Tech Support

“Thank you for choosing Vicecorp, this is Jeff. May I have your account number, please?”

“Hey Jeff, Matthew here. Account number 80140. Password is Lombardo.”

“How can I help today, Matthew?”

“Well, I’m very frustrated. I purchased the Lenore 3 yesterday and I’m having some major issues. I’m not getting the proper responses at all.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Well, for example, when I make any kind of threat, she doesn’t show fear. She says she’s scared, but appears perfectly calm. There’s no point if she’s not scared. I don’t need to tell you I paid good money for her.”

“Let me guess: she’s not responding to physical stimuli either..?”

“How do you mean?”

“Does she scream when you hit her?”

“No. Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. I apologize for this, Matthew. It’s a known issue. The last batch were sent out a little prematurely. Is she on now?

"Yeah, she’s on. She’s right here.”

“Perfect. So this is an easy fix, Matthew. I’m gonna force an update on my end, which will take just a few seconds. And I’m gonna add twelve months to your warranty for the inconvenience.”

“Oh, thanks! I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure. Just keep in mind that beheading voids the warranty.”

“That’s fine. At the most I’ll cut a few fingers off. Nothing crazy.”

“Alright Matthew, that should do it. Wanna give her a little punch for me?”

“Sure, one second.”
…
“She’s bawling like a cow. Thanks for your help Jeff, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Nothing else you need today?”

“No, that’s great. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome, Matthew. And thanks for choosing Vicecorp. Have a wonderful day.”

–
Credits to: Buzzo2020

source: fifteenhours-creepystories.tumblr.com

I Take Two Pills Every Day

I've never been able to eat in the morning. I know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and don't get me wrong, I love me some bacon and eggs and hash browns, but I just can't eat right after I wake up. Takes a few hours for me to work up an appetite.

And of all of my problems, it was this one, the most simple of them, that would end up ruining everything.

Every morning at 9am I am to report to a clinic, on a combination of state sentencing and doctor's orders. I'm possibly the worst kind of mentally ill. I know I am not well. I know acutely exactly how unwell I am, what I am capable of, and what will happen to me if I don't take my medicine. It doesn't make me any more in control, however. I just feel... strapped in for the ride as my impulses take over.

9am is too early for me. I hardly like waking up that early at all, and I certainly haven't been up for long enough to have worked up anything remotely resembling an appetite. But my medicine is only about 20% as effective on an empty stomach, and I'm not trusted to dose myself, hence the clinic. So I've worked out a routine. In the mornings, I tuck the nearly identical pills back in my cheek, fake like I swallowed them, and then pocket them as soon as I make it back outside.

I'm not skipping doses. After the clinic, I go home, go about my business for a couple of hours until I've worked up an appetite, then I eat, and take my medicine immediately afterward. I don't want to miss any doses. The medicine helps me stay, well, me.

I think it's important to mention what my medicine does, now, however. One pill stops me from killing myself. The other stops me from killing other people. This afternoon, after I got back from the clinic and finished eating a meal, I went to the sink to pour myself a glass of water. Partially eroded, there were two now entirely identical pills in my hand.

As I went to take a sip of water, I fumbled with my other hand, and one of the pills fell down the drain.

I don't know which it was.

And they won't give me more at the clinic because they 'confirmed' I took my medicine this morning when I tucked the pills in my cheek.

I stared at the remaining pill for a while, trying to see if I could tell which of the two it was. After a few minutes, I decided it didn't matter either way, and I dropped the second pill in the sink as well.
  
---
source: by reddit user mattpayhan via reddit.com/r/ShortScaryStories

Rough Patch

You enter the kitchen, totally unaware I’m watching you. That I’ve been watching for days. You turn on the radio just as the 8am news is starting, as you always do after your morning run. You’re nervous, waiting for any news on the girl. Missing, only 6 years old. The report starts, it details her disappearance from her bed, her family’s terror when they found her room empty on the morning of her 6th birthday, how there were no fingerprints, no sign of a struggle. There are no updates, still missing, no evidence. But the world is searching for her, and that’s great.

You turn off the radio after that report, the only report that matters, and begin to make yourself breakfast. A hearty plate of bacon, eggs, beans, toast and mushrooms. I don’t know how you can eat, how you can even think of food. I know I can’t. I get a little more comfortable, it’s hard sitting here in your garden every day. Under the shade of the trees, at least I have protection from the sun. I watch you leave your house, you check the back door lock, and leave by the front. You always do that. I think about my wife and children. I think about how this would make them feel. I wait.

When you return, I’m sleeping. I know this because I wake angry at myself. You could have seen me. Then you’d have known all of what I plan to do. That can’t happen. But you don’t see me. You’re so stupid. When I’m sure you’re occupied, I pull out the scrap of denim from my pocket. The scrap that matches your jacket. The scrap left on my daughter’s bedroom floor after you stole her. I pick myself up off your garden and make my way to the back door.

Upon entering the house, I pick up a knife from your kitchen. Nice and sharp. Careful not to make a sound, I open the door to your living room a crack and peer in. You’re sitting in your red velvet chair, not a care in the world. That makes me angry. I grip the knife harder, and recall the day I passed you in the street. The first time I saw that torn denim jacket. Your dead, empty eyes, hollow in their sockets. I tread lightly to the back of your chair. Lucky that it’s red, maybe your blood won’t show when I slit your throat.

Your skin cuts like butter. You struggle, and that excites me. I’m so happy to finally avenge my baby. There are big, black bin bags in your kitchen, I grab one for your disgusting, lumpy body. You’ve got blood everywhere. I put your limp body in a bag and drag it in to the basement that’s connected to your kitchen. I open the door and push your body down in to the darkness. A methodical search of the house bears no useful information, I return to the living room where my mobile phone has been charging.

I’m furious, so frustrated with myself. How could I have been wrong again? I’m certain that scrap of denim matched your jacket. It was you, I am sure. I sit, slumped in the red arm chair, the blood soaking my back. I want to cry, to vomit, I can’t bear that I’ve got it wrong again. I can’t be wrong, there’s something, I know it.

My phone vibrates on the chair of the arm. A text message, from Jan. I unlock my phone, and throw it at the wall seconds later, before covering the floor in sick.

‘I need you to come back home. They have found her, baby. Turn your phone back on, come home, I know this affected you but our baby’s back. She’s alive, she’s back, come home please!’

In the background, some news report, '3 more found dead their homes in South London, this makes for 7 total, however police still suspect there to be more. Keep your doors locked at all times, we are searching for the killer.’

–
Credits to: georgeoliscott

source: fifteenhours-creepystories.tumblr.com

She Didn't Remember that Night

He would never hurt her, she's his mother after all.

But she, since she was diagnosed, can't remember.

She didn't remember he's her only son.

She didn't remember how much he cared for her since she was diagnosed.

She didn't remember that tonight is her son's wife birthday.

She didn't remember that he told her he'll come visit after the party.

She didn't remember he had a spare key.

Her body froze when she heard a knocking at her door. She took a knife to defend herself from this intrusion and ran into her room once she heard the key slide into the lock. She hid as the door opened.

"Mom? Where are you?" his voice sounds concerned. The lights in the house were out. She didn't remember to pay the bills.

'Who is this man?' she thought to herself, hiding in her bedroom closet with a steak knife, 'Why is he here? Why does he want to hurt me?' her voice in her head panicked and her breath became short.

She didn't remember that he'll come visit after the party.

Her sons steps grew closer and closer as he wen't up the stairs. She didn't remember how much he loves her.

He entered his mother's room, scanning it in search for her. 'Where is she?' he thought to himself and sighed. Her heart beat faster now, she didn't remember his face that she kissed so many times.

His eyes finally landed on her, he could see his mom cowering through the closet shutters. Her heart skipped a beat as if it tried to muffle it's own sound.

"What are you doing there?" he approached the closet door chuckling at the absurdity of this situation.

As soon that he opened the door, like a cornered animal instinct, she stabbed him in the shin. He screamed and fell to the ground. She didn't remember how her son's pain sound like. "Stop! What are you doing?" he screamed but she didn't remember his voice. Her knife plunged into his neck, blood sprayed all over her as she twisted the knife. His pleads drowned into bloody gurgle as he fell to the ground, painting the once white carpet. She didn't remember her son's blood. In her head her son drowned into a blurry mess.

She didn't remember where she hid the body. She swore to the cops she didn't remember where she hid it. She grieved over her son but after a while she didn't remember the cops. She didn't remember the body. She didn't remember that night.

She didn't remember there was a son.


---
source: by reddit user Aloname via reddit.com/r/ShortScaryStories

When Did I Last Wash Her Hair?

I thought it was a night like any other night. I was folding the laundry on my bed, listening to my daughter sing her heart out in the shower. Then my throat tightened and I felt panic set in. When did I last wash her hair?

I ran to the bathroom and opened the door so I could yell inside, 'Katie, do you need any help washing your hair?'

Her reply brought tears to my eyes, 'No, Mama. I’m fine.'

I’ve always tried my best to appreciate every day with my seven children. There has been a motto I’ve lived with in parenting ever since I had my first child:

Make sure they remember joy yesterday, experience joy today, and anticipate joy tomorrow.

I just didn’t know tomorrow would come so soon.

I’m a firm believer in kids playing hard and getting dirty. And my two oldest daughters sure did that. Every day, they were out in the Arizona sunshine–climbing, digging, swinging, and getting very, very dirty. Children have to get dirty. It’s a universal law. And I’m not about to tamper with universal law.

But with dirt, comes baths. I remember when my two oldest daughters, Kelsey and Katie, would take baths together. I would wash their hair, then let them play in the bathtub for awhile. It was our routine. Then they got older. Baths turned into showers, but I was still there to come in and help them wash their hair. Then the hair washing turned into just helping them rinse out the shampoo. Then the rinsing turned into the occasional, “let’s go back in the shower and I’ll help you rinse that one spot on top of your head.”

Then came, “No, Mama. I’m fine.”

Here’s the deal with motherhood: It’s our job to raise independent kids; but no one tells you how to handle it when it really happens.

That night, it happened.

I thought back–When was the last time? When was the last moment I rinsed the shampoo out of her hair? Why didn’t I know it was the last time? If I would have known, I would have done a better job, or made it last longer, or kissed her head, or something.

I would have done something!

I couldn’t see the laundry anymore because the tears blurred my vision. But I kept folding. Folding and praying. 'God, help me remember how quickly this is going by. Help me appreciate every single day–even the hard ones. Show me the beauty in each moment–even the bad ones.'

The cure isn’t to slow down. That’s impossible. The cure is a heart of wisdom. The wisdom to know that broken dishes, stained clothes, and spilled food are never reasons to lose your temper. The wisdom to know that school assignments can always be done later, after the sun sets and the mud puddles have all dried up. The wisdom to know that every moment is a sacred moment–changing diapers, snuggling on the sofa, swinging at the park, even washing hair. They’re all sacred, if you can just slow down enough to see it.

There will be a last fort with chairs and blankets. There will be a last story before bed. There will be a last outfit put on a Barbie doll. There will be a last swing at the park. We don’t need to know when the last one will be. We just need the heart of wisdom to appreciate each one.

I took a little longer brushing her hair tonight. And I lingered as I put her hair into a single braid down her back. When I kissed her goodnight, it lasted a couple more seconds than usual. Because after seven children and years of thinking I had all the time in the world, I realized something. life will run off with you if you let it. Sometimes, you just have to stop and breathe it in.

Thank you, God, for braids before bedtime. Thank you for messy kitchens and legos on the floor. Thank you for noisy dinner times and late-night conversations, for forts, baby dolls, fingerpaint, and bedtime stories. Thank you for broken wrists and shampoo for brunettes. Thank you for teaching me to number my days. And, God, when I forget, please give me a nudge and number them for me.


---
By Hannah Keeley of For Every Mom

Strange Homes

I just found out about this subreddit today. Figured this would be the best place to get something off my chest that happened about two years ago.

I was a real estate agent in South Florida. 22 years old and really just servicing small rental homes and apartments to make ends meet. Any time a deal would arise that could take minimal effort and pay out quickly, I would definitely do my best to find someone that would be interested in renting it.

One such deal came across my system. No pictures or information about the property, but the home was huge according to the dimensions provided. Literally a humongous three bedroom house going for the price of a cheap one bedroom apartment. I called the listing agent for more details and all I got back was, "send us anyone. We need it rented."

That was all I needed to hear and I set off to find a client for the home. I advertised all over the Internet for it and left my office phone number as a contact point for me. Since the home was so cheap, my cell phone had a tendency to get inundated with phone calls every time I advertised a property so low. Less than 24 hours later, I get a call on my personal cell phone line.

An older woman speaks, let's call her Susan for the time being.

"Hello, I am calling about the home for rent."

"Hi, uh yes the home is still available. Not that I mind, but how did you receive my personal cell phone number? I could have sworn that I only left my office line."

She completely ignored the question and says, "I am available tonight to see it, after dark. Can I meet you there?"

I had a lot of appointments that day and hated showing homes that I had not previously inspected, so I tried to reschedule. She insisted that I show her the house. She said she was serious about renting it, so I accepted.

I get to the home around 6:30, before our 7 PM appointment. The whole lot surrounding the home is pitch black. I get to the front door, open the Lockbox for the keys, and enter the home. Flip the light switch. Nothing. I can't see anything whatsoever. It's then that I switch on the flashlight application installed in my phone. The second I turned it on, I jumped.

There was somebody IN the home. A dark and waspy haired woman with a cane just sitting in the dark. I was so spooked, that I almost just ran out the door. The only thing that stopped me is that she said my name.

"Andrew?"

I was stunned. Frightened. Then I started to put the pieces together in my head.

"...Susan?"

She stood up relying heavily on the cane and extended a limp hand towards me,

"Nice to meet you, Andrew."

I shook her hand, "Pleasure to meet you as well, Susan. I thought we were scheduled for 7 PM. How did you get into the home?"

She ignored me and jumped straight into speaking about the home.

"This is a wonderful home, Andrew."

Let me remind you for a second that the home is pitch black except for the light from my phone's flashlight. I walked over to the next room and flipped a light switch. This time it worked and a small lamp turned on. I looked around the home.

By far the strangest home I had ever been inside. There were dead bugs scattered all throughout the house. Holes in the walls. Old flooring. But even stranger was that the home was almost completely furnished. Couch, TV set, dining room table, bed frame. Almost like someone had moved out and forgot most of their things. The place looked haunted. One thing I couldn't deny is that the home was huge.

"Yes, Susan, the home definitely has strong bones." I said, in an attempt to remain impartial to the house's odd setting.

At this point Susan starts walking around the home. Her cane buckling with her knees with every step she took. It was clear to me, as I had a family member that did a huge 100 mile MS bike run every year, that the woman had multiple sclerosis. Every room we entered, took about 15 minutes to cover. Susan seemed to be completely oblivious to the plethora of dead insects and admired the home at every turn. She was flicking light switches on and off. Checking faucets. Tapping things with her cane. It did take an excruciatingly long time to get around the home, coupled with the fact that I was still completely petrified of the manner in which I met this woman.

After about 90 minutes, she comes full circle and sits back on the living room couch. She invites me to sit next to her, but I refuse to touch anything in this bug infested home.

She finally says, "I want this home."

At this point it's past 8 o clock, and I have a wife and child at home waiting for me. So I say, "Great! I'll put the paperwork together in the morning and we can finalize everything tomorrow."

She says, " Okay. Let me just wait for my friend to pick me up before you go."

I sigh at first due to the exorbitant amount of time I have spent in this home, but I am quickly silenced. No more than 60 seconds later, a husky man walks in the front door. I didn't see any lights on in the driveway and didn't hear him pull up. I have no idea how he even knew we would be done at this exact moment, but he was there. Silent and stone faced. He grabbed her hand and guided her to the car outside. Then, without turning the headlights on in the pitch black driveway, he pulled out into the main road and took off.

When I say I quickly locked up, it's an understatement. I was so frightened to be in this house another second. I don't know what it was, but an overwhelming fear came over me. I could only compare it to being a young child and running upstairs from a dark basement as quickly as I could for fear of what might lurk down there. It was strange. I got in my car and went home.

The next day, I called Susan bright and early. I had committed to no longer dealing with the woman in the middle of the night. If I was going to do this deal, I would do it during the daylight hours. After a couple of rings, she picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Susan! This is Andrew. We spoke yesterday and I showed you the home last night. Were you ready to finalize this deal?
She paused for a second. Then, in a voice so cold that it gives me goosebumps to this day, said, "I don't know any Andrews and I didn't see any homes yesterday. Do NOT call me again."

I sat at my desk utterly befuddled. I was part upset that I wasted so much of my time and experienced the oddities of the night prior, but I was also part relieved that I wouldn't have to see that woman again.

I know this is a long post, but bare with me. This is the part when things got truly weird.

About a week later, I met a young couple. They were looking for a cheap home and had to move in quickly. They didn't even care how it looked, since the boyfriend was a contractor and had no problems renovating the place. I told them to swing by before work and they did. They said the house was pretty dirty, but that they could clean it and wanted to apply for it. I drew up paperwork for them and they were moving in a few days later.

The following weekend I went out with my wife and we were driving. She received a phone call from a weird number and opted to not pick it up. We went about our day. A few hours later I got a call from my mother, who lives in a completely different state. She told me that a woman named Susan called her cell phone asking for Andrew and said she was ready to move into a house.

I was shocked. I had no idea how this woman got my mothers phone number. Later on that night, I got a call from my father saying the same thing. At this point I am completely afraid. I get home and my wife decides to check her voicemail. Lo and behold, there was a voicemail from Susan, asking why I haven't called her back in regards to the home.

I have never been more disturbed in my entire life. I never responded to any of those calls.
  
---
by reddit user Aceyrc
Source: reddit.com/r/NoSleep

My Name is Death

I am tall and slim. I am pale and I am quiet. I have a stooped posture and abnormally long fingers. My name is death.

Many of you do not like me. I have taken many people from you. Loved ones, friends, family. Elderly relatives, young children. Pets, acquaintances. I do not discriminate – I merely do my job.

Many of you do not like me precisely because of the job that I must do, but you do not understand that it must be done. You do not understand what happens if it is not done.

If I do not do my job, people suffer much, much more than is necessary. They sit and they rot – they decompose, alive yet not living. They sit in the armchairs of their retirement homes, slowly wasting away. The babies lie in their cradles, the light gone from their eyes, their souls decaying. The decay of a soul is much, much worse than the death of one.

This is why I must do the job that I do.

This is why I slink around, usually at night but sometimes in the daytime, watching and waiting until it is time. When I decide that it is someone’s time, as deciding is part of my job, I wait until the person is alone. Until the dog is playing in the backyard; until the nurse leaves their patient and checks into the nursing station; until the baby is left alone and unguarded in its crib, babbling softly. Then I creep up to them, the ones whose time, I have decided, has arrived. And I do my job.

I do my job, because I have to do my job. Because it is necessary. After, I slink away, into the shadows, out the door, back into hiding, before the blood of my victims is spotted, before my deed is noticed, before the screams of the friends and families can be heard, or the wailing of the police siren audible.

I do not like the names that they give me in the paper. The names that they give me are wrong. I have but one name.

My name is death.


---
by reddit user fingersforhooves via source: reddit.com/r/ShortScaryStories