad. We’re the same now, Jeffy. Matricide and patricide aside, we used to be so close, remember?”

I did remember. Justin always looked after me, kept me safe. I guess that’s what made all this so hard to understand. I’d never seen this side of him before, and I was convinced I knew him intricately.

“But you don’t remember why, do you?” he leaned forward, eyes flickering left to right erratically. “Why I had to be nice to you?”

“What do you, uhm, mean?” I muttered.

“Oh boy, I knew they did a number on you over at the institution, but I never realised it was this bad,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re the reason they stopped, you know. Poor Jeffy couldn’t handle it. But they never considered what I could handle or not, did they? No, they messed me up good, Jeffy, and they didn’t even care.”

“I don’t, uh-understand, how did they mess you up? What couldn’t I handle?”

“Why, all the murdering, of course!” he laughed, slapping his thigh. “Oh, they enjoyed their depravity, didn’t they? The fuckier, the better. Put poor Jeffy in a bathtub full of blood, make Justin cut out all the organs, force feed them both pieces of the victims. What a family, eh? No wonder you lost it eventually.”

The memories came flooding back to me. Screams, rivers of blood, the leathery texture of an undercooked kidney. A knife in my hand, and an old, ugly, heinous face.

“Grandpa was the worst of the lot. Truth be told, I think they were happy when you slaughtered him. That’s when they stopped, you know. That’s when they sent you to that place.”

“I, uh, I don’t remember…”

“No, you don’t, do you?” he said coldly. “They couldn’t get you talk for months, and when you finally did, you couldn’t remember anything. Just kept mumbling the same name, over and over. Dave, Dave, Dave.”

I stared at Dave. He stared back, purring contently. “What do you mean? What Dave? Did I know a Dave back then? Is that why I instantly named my cat Dave?”

“There is no cat, Jeffy!” he yelled. “Think about it, for god's sake. How long have you had him now? Thirty years? That’s some old ass cat you got there, buddy.”

“N-nuh-no,” I stammered. “You’re wrong Justin. He’s right here. I can see him. I can feel him.”

“For fucks sake, I don’t care,” Justin stood up, and calmly walked toward the kitchen cabinet. “Keep your imaginary friend, it really doesn’t fucking matter. In fact, it will make this whole thing a lot easier to sell.”

He opened one of the cabinets, the one at the very top, and suddenly the muffled cries became louder. “You see, I want to start my own family,” he said, carefully lifting down the baby boy. “But I need a demon in the hurricane.”

“Wh-whu-what does that mean?!” I said. “I don’t uh-understand!”

“Oh, surely you remember. It was grandpa’s family mantra. We cannot move lest we leave a demon behind in the hurricane. It’s an overly pompous way of saying that we always need a scapegoat. I mean, think about it; how do you suppose they got away with all those murders, hmm? The only reason they did, is because they consistently set up some poor schmuck to take the fall.”

“An-uh-and, uhm, I’m your, uhm, demon?”

“Look, I didn’t plan for it to end this way. I just wanted you dead, Jeffy. That’s all. That’s why I switched out mom’s birthday present with those tapes; I was so sure they were gonna kill you for that.”

He gently rocked the baby back and forth, humming a beautiful tune. “But here’s the kicker, Jeffy; they weren’t even gonna hurt you. Not initially, anyway. Mom just wanted dad to bring you here, to keep you safe, to calm you down. So, you know, I lost it. Fucking killed her.”

“Wh-uh-why did you want me dead? What have I, uhm, ever done to you?” I said, tears rapidly forming in my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I really thought I’d reached the bottom of the rabbit hole, but there was obviously more.

“Nothing personal, buddy,” he smiled. “Just wanted them to feel pain. They really loved you, Jeffy. Can’t for the life of me understand why, but they did. Me? Not so much. I guess I reminded them too much of grandpa, or perhaps themselves. Jenna’s baby changed my mind though. When mom brought her over to try to convince you to come back home, I instantly knew what I’d wanted all these years. Someone to love. Someone to love me back unconditionally. Someone to shape. Someone to mold into a better, more capable me.”

I let my fingers run through Dave’s soft fur. I needed his calming guidance now. Dave’s always been there for me. Always had my back. Always kept me on the straight and narrow.

“So, uhm, what now?” I asked, eyeing the open window just behind the couch.

“Oh, you know,” he said, placing the baby back in the cabinet, and closing the door. “You still have to die, Jeffy. Just need to make it look, you know, suicidy. That’s all I need from my demon.”

He grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter, and edged closer to me. There was this look on his face, a very familiar expression I’d seen before, once that I could remember, but probably countless times over. A look of hate and murderous violence. The exact look I saw on my mother’s face when she butchered those poor people in the video.

“Give me your wrist, Jeffy,” he snarled. “No reason to make this more painful than it has to be.”

I got up from the rocking chair, backing up slowly, Dave firmly in my grasp. I knew I had only one shot at this, so I needed to position myself just right. When Justin edged past the rocking chair, back turned to the couch, I made my move.

I quickly put Dave on the ground, pointing at Justin. “Get him, Dave!” I yelled. “Fuck him up!”

We rushed at Justin in unison, and when he, wide-eyed with surprise and shock, stuck the knife brutally into my shoulder, I quickly jerked sideways, breaking the blade off at the grip. Sure, there was pain involved, but I’ve been through worse. With a continuous motion I elbowed him in the groin, and watched in awe as Dave fucked up his face. That cat had some unreal moves, let me tell you.

Justin stumbled back, and when he clumsily hit the couch, I charged at him with what little was left of my stamina, sending him tumbling through the open window. There was shattering of glass, a whole lot of blood, and horrible screams, as Justin and Dave rolled around, slipping under the ramshackle railing, suddenly freefalling the thirty feet down to the jagged rock foundation below.

I heard a sound I can’t accurately describe, but I’m often reminded of it when I hear a butcher working with raw meat. Squishy, meaty sounds. I collapsed on the floor, desperately heaving for my breath. I would have passed out on the spot if it wasn’t for the muffled crying coming from the cabinet. I stumbled to my feet, staggering towards it, gently lifting him down. He felt a lot like Dave. Same weight, different texture though. I sat down in the couch, momentarily lost in those bright blue peepers of his. Maybe I wanted my own family too? Maybe Justin could be my demon in the hurricane?

But no. I wasn’t them. I wasn’t grandpa, or mom, or dad, or even Justin. So I called the police, this time more than able to string together the correct words, describing in vivid detail everything from start to finish. From home videos to the shattered remains of Justin. I felt good. I felt free. But there was also a sadness, I suppose. A loss of sorts. Poor, poor Dave.

So you see, it all ends with my death. Not philosophical either. Mental, perhaps. Personal. A new me. The police came to believe me eventually, although it took a few days of long, strenuous interrogations to get it sorted. A lot of details to be uncovered, things from my childhood I just couldn’t remember. They mentioned something, though. Something you lot might find comforting. On the second day of the interview, the lead detective asked me about Justin, about the struggle, about his remains.

“There were some marks, wounds, we can’t account for,” he said. “On the suspect's face. Looks a hell of a lot like someone, something, clawed him, scratched him up real good.

”

Of course it looked like that, I thought, stroking Dave's perfectly soft fur lovingly.

Of course it looked like that.

---

Credits 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 3)

  

What does a sane mind look like when subjugated by waves of unrelenting madness? An innocent home video turned into murderous slaughter. Normal, loving parents morphing into deceitful, homicidal maniacs. The very foundation under my metaphorical feet disappearing, leaving my fragile psyche spiraling into the unknown abyss.

Yes, I tend to get just a little bit philosophical when I’m under a lot of stress. I suppose, under normal circumstances, it helps calm my nerves, but as I sat in that dark cabin cradling Dave like a little baby - my “mom’s” sinister words echoing repeatedly in my head - I felt no relief in delving into the soothing corners of fatalism. The situation required swift action. Swift, decisive, well-executed action. Not my strong suit.

So I did what I imagine anyone in my situation would do; I called my big brother. He’d know what to do. He was my polar opposite in many ways; charismatic, athletic, outgoing, funny. He could make widows laugh on the day of their late husband's funeral, and effortlessly talk his way out of any crime, petty or otherwise. He’d help me out, like he’d done so many times before.

I’ll spare you the boring details of the conversation, which in short involved a lot of uhm’s, and me desperately trying to string together a coherent narrative (failing many times over), and Justin patiently waiting for me to finish.

“That’s, uhm, all I know,” I murmured tiredly. “I know, uhm, it’s hard to believe, but I swear, Justin, it’s the truth.”

There was a long, silent, awkward pause. “I believe you, Jeffy,” he finally said. “I don’t know why, but I believe you.”

It felt like a great burden was lifted from my shoulders, and I could finally breathe again. The growing tension in my chest faded instantly, and I even think I smiled, or at least thought about smiling. I’d do that quite often for some reason. Think about things, instead of actually doing them. Like the manifestation of thought was enough.

“So, uhm, what now?” I asked.

“Just hang back, Jeffy,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with the police. Explain everything. You get some rest, stay put. I’ll call you when I have some news.”

I glanced around the cramp, dark cabin. There was nothing but the couch I was sitting on, a table, a few ramshackle cabinets, and a cast iron stove. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do that, uhm, Justin. Please hurry, OK? You know, uhm, I don’t like waiting.”

“Will do, Jeffy, will do,” he said reassuringly, before hanging up.

I sat in the darkness for a while, staring at nothing except dull wooden walls, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. It didn’t. Nothing made sense anymore, and I had a hard time figuring out how anything could ever make sense again. It was like my whole life had been an illusion, an impossibly elaborate magic trick, where I was the poor white rabbit stuffed in the hat all this time, obscured and hidden from heinous reality.

I guess I must have dozed off at some point. Collapsed in exhaustion. I know it wasn’t a dreamless sleep, because I remember swimming in rivers of blood, but I care not to dwell on the details of it. Doesn’t help with my anxiety. Doesn’t help with my sanity.

I woke up sweating and shivering and hurting to the vague sensation of my phone buzzing. I’d been asleep for at least twelve hours, but it felt like barely a minute, and the vibrant rays of the sun blinded me as I stumbled to my feet. My body felt battered and beaten, almost like I’d been in a car crash, and it took me a moment or two to realise that, yes, that’s exactly what had happened.

“Uhm, Justin?” I muttered weakly. “Did you fix it? Can I come home?”

There was no answer. Just silence. I waited patiently for maybe thirty seconds, every so often checking if the call was still active. “Justin?” I queried once more.

“Jeffy…” Justin said, voice trembling. “You need to stay put, OK? Don’t move, you hear me? Help is on the way, all right?”

“Uhm,” I stammered confusedly. “Uhm, I don’t understand? Did they find dad? Did they find mom? Is, uhm, she in, uhm, jail?”

I found Dave chilling in the warm sun behind the couch, and gently lifted him up with one arm. He was a support animal of sorts I suppose. I always felt calmer when holding him.

“They, they, oh shit,” Justin whispered. His voice was cracking, like he was crying, or trying to avoid crying, and it really put me on edge. Justin never cried. “They found Jenna. At mom and dads. She, they, she is dead, Jeffy. Stabbed, murdered, blood all over, absolute fucking mess. Oh shit.”

“And, uhm, mom?” I asked. “Did they find mom?”

“Missing, gone,” Justin sighed. “But that’s not all, Jeffy. The baby, the baby, Jenna’s baby, shit, the baby is missing too. Nowhere to be found.”

“Uhm, oh,” I muttered. “That’s, uhm, not good, is it?”

“No, Jeffy, that’s not good at all,” he said, a slight hint of annoyance in his tone. “But listen, the cops want to talk to you. It’s real important, Jeffy. Just, you know, stay put. Don’t run. It won’t look good if you run, Jeffy.”

“Uhm, OK,” I said. “But why? Why can’t I just come home? I haven’t done anything. I can show them the video. Prove that mom did it.”

“Stay put, you hear?” he said sternly. “Just stay there. I’ve given them your location, Jeffy. They want to bring you in. Don’t. Do. Anything.”

“Uhm, sure, I guess,” I said, staring at Dave, trying to understand what was happening. “I’ll just, uhm, sit back with Dave then, I guess.”

“Yes, of course, Dave,” he sighed. “Stay put with Dave, sure. I’ll let them know, OK?”

“Uhm, yeah, thanks Justin,” I said. “Talk soon.”

He hung up, leaving me once again drowning in the fathomless depths of my own anxiety. I knew that I could trust Justin, but I also instinctively knew when he was lying. He’d done it before. Leave out certain details to keep me calm and docile, as he’d have it. He didn’t want me to worry, to stress out, to lose my mind. But this time it went deeper. This time I’m not sure he believed me - or worse yet; he didn’t trust me.

I couldn’t know for sure what the police had told him, or what he’d told the police, so in my rather feverish state of mind I did the exact opposite of what he ordered me to do; I promptly left the premises. Grabbed Dave and the laptop, and stumbled into the forest, not having the slightest idea of where I was. Add that to the fact that my sense of direction was abysmal at best, and you have one confused Jeffy heedlessly heading for disaster.

In retrospect it was somewhat of a miracle that I didn’t just topple over and fall unconscious out there in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t realise the extent of my blood loss until I saw my ragged pajamas in the bright sunlight. I was positively drenched in blood. From neck to toe, a crimson spectacle staggering through the woods. There’s like a few gallons tops in a human body, right? I’m sure some of you know this. I didn’t.

I went to some rather dark places of my psyche on my impromptu hike. Revisiting memories I didn’t know existed. Time spent delving into a childhood that seemed so strangely...lacking. I could barely remember anything before the age of six. And even then, there was little but snippets. Brief flashes and fragments. Isn’t that strange?

Dave seemed to enjoy cleaning my clothes though, and with him as company, and possibly some sort of feline guardian angel, I somehow managed to keep up a moderately acceptable pace. I didn’t want to expose my rather ominously decorated persona if I could avoid it, so when I stumbled upon the main road several hours later, I kept myself hidden in the treelines for as long as possible.

Thankfully the streets were more or less empty when I reached the outskirts of town. It was getting pretty late, so shrouded by shadows and sneaking stealthlessly around corners, I was able to get to my apartment unseen by anyone except for the neighborhood hobo, Lars. He’d probably seen stranger things though, so he didn’t seem altogether that bothered by my bloody appearance, nodding idly as I gracelessly tripped past him.

I let out a sigh of relief as I pushed the door open. A shower, fresh clothes, food, sleep; mundane privileges we all take for granted, but oh so heavenly when you’ve gone without them for just as little as a day. I put Dave down, thanking him for putting up with me, secured the laptop, and headed for the shower.

I was halfway into the bathroom when I noticed the smell. I say noticed, but in reality it was more like a pungent punch right up my nostrils. I doubled over on the floor more or less instantly, retching half of my lungs up, the other half desperately hiding behind other organs. A flood of memories overcame me as I lay there gasping for air, but they all seemed so...false. Like they’d happened to someone else. Flashes of screams and blood and death, tears and pain and torment.

I managed to stumble to my feet, switching on the light as I did. The sight that unfolded sent me sprawling to the floor once more.

There was a...thing in the bathtub. Once human, I am sure. Now in pieces, I’d say dozens of them, limbs, organs, guts, bobbing around in a pool of blood and other fluids that probably belongs on the inside of the body. I resorted to crawling out of there, slamming the door shut the moment I crossed the threshold.

I spent the next five minutes hyperventilating on the floor. There was an image etched into my mind. A head, a face, floating around in the pond of rotting remains like a grotesque parody of a rubber duck. A face I instantly recognized. A head I’d seen so many times before.

It was my mom.

I anxiously fumbled with my phone, knowing there was only one person I could call, but I was immediately greeted by a bunch of unread messages and missed calls, all from Justin. I guess I hadn’t noticed. I opened the messages, feeling an unrelenting dread rising as I rapidly read through them.

Justin: Are you still there? The cops are coming now. Don’t move.

Justin: They should be right outside now. Don’t move. Stay put Jeffy!

Justin: They’re inside. Can’t find you. Where are you? Stay where you are, and call me.

Justin: Where are you you fucking shit? I told you stay put!!

Justin: FUCK YOU JEFFY!! WHERE ARE YOU?

Justin: YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD WHEN I FIND YOU JEFFY!!

---

Credits 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 2)

  

I’m sorry I haven’t been able to update sooner, but it’s been a crazy couple of days, and quite frankly it wasn’t on top of my todo-list given the urgency of my current situation. I’ll do my best to give an accurate description of the events that followed the brutal demolition of my life as I know it, but time isn’t exactly on my side, so I’ll have to keep it brief.

After the text from “mom” I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t know what to think either, I just knew I had to get out of there before my “dad” arrived. So in a panicky haze I quickly grabbed the laptop, and Dave the cat - who’d been loitering diligently just outside the door - and ran down the deserted street sobbing hysterically. I had no idea where I was going, or what I was doing. I guess I just figured that running was a solid plan given the circumstances.

I got about halfway down the block before the rational part of my brain interfered. Why am I running? Shouldn’t I show this video to someone? The police? My brother? I slowly came to a halt as I considered all my options. How sure was I that this wasn’t just a prank? How could it be a prank? Who in their right f’ing mind would think that this was even remotely funny? No, it was the truth alright, there was simply no denying it. I gently placed Dave on the ground as I fished the phone out of my pocket, dialling 911 with trembling fingers.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a female dispatcher answered.

“Uh, I need help,” I stammered incoherently. “My mom, uhm, that’s to say she’s not really my mom, uhm, killed my real parents when I was a baby, and now she’s sent my dad, who isn’t my dad, after me, and I, uhm, don’t know what to do.”

“Sir, you’re not making any sense. What is your location?”

“So I got, uhm, this DVD,” I continued, waving my laptop around like she could somehow see it. “And it’s got everything, uhm, on it. Like, the murder, and my mom, and everything.”

There was a long pause, like the dispatcher was considering whether or not to just hang up on me, which in retrospect makes total sense, since I must have sounded like a crazed, blabbering maniac. I was tripping around nervously in a circle, head bobbing up and down erratically, tears streaming down my face. I was looking at this rather peculiar garden ornament, shaped like a bulbous rat, when suddenly I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Moments later I was on the run again, laptop under one arm, Dave in the other, phone hazardously kept in place between my cheek and shoulder.

My father’s car.

“You gotta hurry!” I yelled into the phone. “He’s here!”

I somehow managed to pocket the phone while juggling the laptop and Dave, stumbling down the street aimlessly. I could hear the sound of car tires approaching from behind - my “dad” more than likely - and in a moment of panic I decided to run up to a random apartment, banging on the front door awkwardly with my elbow. I saw movement behind closed curtains, then a pair of inquisitive eyes glancing at me briefly, before disappearing again. Of course they weren’t gonna let me in; I was a grown-ass man in my pajamas, carrying a laptop and fat cat named Dave. But I was hoping they’d call the cops on me.

“Jeffy,” my “dad’s” voice beckoned from behind. “Please, son, get in the car. I think you’re a little bit confused.”

He was parked by the curb, hanging over the open car door, like we were having a perfectly casual conversation about the stock market or something. He had this awkward smile on his face, and there was a look of genuine concern in his eyes.

“Uhm, no, no way,” I said, feverishly trying to find a way to escape that didn’t require me to use any of my arms. “I saw the video, uhm, the baby and mom and everything.”

He laughed heartily, slapping the roof of the car theatrically. “Oh, that? Jeffy, Jeffy,” he said. “It was just a prank! You have to know that, right? It’s just another one of your mom’s silly shenanigans. I think she went a little too far on this one though, I’ll give you that much.”

So here’s a weird thing; I sort of believed him. Sure, looking back on it, it was a stupid f’ing thing to do. But you weren’t there. You weren’t in my head. You don’t know them like I did. They were just so painfully...dull, you know? A boring, old couple. Nothing about them ever stood out. They were normal. So unbelievably normal. And a five minute video can’t undo decades of carefully planned indoctrination.

“Uhm, yeah, I mean, OK,” I said, hanging my head in shame. And I did feel shame right then. Ashamed I’d made such a fool of myself. Ashamed I’d accused my parents of something so utterly heinous. That’s how deep it went. That’s how easy it was for them to control me.

“That’s a good boy,” my “dad” said, patting me on my back as I climbed into the backseat. Dave was getting fairly fed up with all the back and forth, and he’d scratched me up pretty severely on my panicky half-assed escape, so I focused on calming him down.

“Where are we going?” I inquired, staring out the window idly. We were heading out of town, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

I heard a soft chuckle, seemingly innocent enough, but for some reason I didn’t like the sound of it. “I figured a few days down by the old cabin would do you wonders,” he said. “Get you back on track. We cannot move lest we leave a demon behind in the hurricane, you know.”

It was such a strange thing to say, leave a demon behind in the hurricane, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d heard it somewhere before. I swallowed deeply as the familiar comfort of the concrete scenery was rapidly replaced by the ominous depths of the dark woods.

“So how did mom do it?” I asked. “How did she make the video?”

I stared at my “dad’s” neck as I asked the question, and noticed a slight twitch as the seemingly innocent inquiry registered. “Oh, you know,” he shrugged. “Computer programs and such.”

“Yeah, uhm, but which one? It seemed very sophisticated.”

“I mean, your brother helped her,” he squirmed. “Yes, they spent all of last weekend on it. Complicated stuff.”

“Justin was there last weekend? During the lockdown?” I asked, gently placing Dave on the floor below me. “He drove two hours for that?”

He didn’t respond right away, briefly glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I could tell that he was having a hard time keeping up with his rather poorly executed lies. “Yes, I mean, we’d planned it for months, so we couldn’t, you know, cancel it because of some silly old bug.”

“That, uhm, makes sense, yeah,” I lied.

He let out a sigh of relief, and I could see the smile returning to his face. The next part I didn’t really think through. It was an impulsive decision you could say. An act of misguided self-preservation mixed with varying degrees of rage and fear. He didn’t see it coming, I’ll tell you that much. An arm around his neck, squeezing as hard as I possibly could. The part I didn’t really think through was obviously the fact that he was operating a moving vehicle at high speed.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident, especially one where the car sort of flips mid-air, you might have experienced a certain calmness as you come to accept the finality of your imminent death. You know there’s nothing you can do; you’ll soon enough suffer the lethal impact of the violent collision, so you sort of sit back, metaphorically speaking, readying yourself for the inevitable conclusion.

But sometimes you’ll make it. Sometimes you’ll climb out of the flaming wreckage, laptop and Dave in hand, leaving the unconscious, fatally wounded body of your murderous fake father behind to burn slowly to death in the most horrible way imaginable. And that’s OK. That’s great, even. Just go with it, I say.

There was nothing around for miles, and I was in a pretty bad shape. I stumbled confusedly into the dark woods not quite knowing what to do, or where to go. I just knew I had to get away from the car. Away from the flames. Away from everything.

I can’t say for how long I wandered around in a dazed stupor, but it was getting dark when I found the old cabin. It wasn’t much, nothing more than a shed really, but it was enough. I managed to crack open a window and climb inside, finally allowing poor fat Dave to roam on his lonesome for a few, while I found an old worn-down couch, planting my exhausted body face down in it.

My phone started vibrating minutes later. It was my “mom” calling. I felt my heart beating out of my chest as I stared at the ominous pulsating greenish light of it. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it. To ignore her. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew I had to face her.

“Uhm, hello,” I answered. “What do you want?”

“Jeffy!” my “mom” sang cheerily. “I’m so glad you answered. I’ve been trying to reach your dad for hours now, but he won’t pick up. I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to?”

“He’s, uhm, dead,” I said. “I hope. Car accident, uhm, crash.”

There was a pause, and I could hear her breathing heavily in strained intervals. “That sounds like him, doesn’t it?” she said coldly. “Fell asleep at the wheel no doubt. Silly old fool, wasn’t he?”

She sounded so unphased, like she was discussing the weather with the neighbor or something. No feelings, no emotion; a flat, inhuman, lifeless tone. I was starting to realise just how dangerously insane she really was.

“You can get fucked!” I suddenly yelled. It was really out of character for me, the cursing. It’s not something I normally resort to, you know. “I got evidence, mom,” I snarled, “and you’re not getting away with it!”

“We’ll see about that, Jeffy,” she said calmly. “You know I’ll always find you. Wherever you are, whatever you do; mommy is coming for you.”

She ended the call on that note, knowing full well the state it would leave me in. If I wasn’t paranoid before, I sure as hell was now. Could she find me? Definitely. I was maybe a few miles from the car crash, probably on the only property within walking distance from it, and she wasn’t stupid. She was anything but stupid.

My phone vibrated again; a text message from “mom”. With trembling fingers I opened it, only to drop the phone to the floor the moment I realised what I was looking at.

It was a photo. A young woman and her baby, sitting on my “mom’s” couch. I recognized her instantly. It was their neighbor, Jenna. Single mom, kinda cute. I’ve had a crush on her for ages, but I’ve never acted on it. Don’t know how, you know? A single sentence captioned the image, and it sent tremors of cold chills down my spine.

If you leave me, Jeffy, I’ll have to replace you with someone new.

Love Mom<3 

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Credits 

 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 1)

I don’t celebrate birthdays anymore. When you get older you try to forget they even exist. You really don’t need a reminder telling you you’re slowly becoming an outdated dinosaur, and I’ve always found commemorating the harrowing approach of your own death a rather morbid notion. So I suppose having my birthday in the middle of a nationwide lockdown was somewhat of a godsend.

That didn’t stop my mother from sending me a present though. She always found a way to annoy me, in the best way possible, and she’d out-fiddle the devil himself just to put a smile on my face. I don’t know how she did it, but this morning, when I went to let Dave, my cat, out, I nearly tripped over it. An anonymous brown package just laying there, inside my flat. How the hell did she pull that off?

I chuckled internally as I desperately tried to decipher what was scribbled on the front of the package. It was clearly in her handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. The worst f’ing handwriting you’ll ever see. Like if you grabbed a crow, dipped its beak in ink, and let it peck randomly on the paper.

TO JEFFY, LOVE MOM

I yelled to Dave to hurry his shit up, but he wasn’t having it, so I just closed the door, and brought the package with me inside, carefully placing it down on the kitchen counter. Mom was a next-level prankster, so I made sure to investigate every inch of it, weighing it, gently shaking it, before finally opening it.

I scratched my head in puzzlement. It wasn’t much. Just a DVD. No note or anything. My mom wasn’t very technical, and the thought of her burning a DVD was quite frankly absurd. Did she even own a computer? Maybe dad helped her out? Or my brother? I guess there were ways she could have pulled it off, so I shrugged, and plopped the thing into my laptop.

After whirring discordantly for what felt like minutes, I was finally greeted with a single video file named Jeffy’s Home Videos 86-90. I caught myself smiling sheepishly in the reflection on my screen. I didn’t even know we had a video camera back then, so it was a very thoughtful surprise. Sort of an atypical gift from my mom, but I was still halfway expecting it all to be some elaborate prank. Maybe it was a rick roll or something?

But no, to my mild surprise it seemed like a pretty extensive collection of genuine home videos from the 80’s, complete with ridiculous low resolution, graininess, horrible audio, and an abysmal cameraman. They seemed to be in the wrong order though, starting when I was 4, then younger and younger, which, to me, proved that it was my technically challenged mom who’d compiled them.

I sat for about half an hour enjoying every second of the shaky cam time travel, reliving moments I’d entirely forgotten, laughing at how weird everybody looked back then, and boggling at how I was still alive. I was a stupid, stupid kid, always falling over and running into things. I sent my mom a picture of me and my bottle of wine relishing the ancient videos, with the caption Thanks for the home videos mom<3 Best birthday gift ever!

But then it got strange. I’d just finished watching the summer of 87, when we apparently spent the holiday out by my grandpa’s cabin by the sea. I was two years old then, and my brother Justin must have been five. It was a wonderful trip down non-memory lane, since I had no recollection of it, and I was anxiously looking forward to videos from my first year. I didn’t have any photos or anything from back then, my mom said they’d must have been misplaced when they moved a decade ago, but she could never seem to find them again.

It was the summer of 86 according to the date in the bottom left corner. A shaky cam, more than likely maneuvered by my dad, looking over a tall white fence. A family of three was gathered on the other side; husband, wife, and a tiny toddler. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I suppose they must have been our neighbors. We moved every couple of years when I was a child - something about my mom’s work - so it was an educated guess.

There was some barely audible whispering as the camera was lowered, now facing the grass. I replayed this part several times, but I could never really hear what was said. Just fragments of it made sense. We...Move...Leave...Hurry were the only words I could make out. Then the camera was raised, once again peering over the top of the fence. The family was gathered out by the front porch of a house, the toddler with his assumed mother, and the assumed father operating a hose, spraying water on assorted flowers. Then the camera moved again, focusing on the cheery face of my mom. She was wearing a bright red sun hat, real cheesy looking, and the first time I saw it I giggled uncontrollably.

“Let’s do it,” she said, grinning widely.

A chill ran down my spine. Those exact words have no meaning without context, you know. Could point to absolutely anything. Let’s do it. Let’s go get ice cream. Let’s do it. Let’s drive down to the beach. Innocent things. Mundane snapshots. But the way she said it, and the expression on her face; I knew instantly that something wasn’t right.

Moments later the shaky cam got shakier, now running around the fence, and into the backyard of the family. The cameraman, assumedly my dad, stopped at the gate, zooming in on the woman’s face. She looked shocked. Scared even, holding onto the toddler tightly, and backing away towards the front door. Then my mom came into view again, and I realised why the woman appeared so frightened. I had to replay that moment several times too, because I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it was her.

She was wielding a knife. A huge butchery thing. She turned and grinned to the camera, waving the knife around playfully, before suddenly charging at the woman, her terrifying high-pitched screams echoing through my kitchen. I almost stumbled to the floor as I watched the carnage unfold. My mom stabbed the woman brutally in her left leg, causing her to collapse on the front porch, the toddler rolling down onto the grass, wailing hysterically. The assumed father suddenly became aware of what was happening, and his eyes widened as he yelled something, running to the woman's aid, only to be stabbed in the neck by my mom as he came within arm’s reach.

The next two or three minutes were dedicated to my mom stabbing the two of them repeatedly, the fleshly, pulpy, mangled remains at the end of it hardly even human in appearance any more. Absolutely drenched in blood, my mom turned to the camera, laughing maniacally. She suddenly noticed the wailing toddler in the grass, and quickly wiped clean the knife with the inside of her dress, placing it down on the porch. She then gently lifted the toddler, hugging him tightly, smearing blood all over the child.

“We’ll name you Jeffy,” she said, and kissed him, me, on the cheek, before waving to the camera.

I slammed the laptop shut, and staggered back, hyperventilating uncontrollably. No. It couldn’t be. It had to be some kind of prank, right? Right? Some unbelievably elaborate prank. You could do that these days, you know? Fabricate shit like that? Right? Deep fake and everything?

My phone vibrated. A text from my mom. I read it. Then again. Once more. Then I grabbed my laptop and got the hell out of there.

I didn’t send you any videos, but your father is coming over to sort it out.

Stay where you are, Jeffy. Everything will be alright. Don’t move. We’ll be right there.

Mom<3

---

Credits 

A King and His Four Wives

 

Once upon a time, there was a King who had four wives.

He loved the fourth wife the most, spoiling her with his deepest affection and providing her with only the finest things life could offer.

He also loved the third wife and proudly displayed her to the neighboring kingdoms.

He relied a lot on his second wife. She was his trusted advisor and companion. Whenever the King faced a problem, he could confide in her, and she would help him get through the difficult times.

However, not much can be said about his first wife. Despite her significant contributions to maintaining his kingdom and her tireless efforts to win his love and admiration, the King barely noticed her existence.

One day, the King fell gravely ill. Despite his efforts to find a cure, he realized that his time was running out.

He reflected on his majestic life and decided to spend everything to prolong it, leading him to consult a mystical sorcerer. The sorcerer said, “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but nothing can be done. Your death is imminent. However, I will grant you the chance to take one wife with you into the afterlife.”

Thus, he asked his fourth wife, “I have given you nothing but the best in life. Now that I’m dying, will you accompany me into the afterlife?”

“No way!”, replied the fourth wife, and she walked away without saying a word.

The sad King then asked the third wife.

“No!” replied the third wife. “Life is too good here! I’ll stay! When you die, I’m going to remarry!”

He then asked his second wife.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t go with you,” replied the second wife. “I can only see you to the edge of your grave.”

The King’s heart sank, and he felt a deep sense of despair. He was utterly devastated.

Then he heard a weary, sad voice, speaking softly: “I’ll go with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.”

The King looked up and saw his first wife as if for the first time. She appeared aged beyond her years, barely recognizable due to years of neglect. With deep regret, the King said, “I should have taken much better care of you while I had the chance!”

---

MORAL:

We all have these four wives in our lives.

The FOURTH wife is our BODY.  
We often shower our body with the most affection, spending our lives adorning it with exquisite clothing and ornaments. Yet, in the end, it will abandon us when we die.

Our THIRD wife is our POSSESSIONS.  
We invest much of our time and energy in accumulating wealth, but none of it will accompany us when we die. Instead, it will be divided and passed on to others.

Our SECOND wife is our friends, family, and relatives.  
We love and trust them, and in return, they offer us comfort and support when we need it. However, no matter how long they remain by our side, they can only accompany us up to the point of our burial.

And our FIRST wife is our SPIRIT.  
We often neglect our spirits in the pursuit of wealth, pleasure, and power, not realizing that it is only our spirit that accompanies us after death. While it's important to take care of our bodies by staying healthy and exercising, and to enjoy time with loved ones, we must also remember to nurture our greatest treasure: our spirit.

To lead a fulfilling life, it’s essential to find balance in caring for the four aspects of our existence: our body, our earthly possessions, our relationships, and our spirit. By giving each of these areas the attention they deserve, we create a harmonious life where we are not only prepared for the end but also enriched in the present.

Someone is Hiding in my House

  

...I think they're trying to scare me to death.

It all started with a cup of water. Every morning I wake up, climb out of bed, march downstairs, fill a tall glass with tap water and drink it. But this time, the water went down the wrong way. I started coughing. Sputtering. Almost choking. I set the glass down on the countertop, turned away and thumped my chest until the coughing stopped. But when I turned back, the cup of water was gone. I froze. Motionless. Only my eyes moved. Darting back and forth around the kitchen.

The air shifted, a subtle drift, as though something moved through with incredible speed. I stepped back from the countertop and… my heel bumped into something. I spun around. My heel had bumped into the glass of water; it tumbled over with a dull and clattering thud. Empty. Wary, I squat down, picked it up, and studied it. Turned it over in my hand like it was some strange, alien artifact. What just happened?

I called my sister to tell her what happened. She laughed. There must be a reasonable explanation, she said. Perhaps Dash, from The Incredibles did it? "Coincidence, I think NOT!" she teased. I laughed along. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation for it. Maybe I dropped the glass in my coughing fit, and it somehow landed upright. Crazier things have happened.

But of course, that wasn't the end of it. Little happenings like this became commonplace. Each event was slightly less explainable than the last. A building experience of uncanny madness. But still, I shrugged it off, tried to think of reasonable explanations. Tried to hand wave it all away...

But then, the 'cup trail incident' occurred. There was no reasonable explanation for the cup trail incident:

I snapped awake. 2:58 AM on a Tuesday. Bright light blinding into my dilated eyes. The lights were on. Somehow, the lights were on. A power surge, perhaps? I climbed out of bed, marched across the room, and froze. I froze because my bedroom door was open. But the door being open didn't bother me too much. What bothered me was the glass of half-empty water, sitting on the floor in the middle of the upstairs hallway. That bothered me for several reasons. Chief among them being: I didn't put it there.

I crept out into the hallway. The floor was uncharacteristically creaky tonight. I squat down, lifted the glass of water and…

Fingerprints. Fingerprints were fogged on the glass: dozens and dozens of fingerprints. I recoiled, dropping the glass. It thumped onto the carpet and spilled over, an expanding puddle of water absorbing into the carpet. I glanced back over my shoulder. A looming sense of unease climbed through my body. I pushed back to standing and…

…Another glass of water. Half-empty. Sitting at the top of the stairs. I walked forward. I looked down the stairs. Another one. Sitting halfway down the steps. A trail of half-empty cups. Should I just call the police? I reached for my phone instinctively, but it wasn't there. I always kept my phone in my pocket, even while I slept (don't ask). But now it was gone… It was gone, and somebody was hiding in my house. I looked back over my shoulder, down the hallway, towards my bedroom. Did it fall out of my pocket? Was it in my bed? Did I leave it on my bedside table? I was about to go look when…

Downstairs. Something BUZZED against hardwood floor. A quick one-two-three… one-two-three pattern. The distinct pattern I made for notifications; Somehow, my phone was downstairs. I turned back. Took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

My phone lay on the kitchen floor, buzzing around in lazy circles. I stepped over, picked it up, and flicked on the screen. Time to call the police. But I froze again. My eyes caught a push notification at the top of the screen, "New photo saved to cloud." I raised an eyebrow, tapped into it and…

My breath sucked out of my lungs like a vacuum. It was a photo of me, fast asleep. Taken at 2:57 AM. One minute before I woke up. A sickening swell of dread spiraled through me as everything piled up. The cups of water, the lights turning on, the phone being downstairs, and now… finally… the photo of me. The photo which somebody else had taken as I slept.

I dialed 911.

"911 where are you located?" a calming, almost serene voice answered.

I gave them my address.

"What's your emergency?" she replied.

"There's somebody in my house…"

"Are you in a room?"

"What?"

"Please get to a safe room and lock the door."

I bolted to the nearest washroom, slammed the door shut, and locked it. Maybe I should've just ran outside, but... what if they were waiting for me?

"Okay sir, are you safe?" said the voice on the other end.

"I… I…"

A door slammed shut. Somewhere upstairs.

"He's upstairs…" I said.

"Help is on the way. Focus on breathing. Breathe in."

I breathed in.

"Breathe out."

I breathed out.

"Breathe in…"

Upstairs, another door swung open and slammed shut. The intruder was searching now; Checking each and every room in order.

"Sir? Are you there...?"

"Y-yes…" I whispered. The slamming doors getting closer. One room at a time, getting closer. The final door upstairs slammed shut, and suddenly, a door downstairs swung open, and slammed shut. Were there multiple intruders? Either there were multiple intruders, or this person was impossibly fast.

"Sir?"

"He's… He's…"

"Sir… are you still in the bathroom?"

…the bathroom? How did they know I was hiding in the bathroom. I never told them I was hiding in the bathroom…

"Sir… are you there?"

The voice said again, but this time... I could hear it on the other side of the door too. I could hear the 911 operators voice inside my house. The intruder was talking to me on the phone. The intruder was somehow pretending to be a 911 operator. They were talking to me.

The bathroom doorknob jostled.

"Sir, open the door please," she said.

Dropping the phone, I wrapped my grip around the handle, pulled back with all my strength.

"Sir, please open the door..."

I didn't budge.

"Sir, open the door. Open the door, open the door," she kept repeating. Like a broken record. Like a pre-made recording. All the while pulling back at the doorknob, trying to get in.

The lights started turning on and off. On and off. A rapid cycle between light and dark, faster and faster.

"Sir, we can't help you if you don't open the door," she said, almost sounding on the verge of laughter now. "Sir? Are you there? Sir…?"

Suddenly, outside, around the corner, the front door burst open, "POLICE!" a baritone voice boomed.

Silence.

"Police?"

I remained quiet. I didn't trust it. Whatever I was dealing with didn't seem to play by the rules of reality. I wasn't going to fall for it. I remained silent. Hands gripped around the doorknob, I remained motionless.

"Hello?" said the deep voice, then the crackle of radio static, "I'm getting no response, requesting backup."

I hid in the bathroom for about an hour until they found me. The actual police found me. I was a nervous wreck, understandably so. Ranting and raving. Telling them about the woman on the phone, telling them about the cups of water on the floor.

They sent me in for psych eval and I was discharged a few days later. Of course, no one believed me. Even when I showed them the photo of me sleeping, no one believed me.

"There must be a reasonable explanation," they always said. "Perhaps you had a temporary psychotic breakdown…?" My sister theorized.

I moved out the next month. No way I was sticking around after that. In hindsight, I should've moved out earlier.

Now I'm living upstate, in a much smaller house. Less places for would-be intruders to hide. I have cameras set up everywhere, so this time, if anyone messes with me, I'll have the receipts. It's all connected to my phone too, so I can even check the cameras while at work. I might be a coward, but I'm not stupid.

So anyways, quite a few uneventful months had gone by since the cup trail incident. In fact, nothing else had even happened until tonight. I was even starting to wonder if perhaps my sister was right; Perhaps I had a momentary lapse in sanity…

But now… Now I'm lying on my bed, writing this on my phone. I can't move. I'm paralyzed with fear, and writing this is the only thing that even remotely calms me down. I'm paralyzed with fear because earlier, about one hour and twenty-three minutes ago to be exact. I got home from work late. I got home from work late and crawled right into bed. That was my first mistake. I broke my ritual; My daily ritual of checking all the cameras before entering the house, checking to see if any motion was recorded during the day. But I was tired, and it was late after work, and I just wanted to sleep. I'll check the cameras in bed, I thought. I'll just check the cameras in bed…

And of course, today, of all days, is the day something happened. What happened, you ask? Perhaps some of you already guessed. But I'll let you know regardless…

Nine hours and twenty-three minutes ago, the bedroom camera recorded motion. I watched the footage on my phone just twenty minutes ago. It was footage of me, mulling about the house, getting ready for work, and then leaving. I breathed relief. Of course, it was just me. You fool, you should've known. It was you. You threw off your schedule, and you were late, and the cameras detected you…

But then… thirty seconds after I had left. MOTION DETECTED: BEDROOM CAMERA. The footage appeared. My empty bedroom. Dark. I squinted. Nothing. Suddenly, in the footage, the lights flicked on. Still nothing. They flicked on and off and then… Then I saw something that filled me with a fear far beyond anything I'd ever felt. A fear far beyond anything I even knew was possible:

When the lights flicked back on, a person appeared. A person standing in the middle of my room, with pin-straight posture, hands over their face like someone playing peekaboo. The footage fast-forwarded on its own now. Shadows drifting across the wall as the sun outside moved downward. But the person just stood there motionless. Motionless as the world sped by. Hands covering their face.

The footage snapped back to real-time. Thirty seconds before I arrived home. The person slightly perked up, hearing my arrival. Then, hands still covering their face, they dropped to their knees. In one smooth, almost robotic motion, they fell to their side, and rolled under the bed. They rolled under the bed. They rolled under the bed that I was currently lying on. The bed which I am laying on right now… Manically typing on my phone in the dark.

"Just beat them up lol, I would," I can almost hear the very badass readers among you writing in the comments below.

"Call 911?" I hear the good faith worriers among you thinking.

But seriously? Call 911? After what happened last time? Call 911?

Either way, I figure this is the last thing I'll ever post; So I hope you got some enjoyment out of reading about my imminent demise.

-William Creston

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welcome back

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