Bedtime Stories for Demented Children

The past few years have been an absolute whirlwind for me. For years, I was a struggling writer, dreaming of becoming the next great American author, but I simply couldn't break into the literary industry. I survived for a time on freelance jobs ranging from article writing and blogging to copywriting and editing. They say every dog has his day. Mine arrived nearly two years ago when my debut horror novel, "Fragments of Fear," exceeded my wildest expectations and became an unexpected hit. It landed on The New York Times bestseller list, with reviews describing it as "an atmospheric and chilling journey into the depths of human darkness."

I hadn't reached Stephen King levels of name recognition, but copies of my book were front and center in bookstores. I even got to go on a ten-city book signing tour and participate in a few talk show interviews.

My brush with fame made me weary of the limelight. So, with the earnings from my book sales, I purchased a two-story house in the suburbs. The house wasn't extravagant, but it was far removed from the bustling city and the demanding publishing industry. It became my sanctuary, a place to find solace, recharge my creative energy, and explore my imagination without distraction. It was an older house and required some work, but I was excited at the prospect of making it my own.

At the top of my to-do list was refurbishing the large backyard. I had always envisioned starting a family and imagined barbecues and children playing in the yard. Unfortunately, years of neglect had turned the backyard into a dense jungle of weeds and poison oak.

I spent the better part of an afternoon meticulously mowing the lawn and pulling weeds. Afterward, I began planting a new garden. While digging a hole in the soil for some potted flowers next to an old oak tree, my spade hit something solid. The metallic clang reverberated through the air. Fearing that I had struck a water or gas pipe, I put my spade down and carefully brushed away the loose soil with my gloved hands. What I uncovered was a small, weathered metal box buried just below the surface. The box was light but sturdy.

A blend of excitement and curiosity took over as I gently pried the box open with the head of my spade. Inside was a collection of old black-and-white family photographs of a couple and their young daughter. There were also trinkets, likely of sentimental value to the box's owner: a tarnished silver locket with a picture of a Labrador retriever, a small vial of sand, and a porcelain figurine of a ballerina. Based on the content, I surmised it was some sort of time capsule.

But what made my blood run cold was a sealed envelope bearing my full name and the current date, written in cursive.

This was impossible. Judging by the photographs, the box must have been buried sometime in the 1920s.

I dropped everything I was doing and brought the box inside. Opening the envelope, I found a letter that read:

"Dear Mr. Travers,

If you are reading this, just know that in five days, your life will end. We know this because we were the ones who brought about your demise.

We apologize for this harsh reality but implore you to understand the desperation that compels us. We seek to bring back our daughter, Lily, from the clutches of death, and your sacrifice is the price demanded.

We deeply regret the burden we have placed upon you, extending across time. Please know our intentions are not cruel, but driven by unconditional love. We understand the enormity of this request. May you find some solace in knowing that your sacrifice holds the promise of restoring Lily's future.

With heartfelt gratitude,Evelyn and William Hastings.

P.S. As a small consolation, we have provided you with a glimpse into the upcoming week.

”A separate sheet listed the dates for the next five days, each with a mysterious prediction:

“July 15th: A stranger will cross your path, seeking a favor.

July 16th: A creature of the night will find its way into your sanctuary.

July 17th: The sky will weep for you, but you will find only darkness in these tears.

July 18th: Your most beloved creation will betray you.July 19th: Through flames, a cherished life will be consumed.”

After reading this, I was left in a state of confusion and disbelief. There was no way this letter could be real, I thought. I'd had my fair share of obsessive fans sending me ideas for my next novel or their unedited manuscripts. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that a deranged fan or a prankster with a twisted sense of humor had discovered my new address and devised this elaborate hoax.

Whoever was behind it, I had to give them credit for their creativity. They had the makings of a great horror writer.

I returned the contents to the box, closed the lid, and set it aside. I made a mental note to change all the locks, then returned to my yard work.

The next day, I was busy patching a crack in my living room wall when I heard a heavy knock at the door. I wasn't expecting any visitors, so I slowly opened the door a crack, keeping the chain lock still in place.

Standing on my porch was a man in his late forties, tall and lean, with disheveled brown hair and a scruffy beard.

"Yes, can I help you?" I asked, warily."

Hey, I'm sorry to bother you," he began. "But my car broke down in front of your house. I think the carburetor is busted." He pointed at a blue sedan with its hood popped up and smoke billowing from the engine.

I sized him up with suspicion. I remembered the prediction about a stranger crossing my path. I hadn't thought the letter had literally predicted a stranger coming to my house and asking for help. Instead, I wondered if this guy was the one who had buried the box in my backyard as a prank.

Cautiously, I offered to call a tow truck for him while he waited outside. He happily agreed. I closed the door behind me and called the towing company. The man patiently waited on my front porch until the truck arrived. He thanked me with a smile and left with the truck driver.

For the remainder of the day, I peered out my window to see if the stranger returned, but I never saw him again. I convinced myself that it was just a coincidence. And as far as coincidences go, it wasn't the most absurd. Stranger things have happened.

The following day, the bizarre time capsule and its unsettling prophecy still occupied the forefront of my mind. However, when my agent called, inquiring as to why I hadn’t replied to his multiple emails, I was thrust back into the reality of my professional obligations. The publisher had been breathing down his neck due to my delay in submitting drafts for my much-anticipated second novel. I was contractually bound to deliver a complete draft by the year's end.

"Just one chapter, Alex," he pleaded. "A rough draft, anything. It’ll pacify them for at least a month."

"I'll have it ready by the end of the week," I assured him, placating his concerns.

Secluding myself in my office, I faced my laptop with grim determination. I vowed not to leave for any reason until I'd accomplished a writing goal of 2,000 words.

By 10 PM, I was sitting in the dark with my laptop screen as the only source of light. I had managed to produce only about a thousand words. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic in my small, stuffy office, I opened the window to let the crisp night air sweep in, carrying the scent of wet grass and the faint rustling of leaves. I took a deep breath and leaned back into my chair, closing my eyes for a moment.

Suddenly, a loud flapping sound jolted me back to reality. I jumped from my chair, my heart pounding in my chest. From the darkness of the night, a shadowy figure swooped into my office. Panicked, I ducked, my mind rushing back to the note's prophecy about a creature of the night. Was this it?

The figure collided with my bookshelf, sending books showering to the floor, and hooted loudly, before landing on my desk. Gathering my courage, I switched on the desk lamp. The room was instantly bathed in a warm glow, revealing my intruder—a barn owl.

With an eeriness that sent a chill down my spine, the owl slowly turned its head almost 360 degrees, like a scene out of "The Exorcist," observing its surroundings.

I had never been this close to an owl before, and I hadn't realized how large they could get. This particular one was almost the size of a young child.

"Hey there, easy now…" I said, grabbing a flashlight from my desk. I slowly approached it, still crouched, with my flashlight arm extended.

Before I could get very far, the owl spread its wings wide. With a powerful flap, it took off again, sweeping across my office, flying straight out of my window. My meticulously organized notes fell victim to the gust created by the owl's wings, scattering across the room like confetti.

I poked my head out the window and followed the bird with the flashlight beam. I saw it glide into the treeline. It was slightly unnerving how its flapping wings barely made a noise. It perched on a branch, turning its head around to look back at me, its massive eyes reflecting back my light. I jumped back, shutting the window with a bang.

As I paced around the room, cleaning the mess that the owl had created, I felt a sense of unease. One prediction coming true, I could pass off as a coincidence. But this one was so oddly specific.

I was starting to fear for my life. But what could I do? Go to the police? I would be sent for a psych evaluation before I even finished my story.

I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, I stayed up, researching everything I could find about the history of the house and the family in the photograph. The articles I found about the house revealed that it was built in the 1880s and had changed hands several times before being bought by a young couple, William and Evelyn Hastings, in 1921. They had a daughter named Lily Margaret Hastings in 1922.

I found a news article from 1927 titled "Miracle Child Thought Dead Wakes Up at Funeral." The article revealed that Lily had fallen into a frozen lake when she was five. She wasn't breathing when her father pulled her out and was declared dead. As embalming wasn't common at the time, her funeral was held the very next day. As they were lowering her casket into the grave, mourners heard faint scratching from within. When they ripped open the lid, they found the child shaken but very much alive.

Doctors were baffled as to how she had survived. The theory posed in the article was that the icy water had put her into a deep coma where her breathing and heartbeat were too faint to detect.

The only other significant thing I found was an obituary for Lily from 2019. She had lived a long, full life and passed away peacefully in her sleep at age 97. She was survived by two children, six grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. The obituary noted her love for dogs and the beach, and her career as a professional ballerina.

"That explains the trinkets," I muttered to myself.

The obituary was written by her granddaughter, Hannah Sullivan, who was the local head librarian.I glanced at my watch. It was already 5 AM. Morning brought a dense layer of cloud cover. As predicted, a sudden and violent storm swept over the neighborhood, casting a shadowy gloom that echoed my inner turmoil.

My rational side still insisted that this was all an elaborate prank, but the creeping doubt in my mind was growing stronger with each passing hour.

I reasoned that if anyone had answers, it would be Hannah Sullivan. I looked up the library where she worked and saw that it was only a 20-minute drive away. I waited for the storm to break before heading out. By 10 AM, the storm showed no signs of letting up, but I was desperate for answers. I tucked the letter and photos into my coat pocket and ran to my car.

I drove through the rain-soaked roads, the whippers screeching as they move across the windshield. As I pulled into the library's parking lot, I noticed that it was nearly empty, with only a few other cars present. The library itself was a Victorian building that looked like it had been recently remodeled.

Entering the library, I found it almost deserted except for a young woman at the reception desk. She was engrossed in a book, her glasses perched on her nose and her dark hair tied up in a messy ponytail. I glanced at what she was reading and saw that it was a copy of my book.

I approached her gingerly. I was soaking wet and still unsure of how to explain my strange predicament without sounding stark mad. As I neared the desk, she looked up, setting her book aside and offering me a warm smile.

"Hello," she said, her eyes brightening behind her glasses. "Can I help you find anything?"

"I'm actually here to find Hannah Sullivan," I replied, meeting her gaze. "I read that she works here."

The woman looked at me with suspicion. "May I ask who is asking for her?" She asked.

I knew I couldn’t just tell her my true reason for needing to see her. I had one literal card to play. I pulled out a business card from my pocket and slid it across the desk. She read it, her eyes widening.

"The Alex Travers? The author of 'Fragments of Fear'?" she asked excitedly. She checked the photo on the inside of her book’s jacket to confirm.

I concocted a convincing lie about wanting to research local lore for my next novel, and after offering to sign her copy of the book, she was more than happy to lead me to a small office tucked away in the corner of the building. She knocked lightly on the door before opening it. "Ms. Sullivan, there's someone here to see you."

"It’s Alex Travers," the young librarian added in a giddy tone.

Hannah looked up from her computer screen, surprised by the interruption. She was a striking woman in her early thirties, her ginger hair pulled back into a neat bun, freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her eyes, a brilliant emerald green, regarded me with curiosity. She seemed far less impressed with my presence than her colleague.

"Thank you, Amber," she said to the young woman.

Amber lingered at the door, hoping to be a part of the conversation, but she got the hint to leave when she saw that everyone was just standing awkwardly in silence.

"Mr. Travers, please have a seat," Hannah said, her tone cordial but guarded. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

I sat down in the chair across from her. I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, but decided to get straight to the point. I explained to her that I had recently bought her great-grandparents' house. I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved the weathered photos, laying them on her desk. Hannah's eyes slightly widened as she studied the pictures of her ancestors.

"I found these in my backyard a couple of days ago," I said. "They were in a box buried near the old oak tree."

There was a flicker of surprise on her face, quickly replaced by a look of concern. There was a moment of silence as she traced her finger over the image of the young girl in the picture.

“And the letter…” she started, “Was there a letter in the box?”

I was shocked. I hadn’t even mentioned the letter yet.

“How did you know there was a letter?” I asked, perplexed, handing her the two handwritten sheets of paper.

She examined the letter carefully. “This is my great-grandmother’s handwriting,” she said.

"But… How did she know my name? Or the current date?" I stammered, the fear creeping back into my voice. "I just... I just don't understand."

“I’d heard the stories, but I didn’t think any of it was true…” She spoke, talking more to herself than to me.

“What stories?” I demanded.

Hannah looked at me, her eyes filled with empathy. She sighed deeply and began, "Mr. Travers, my family... has a rather complicated history. My great-grandmother Evelyn was a spiritualist. She held séances, believing she could communicate with the dead. You’ve no doubt read about my grandmother Lily’s story?”

I nodded in confirmation.

"Well, there’s a family legend that when Lily drowned in the lake, her mother made a deal with the spirit world to bring her back,” she continued.

“What was the deal?” I probed.

“A life for a life,” she answered. “Not the life of anyone she knew, but that of someone who would live in the house in the distant future.”

I thought about what she said for a moment, and suddenly it all clicked. “Wait… So you’re saying Evelyn traded my life to save her daughter?” I asked.

“In a sense… yes,” she confirmed.

“This is my life. Do I not get a say in this?” I argued.

Hannah sighed, “You have to see it from her perspective. She was getting her only child back, in exchange for the life of a complete stranger who wouldn’t even be born in her lifetime. What parent wouldn’t make that deal?”

“This is insane! Is there any way to reverse this?” I asked, anxiety in my voice. The rain outside echoed my desperation, fiercely hitting the library's windows.

Hannah’s face fell. “I don’t know. This isn't something I've ever dealt with. As far as I know, no one's ever tried. You can’t just undo three generations of my family’s existence. I…”

Her words were cut off by a sudden crash of thunder. The room darkened as the power went out; only the sporadic flashes of lightning illuminated the space.

“Damn it!” I shouted, more from fear than anger. I got up abruptly, knocking my chair to the floor. “Are you messing with me? Is this your idea of a joke?” I accused, fumbling in the darkness towards the door.

Hannah gasped, clearly taken aback by my reaction. “No, I swear! I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I…”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I pushed my way out of the office, navigated the dark library, and found my way to the exit. Outside, the storm was raging, but I didn’t care. My mind was spinning, caught in a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. The rain quickly soaked through my clothes, but it did little to dampen the fiery panic consuming me.

I sat in my car, staring at the list of prophecies. The next to the last one worried me almost as much as my own impending demise.

As I read the phrase "Your most beloved creation will betray you" one more time, a shiver ran down my spine. My first thought was of my book, my characters. But how would fictional characters turn on me? I wondered.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to piece together the cryptic prophecy. I pored over my manuscripts, searching for any character or plot point that could possibly betray me. I didn't know what I was looking for.

I don't even remember falling asleep, but I was awakened by a news alert on my phone. The headline sent a chill through my veins: "Fanatical Reader Commits Heinous Murder, Recreates Scene from 'Fragments of Fear'." It felt as if the floor had given way beneath me. As I read the gruesome facts of the crime, my heart pounded frantically.

The fan, a man named Robert Miles, was reportedly obsessed with my work, especially the serial killer character, Orion West, from my book. He had been apprehended after strangling his wife, which he claimed was an homage to one of Orion's most brutal killings.

Feeling nauseated, I dropped my phone. My mind was racing.

In a state of panic, I contacted every spiritualist, paranormal expert, and occultist I could find. All were either incredulous, dismissive, or too eager to exploit my desperation. None were able to offer anything concrete or even plausible.

I contemplated boarding a plane and fleeing to the farthest corner of the world. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how pointless that would be. The prophecy wasn't tied to the house. It was tied to me, and there was no escaping myself.

On the morning of July 19th, I woke up with a sense of dread. The final prediction was to be fulfilled that day. Despite the comfort of daylight, the threat felt imminent. The morning passed in a blur, my thoughts consumed by what was to come.

The knock on my door in the afternoon startled me. When I opened it, I found Hannah standing there. Her green eyes were filled with a strange mixture of apprehension and hope. She held an old book in one hand and a large bag slung over her shoulder.

"Mr. Travers, I’m sorry to show up unannounced," she began. "But I couldn’t stop thinking about our encounter yesterday. I think I might have a solution for you."

"Do you?" I asked, trying not to raise my hopes.

"Yes, if I may come in…" she said.

"Please come in," I responded, leading her inside.

Once inside, she laid the book on my dining room table.

"I spent all night going through my great-grandmother’s old books of spells and rituals," she explained. "And I found this…"

She opened the book, directing my attention to a particular page.

"‘Life Transference Spell’?" I read where her finger indicated.

"I believe Evelyn used the spell to transfer Lily’s death onto you," she explained.

"Is there a ritual or something to reverse the spell?" I asked.

"There is, but there's a catch," she replied, looking at me seriously.

"What’s the catch?" I asked nervously.

"If we do this... it will change everything," she warned, her voice grave. "You'll effectively erase all the events in your life that led you to this house, to this moment.”

I looked at her. "What do you mean by 'erase'?"

"The spell, as it works, will shift the trajectory of your life away from your current path," Hannah clarified. "Your memories and experiences – they will all remain intact. However, to the world around you, it will be as if 'Fragments of Fear' never happened. You would have taken a different path in life, one that wouldn’t have led to you writing that particular book and the fame it brought you."

"But... but this was my life’s work, my dream," I stammered, feeling a lump forming in my throat. "I dedicated years to writing, to getting my work out there. And now, you're telling me I have to give it all up?"

Hannah's expression softened, her eyes showing a glimmer of sympathy. “Mr. Travers… Alex… I’m so sorry you had to be put into this position. You did nothing to deserve it. It's an awful decision to make, but there's no alternative.”

Hannah's revelation was a punch to the gut. I had been prepared for many things – a bitter battle against unseen forces, a final plea for mercy to the spirits – but not this. I was being asked to forfeit the very foundation of my identity, my successes, my accomplishments. To live on, but as a phantom in a life that could have been.

“What’s the point of living if I’m left with nothing?” I wondered aloud.

Hannah placed a comforting hand on mine. “I know it’s a lot of pressure to put on one person… But you’ll still have you, with all your hopes, dreams, and passions. You’ll still have the capacity to love, to feel, to experience life... Isn't that worth preserving?” she asked.

I kept my head down, considering my options. Finally, I looked up, meeting Hannah's worried gaze with resolve. "All right," I declared, my voice steadier than I felt. "Let's do it. What do we need to do?"

Hannah let out a relieved sigh before giving me a weak smile. "I’ve brought most of the items we need for the ritual already. We’ll also need a copy of your book.”

“Okay, I’ll get it,” I said.

We cleared a spot under the oak tree in my backyard, formed a stone circle, and built a fire in the center. The sun was already setting when we finished.

Holding a copy of my book in my trembling hands, I exchanged a glance with Hannah. The enormity of our decision hung heavy between us.

“You have to do this. This is your life,” she reiterated, her voice shaking with emotion.I nodded, unable to muster a response.

I held my book over the flame, the heat nipping at my fingers. My heart sank as I remembered the countless hours, days, and months I had invested in creating this story. It was more than just a book to me; it was a piece of my soul. And I was about to watch it burn.

Before I could second-guess myself, I dropped it into the flames. The book caught fire instantly, the pages curling and blackening in the fire. A sharp pang of loss shot through me, but I pushed it aside.

Hannah interlaced her fingers with mine as we watched the fire. The atmosphere grew warmer, the flames reflecting in her emerald eyes. She started to chant in an unfamiliar language, her voice growing louder and more forceful as she went on. I watched in awe as the fire seemed to dance in rhythm with her words. I could hear the echoes of other voices, disembodied and inhuman, chanting along with her.

As she continued, I felt her hand growing cold and her grip weakening. Then, her hand seemed to slip through my fingers like a fistful of sand.

She raised her hand. I could see her horrified eyes through her translucent palm.

"What's happening?" she cried out in terror.

I hesitated for a moment, then turned my gaze back to the flames. Her eyes followed mine. The fire had burned through the cover of the hardback, revealing pages crossed out with a marker and her grandmother’s silver locket hidden between them.

"I'm sorry, Hannah," I confessed, my voice choked with guilt. "I just couldn’t give it all up."

"You... you altered the spell..." she stammered, her form flickering and gradually fading. "You erased my family..."

"Yes," I admitted, my heart heavy. "I had to. You said it yourself, a life for a life.

"The look of betrayal on her vanishing face was unmistakable. She opened her mouth, perhaps to say something, but before she could, she disappeared completely, leaving me alone in the cool summer night. I stood there staring at the flame until it burned itself out. I felt alone, inside and out.

I went back inside and out of morbid curiosity, I looked up the obituary for Lily Hastings. It stated that she had died at the age of five after falling into the frozen lake. There was no miracle. She was simply dead.

I did feel remorse for Hannah. She was just trying to help me and didn’t deserve to be wiped from existence. But I hadn’t asked to sacrifice my life for her grandmother. My life had been hijacked, used, and manipulated. All I did was reclaim it.

My next novel, 'Echoes of the Past,' was another critical and commercial success. The world saw the triumphant return of a favorite author, not knowing the ghosts that lingered behind my success.

Out of a sense of guilt, I dedicated the novel to Hannah Sullivan, Lily Hastings, and all those forgotten.

Original author: PageTurner627

There is a certain critical black mass of condensed human thoughts that, if reached, results in an intellectual entanglement possessing psychogravitational properties: capturing all nearby thoughts and transforming them to reinforce the averaged opinions of the mass, all while allowing each respective thinker to maintain the illusion of his or her cognitive independence.

The entanglement manifests in the world as smog, and is best observed over big cities.

It cannot be moved, affected or destroyed, save by the psychogravitation of an even greater neighbouring entanglement, into which the lesser entanglement shall eventually be subsumed.

There are those who believe that human history is merely the interplay of these entanglements, and that progress itself may be defined as the gradual decrease in the total number of entanglements in existence.

It has been observationally verified that the total number of entanglements is decreasing at an accelerating rate.

The hypothesized end state of the theory of black mass entanglements, and therefore the end of human history (and perhaps time), is what philozoophers refer to as inert uniformity; or, more colloquially, The Gates of Hell.

For further reading, see:

Błłu, Escherery. Particles of Thought

Błłu, Escherery. New Particles of Thought

Ovzvynskii, B-Boris. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was weightless: A Prehistory of Psychogravitation." In The Handbook of Phrontisterical Heresies

van Dyke, Kaye Phillipa. "Black Mass: The Which Over Wichita", Journal of Cognitive Physics 94, no. 2: 131

Original author: normancrane

My family loved decorating the house right before Christmas. It was our tradition and we all were very excited about it. We had a lot of brilliant lights, smiling snowmen and even a huge Santa, that we’d bought over the years. I was glad this year my parents let me and my brother decorate it all by ourselves. I had no doubt we were going to make it the most beautiful in the world. All the decorations made the atmosphere spectacular and the house looked incredible.

I’d always wanted to see my house in the local newspaper, so that everyone could see how amazing it was and appreciate our hard work. But it never happened. It seemed like people didn’t really care, no matter how much I loved it. Yet I wanted everyone to know about it and enjoy it the way I did.

I didn’t let the sadness and hopelessness stop me from adorning the house with all my heart. Everything was perfect, just like Iknew it would be. “I’ve almost finished”, I thought to myself, carefully arranging the last lights.

And suddenly, something told me that our lovely house would be in the papers after all.

I took a deep breath as I pushed my little brother off the roof.

Original author: stefana\_

"..... on my old Kentucky home...."

They still sang the song, even though Kentucky had ceased to exist, along with all the other States, over five hundred years before. They still gathered at the same ancient, oval track, to watch the best horses in the land race, every first Saturday in May. Nearly every other game that had been played in Ancient America had long ago been forgotten, but in the New America, the America after the War of Wars, a fast horse was a highly valuable commodity, and people appreciated the value of breeding, keeping, and racing the animals.

No-one remembered when the hounds had been added to the race.

It had likely been soon after the Great Plague had swept the planet like wildfire, nearly four hundred years earlier. The human population had been severely reduced, and in the new, nearly lawless world, a well-trained hunting hound was as valuable as a swift horse.

The hounds were stationed in packs of four each, at four points around the infield of the track. Great, hulking brutes, they snarled and danced in anticipation.

The twelve colts entered in the race pranced out onto the track, in front of the throng of spectators. Highly bred, sleek, and well-trained as the hounds, they too were keen with anticipation. They lined up at the rope, and at the drop of a flag, tore away down the track, a galloping frenzy of hooves, gleaming hides, and whips.

The first pack of hounds was released just as the horses came into the first turn. At once, the beautifully galloping animals turned into a churning, confused heap of screaming, kicking horses, snarling, snatching jaws, ripping flesh, snapping bones...three colts were dragged down by the pack, and brutally ripped apart. Their jockeys, with nothing but racing whips for defense, were soon torn apart as well.

The rest of the field continued the race. They had been trained to run or jump over the hounds, rather than swerve away, and met the next pack with the same bold gallop. Two more colts and jockeys went down, then another three at the top of the stretch.

The remaining horses thundered down the stretch, the crowd roaring encouragement. The last hounds surged onto the track just an eighth of a mile before the wire, and the jockeys, frantic to finish the race, rained blows down on horses and hounds alike. One colt tripped, and two others, tiring, lagged, and both were gone in a heaving mass of fur and fangs.

The crowd drowned out the rider's cry of joy and relief, as the one colt flew under the finish wire, alone and victorious.

They still, all those centuries later, led the lathered, prancing winner into a winner's circle, and covered him in a blanket of roses. He would be led back to his stall, and tended carefully, like the champion he was.

After all, there were two more Triple Crown races coming up....

Original author: Queenofscots

"You'll know when the right one comes along," her mother had said, all through Renee's teenage years. "Don't be in such a hurry...."

Well, now she had found the right one. He was wonderful, and here they were at the carnival, on a beautiful day, and everything in her world was perfect. She was so absorbed in her happiness, she almost walked right by the little sign...

``` PALMS READ!

Fortunes Told! See What Your Future Holds!

```

Renee paused, but Mike tugged her along: "I already know what your future holds, beautiful," he said, kissing her. But--suddenly, she didn't want to be tugged along, and talked out of a palm reading. She pulled away, almost irritated.

"It'll only take a minute; I want to." and she wisked into the dusty old tent.

It was dim and cool inside, with an odd, spicy smell, not unpleasant. A hideously wrinkled and hunched old woman sat at a little table, and motioned to the chair opposite. She silently held out one claw-like hand, and Renee put a five-dollar bill in it, almost cringing. She felt compelled to hear what the woman would say, however, and let her hand be taken by the crone.

"Ah, you've found The Right One," she croaked, grinning toothlessly at Renee. "I don't see you holding him long, though. Another will come along and take him, if you are not careful..."

Renee shuddered--weren't these fortune-tellers supposed to tell you what you wanted to hear? She tried to pull her hand away, but the old woman's grip tightened painfully, crushing Renee's hand. The ugly old face wavered in front of her, and Renee felt suddenly, horribly disoriented. The fortune-teller's face seemed to melt, and reform into a younger, beautiful one, and Renee stared in shock back at her own face. Looking down, she saw her own hands as withered old claws. She felt stiff, and old....

The thing that now looked like Renee rose, and lithely sauntered toward the tent opening. It turned back , once, and said, in Renee's voice,"Don't worry. You'll be able to switch one day, though it may take a long time. But you'll know when the right one comes along..."

Original author: Queenofscots

Original author: Camiona

“Does it hurt?”

Of course, it does. She never liked syringes.

“Well. There’s not much that I can do about that.”

Silence. She’s bored, clearly.

“The docs are good, right?”

Still nothing. Still boring. Gotta add some excitement.

“Shame, they don’t have a TV in this room. You heard about the last match? Some game it was! De Grandhomme clobbered Stokes for 25 in the last over! And then…”

That should work, right? Talking about stuff that she loves that she hasn’t been able to watch. It works, doesn’t it?

God, I’m stupid.

“Luke Combs released a new single. It's good, heard it on my way over. Here, listen.”

No response. The song didn’t hit her like a hurricane.

Her lips are grimaced. Must be the injection. Never works, does it?

No. Enough with this charade. I pull her sheets back.

They haven’t looked after her well. Most of her gashes are blood-clotted, still healing. Blame is on me, too, I’m lousy with knives.

There! That’s a good one on her stomach, all healed. That’ll work. I pry it open with my knife. Fresh blood gushes out.

Wonderful. I grab the pouch.

“Tada!”

Is that a smile on her face? Well, she should be happy. I’ve had trouble finding her stuff.

“Told ya, I’d work something up. I know, it’s late. I’m sorry, babe. But you know. It’s not easy to find healthy, universal good ol’ O-negative juice in this market.”

Her laceration chugs it down in one gulp. I’m forgiven, I think.

“Hey, listen, I think- “

The slamming of the door breaks our privacy. A nurse.

“Ah, good, I’ve been meaning to speak with the staff. Why haven’t my wife’s wounds been cleansed?”

She looks frightened. “Who are you? What are you doing near Mrs. Sullivan’s body?”

“She’s my wife, alright! And from what I’ve seen, I’m the only one here who’s committed towards her recovery. Now- “

“Why is there blood on your hands? Where did you-”

“Oh, don’t you try bossing me, miss. It’s disgusting, really, your policy towards patients. I swear, the second I’m out of here, I’m gonna drag your sorry asses to court- “

“What patient? Mrs. Sullivan died from a road-accident three-months ago!”

My heart drops.

“What?”

“Internal hemorrhage. A suitable O-negative donor couldn’t be arranged on time. She died. That’s why she’s here- in the morgue.”

Stacy was dead?

Her finger is at the door. “You need to leave. Now.”

This couldn’t be…

“She… didn’t live?”

“I’ve already disclosed too much. Please leave.”

“Three- three months?”

“Yes.”

Wait…

“You’re saying my wife’s been dead for three months? That’s outrageous! I don’t believe you!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan, but- what are you- “

I yank the sheets off Stacy’s body.

“Are you calling this a corpse?”

“I’m gonna have to call- “

“Answer me, god damn it! That- is a dead body to you?”

Pause. “Yes.”

A grin creeps on my face. “Tell me then, miss nurse. I carved this gash on my Stacy three weeks back. To fill her with blood. I was late, I know. But I had to try.”

Her eyes are wide open.

“I would’ve stopped after my pathetic, first try. But then I realized something. Those gashes I made- they were healing.”

My cold voice has the edge of an ice shard. “So I ask you, nurse. If my wife is a corpse. How did the wounds of a corpse heal?”

Original author: Percybhowal

From: Principal Ellis

Welcome to Franklin Elementary School. We are so glad you joined our faculty as our new elementary teacher. Our school is a little different than others, but follow these rules, and your time here with the kiddos will be wonderful!

1. Kids will be kids, so they will inevitably get hurt. If it’s something you can handle, take care of it yourself. There is a first aid kit in each one of the rooms. As thankful as we are for our school nurse, some of her experiments can get out of hand.

2. If a child acts up or performs poorly on an assignment, do not send them to see me. Send them to the cafeteria, and the lunch ladies will be sure to take care of them. We can’t have anyone ruining our school’s perfect scores!

3. As a elementary teacher, your day is dedicated taking care of and teaching the children. Unfortunately, there are no breaks. Any staff member who says otherwise is lying. Do not go with anyone into the break room.

4. You will have 20 students in your class. Make sure no more return to your class after recess. If one slips by you, leave your class and come to my office immediately. You won’t be able to save all 20 children.

5. Do now allow the children to play on the monkey bars any time after 2pm. They are always occupied.

6. Sometimes you will enter your classroom and see only one child seated in the far back corner. This will only happen rarely. When it does, remain calm and go about teaching as if you were teaching an entire class such as putting assignments on each desk, asking questions, etc. Do not acknowledge this student. However, she will say and do anything to get your attention.

7. Only interact with teachers of your same grade level. Other faculty have been given different sets of rules, and you never know what they may do to you to keep themselves safe.

8. Our school is proud to be founded on the blood and sweat of our staff and faculty! Do not look for other places of employment unless you want to be part of that legacy as well.

9. Once every quarter you will have a staff evaluation meeting with me. If you walk into my office and I am writing with my left hand, I am gone. Promptly explain you need to go back to the classroom, and leave. It is imperative that you don’t let him catch you before you make it back to your room. He’ll be watching you from outside, but you’ll be safe as long as you don’t move.

We have our full confidence in you that you will be an effective educator. Study these rules as much as you would study your lesson plan. Good luck!

Original author: parker\_thor789

I'm not crazy.

​

It's just your eyes playing tricks on you, they said. Maybe you need to lay off watching TV before bed? As if what I've been seeing and hearing over these past few months has been all inside my head. How can they dismiss me? How can they not understand the danger I'm in? How can they not comprehend the immediate threat to my very life and ignore my pleas for help?! I'm so very tired, and I just don't know what to do anymore.

​

I'm writing this as a final effort, one more try to figure out what is hunting me..watching me..always watching me.

​

I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy.

​

It started as something I would see out of the corner of my eye, it would be so quick but I know what I saw was real. Over time it became more obvious, the flashes in the far reaches of my vision became quick reflections in the mirror. I'd blink and it would be gone, but the terror of what I saw would remain. I would see its dark, pale, and yet almost..beautiful eyes watching me. Staring at me from vents, from other cars as I drove, in my phone's camera when I'd go to take a picture, just watching me. Always watching me.

​

Forever silent, but so deafening I could not focus on anything else. Invisible to all else around me, but in plain sight.

​

I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy.

​

I tried seeking help. My friends, family, and co-workers all told me it was in my head. that I was making it up. I spoke to the police and I was laughed out of the station. Of course, they didn't believe me. They thought I was playing a trick or that I “might be crazy”. I thought maybe they were right, I sought out the aid of a shrink who was little help himself. I'd lay on his soft leather couch and tell him about the things I'd see. All while those dark, pale eyes and beautiful eyes were watching me.

​

Always, always watching me. It never sleeps, it never blinks, it never breaks its gaze on me and I even see it in my dreams.

​

I'm. Not. Crazy.

​

Now I'm just..so tired. I'm so tired of trying to explain, trying to rationalize, and trying to fight. I'm just so very tired. I can see it now, it's right in front of me. I see it as clearly as I can see this screen. It's staring at me over my laptop as I write what was supposed to be my last-ditch effort for help, for an explanation. Now, I think this shall be my eulogy. I feel a sense of calm washing over me as it's beginning to creep towards me. I can see all of it now. It's horrifying and yet...magnificent. All this time, I was afraid. Afraid of why it was watching, always watching.

​

Now, it's offering a hand. It wishes to take me away from all of this. As I stare into it'd dark..pale..and beautiful eyes. I feel...I feel...nothing. Absolutely...nothing and it's so...it's...so...peaceful.

​

I'm...I’m...not..crazy.

Original author: thedreadfiles

One day there was no street, and the next day there was. Freshly paved, with a sign and a name. A new street isn’t amazing, of course, it’s just something that happens. But when it seems to happen over night? Well, that’s odd, but not the kind of thing people really wonder about. The typical response is, “Huh, when did they put that in?” accompanied by a shrug.

Some people, however, are always curious, and other people just need to go in that direction. So, down the street they’ll drive their cars, looking ahead, looking around, not really paying attention to how the curbs begin to rise and move closer, quickly becoming much too cramped to turn around in. Or how the manhole covers grind open, all on their own. Or how the sewer grates widen and leer like hungry old men with cracked yellow teeth. How they hiss.

If you happen to look down the street from outside at that moment, you might see those cars stop and begin to back up in alarm. But then, if you blink, the street will be gone.

To where?

You never know. The next time it appears, in another place, it might look like it’s been there for years. It might be paved, cobbled, or made of dirt. It might even have a different name. Perhaps something other than Swallow Street.

Or perhaps not. Streets like that are funny.

Original author: IPostAtMidnight

It’s always two in the morning when I would usually wake up because of my blanket shifting beside me. I would open my lamp to check but before I could, her little arms would start to hug me.

”Mommy, I can’t sleep again.”, her voice was so scared and sleepy at the same time that I hug her back and hum her favorite tune until she would finally fall back to deep slumber. This has been happening for a few weeks and I actually got used to it.

I would open the lamp then and check if everything was okay with her, like I did every night. I’d caress her face, kiss her on the forehead and then she’d wake up. ”Something wrong, honey?” I’d ask her and she would gently shake her head and stand up.

She would walk out, stop at my door and wave goodbye with her golden hair, still braided with red ribbons and that pink flowery dress she was buried in, last month.

Original author: None

What does it take to kill?

The thought resounded about my blank mindset almost as loudly as my voice against these concrete walls.

What does it take to kill?

I thought it over.

For some, it only takes a dagger in hand and a chest full of rage. For others, all it takes is a misplaced pill, dropped in a drink. For the professionals, all it takes is a wad of cash. For not so professionals it might only take a gun. Even for the lesser, it might only take one needle too many, or one pill too few.

A part of me pondered why I was haggling myself like this. Why ask?

But all the same, the question bounced about my mind.

What does it take to kill?

What does it take to kill?

I paused.

What did it take for me to kill?

I sighed.

Such atrocities had been committed. A mother, child, a pensioner and a father. A whole family. My friends. Slaughtered. And all it took, all it took for me to kill, had been three bottles of beer.

And some car keys.

Original author: Mr\_Halloween

It was a beautiful night for a walk in the small town of Albion. A married couple walked down Main Street, hand in hand. They were so focused on each other they barely noticed the group of strangers standing at the end of the sidewalk. He smelled them before she saw them. A gasp escaped the wife as they stopped abruptly in front of the strangers. They did not move, they only stood there and stared at the couple with lifeless eyes.

“Excuse us.” The husband said.

“To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” Answered the stranger in the middle. He was holding something, it looked like a lighter.

Suddenly, there was a scream from the next street over and a burst of light could be seen through the houses. It was then the husband realized what he had smelled.

“To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” All the strangers chanted in unison. The spark from the lighter set them all ablaze and the couple screamed as the burning group ran towards them.

The Preacher watched the town burn, from high up on a hill, with a twisted smile. The screaming was only slightly muted by the crackling of the growing inferno. The smell of gasoline watered his eyes and burned his nostrils. He could taste the ash in the air and he felt the glorious heat even from this distance. All of his senses were ablaze and he could barely contain his excitement. Soon he would be the only one left. Then, he would move on to the next town, where he would share his doctrine. And Spread The Light.

Original author: Sebastian\_Wolf

"Here, have a turn on mine...." sleds flew down the hill, and were dragged back up, in an endlessly moving parade. Cassie had just moved to Pennsylvania from Florida, and was loving winter-time more every day. Sledding, snowball fights, sliding on the frozen pond....

The kids in her neighborhood all seemed pretty nice, happily introducing Cassie to the fun of a cold-weather winter.

So Cassie was surprised that none of the kids would play with the small girl who showed up, quietly standing at the edge of the group with her sled.

"It's Maria! Don't talk to her, just pretend she's not there...."

"She'll go away, as long as nobody talks to her....."

They all seemed almost nervous, and shortly after little Maria's arrival, they all left, hurriedly tripping through the snow to get back to their warm houses.

Cassie stared indignantly after them. She hated to see anyone being picked on. She tried a smile, and Maria smiled back, pointing to her sled.

"Do you want me to sled with you?" Cassie asked.

Maria nodded, and they dragged the sled uphill. Cassie squeezed on in front, and away they went.

The sled was breathtakingly fast. Cassie squealed in delight....

It was terrifyingly fast. Almost unnaturally so....Cassie couldn't get enough breath to squeal, and through streaming eyes, she saw that the sled was heading towards the pond.

The ice, which had been so solidly strong all week cracked treacherously as the sled careened onto the pond. It seemed to open like a great mouth, and Cassie felt icy water swallow her....

Maria wasn't in the water. Cassie could see, hazily, a small, lone figure, watching from the pond's bank, but she was too numb to even call or struggle.....

``` *********************************

```

The neighborhood kids looked solemnly out at the pond the next day. It's surface was clean, unbroken, and fresh snow covered all the previous day's tracks.

"Maria got another one", one of them whispered.

"We tried to tell her...."

"Come on, try to forget about it. Here, you can have a turn on my sled....."

Original author: Queenofscots

I tried to contain my excitement and stare out the window. I was waiting for my daughter. Every year she had made a card for me on valentine’s day .

It had all started with the valentine’s day 17 years ago, when the nursery teacher had asked the class to make cards for people they like. While the rest of the class had made cards for their friends and classmates, my Sona had made one for me. She had run to me that day after school, proudly presented her work and said, “I love you the most, papa”.

Ever since then, it had become a tradition of sorts. During the first week of February, she would hide in her bedroom and work on a beautiful card and handcraft a gift for me. At dinner, I would try and guess what she would give me . It was a delight to see her dissolve into giggles and turn red with joy. She would then surprise me on Feb 14 before leaving for school.

Things changed last November. She was driving home in the night when she was hit. Died on impact, they said. The other driver was drunk, hadn’t paid any heed to traffic signals and had just rammed into her. He was apprehended, but what was the use of it? A life gone can never return.

I was devastated. 20 years is all I had with her. I’ve done everything to stop myself from going mad. I cremated her, put her ashes in an earthen urn and buried it in a rose garden nearby. I regularly visited her there and watered the shrub growing over her ashes.

However, today, I’ve had this warm feeling within me. That Sona will come and present me with a card as she always did in the past.

I wasn’t wrong. While eating my dinner, I heard a knock at the door. There was noone when I looked through the peephole. I opened the door to find a yellow rose on a mound of dirt.

Original author: He\_Who\_Must\_B\_Named

...not dead but dying."

"Want me to play it again?" the fat man asked, his hand hesitating above the audio cassette deck.

"No," the blonde woman answered, trembling. "The meaning's clear. We need to tell Father—

The cop paused the VCR.

The faces on the TV monitor froze: distorted, fuzzy. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, Larry," he said. "Do you recognise either of them two?"

Larry looked down at the empty cup on the table in front of him. He'd been here for hours. "I swear to God I don't know nothing."

The cop sighed and looked at the far wall.

On the other side of the two-way mirror, a pair of bored detectives chewed gum.

"What if he's right?" one asked.

"He ain't. Don't believe a word comes outta that dirty cultist's mouth."

"But—but…" Larry said from the other side of the glass.

"But what?" asked the cop.

The two detectives stopped chewing, leaning in closer.

"...is it true? Is it really goddamn true?"

There was a pause.

Then: "Fuck!—" The lights dimmed. "I fucking forgot my line."

"Again?"

The actor playing Larry got up and kicked the wall. It wobbled.

"Easy there," said the director, entering the set.

"My memory…"

The director patted him on the back, whispering, "You were golden. You'll be golden again." And, turning to the remaining cast and crew: "Fifteen, everyone. We'll pick up on the suicide scene."

—and cut!" yelled the movie director.

Everyone relaxed.

The PA refilled the cup on the table behind which the actor playing the actor playing Larry had been sitting.

A blonde woman ("Excuse me, Mr. Evans—") came up to the movie director; but he ignored her, brushing past to confer with the DP.

Or he tried brushing past her:

Because they had gotten in each other's paths. Immobilised, with their torsos caught in a jagged, looped motion; jagged, looped motion. "Excuse me, Mr. Evans—" "...use me, Mr. Evans—" "4bu53 m3, mr. 3v4n5—"

The programmer punched his keyboard.

The screen flickered.

The error message mocked him.

He'd run it a thousand times. It had to be sabotage.

He ripped off his headphones: his head filling with the incessant clicking cacophony of keys depressed on the keyboards in the cubicles beside his, and the ones beside those, and…

Imagined that the entire floor was a neighbourhood /

A city /

A planet /

An entire galaxy /

Maybe even the universe /

Buzz. Buzz. Someone's cell

seen under microscope ("Malignant.") in an operating room by masked figures, standing beside a body on the operating table.

"Weak but stable."

"He'll exist," one of them says, stretching her glorious wings.

[...]

In a white room, God lies bound; His bandaged wrists saturated with ichor; His face as smooth and featureless as a lightbulb, save for a sole central eye. Every few moments, the eye blinks: disturbing existence, like the drop of a single tear into a still pond; creating waves: sound waves, which say: "I am God. I am...

Original author: normancrane

Leslie Franklin was a stupid, selfish, inconsiderate woman. She was a terrible wife and a worse mother. She had no job, no maternal instinct, and no sense of responsibility. Instead of being a parent, she leaned on her mother, father, and husband to take care of her three year old son Joey.

One hot summer day after the temperature had peaked to 102 degrees (Fahrenheit) and while her husband was at work, she decided to rendezvous with her boyfriend on the side. She had been sleeping with this man for six months under her husband’s nose. Leslie strapped young Joey into his car seat in the back of her 2002 Chevy Cavalier and pulled out of the garage. She must have been terribly excited to see her beau because when she arrived in his driveway she ran inside leaving her son in the car with the windows rolled up. Just a few hours was all it took for the heat to bake little Joey and when she returned later that evening she found her son dead, still strapped into his car seat. The paramedics arrived far too late to revive him.

She took her own life just a few weeks later. Her friends and family said it was grief, but in reality it was shame and fear of the legal ramifications she was facing that drove her to do it. Her husband sold the vehicle to a used car dealer in Dayton and moved half way across the country to start over, hoping to purge all memories of the nightmare that had become his life.

How do I know all this you might ask? The answer is simple. I bought that 2002 Chevy Cavalier from the used car dealer in Dayton and Joey tells me this story every time I drive it.

Original author: Vincent\_VenaCava

BUTTERLY HOUSE!

Beautiful Butterflies From All Over the World!

Exotic, Newly Discovered Species!

"Mommy, can we go in here?" Penni had been dragging her mother around the carnival for nearly two hours. Relieved at the thought of a short break, her mother agreed.

"Enjoy, ladies!" the elderly man taking their tickets smiled.

Penni burst through the tent flap enthusiastically, running ahead of her weary mother. "Honey, wait--don't touch any of those bugs--", but Penni was already giggling delightedly as a small flock of colorful butterflies fluttered daintily around her.

""Mom, they're just butterflies, sheesh! Butterflies never hurt anybody," at nine, Penni was all fearless curiousity, and she held her hands out to the lovely, bright green greatures that were beginning to swarm towards her. They flew in pretty, circular patterns over her head for a few seconds, then began to land on her hands and arms. She noticed that the other butterflies seemed to flit away, as more of the green ones came toward her. "Hey, don't chase the others away!" she said, laughing....

Her laughter was choked off abruptly, as she felt a hot sting! on her shoulder. "Hey! Ouch! Mom! I think a bee must've-- OUCH! Hey, get offa me--OUUUUCH! MOM!" Hot little stings suddenly were injected into her, all over. "Honey, are you all ri--", her mother's concern was cut off as she, too, was suddenly covered by thousands of jewel-bright, fluttering wings. "PENNI!! RUUUUN!"

Penni was helpless to answer. Her throat was swelling up, and when she tried to open her mouth, the nasty creatures started crawling in, stinging all the while. Penni's arms and legs began to feel heavy, she was dizzy, and she could see nothing but the flicker and flutter of green wings. As she and her mother collapsed to the ground, the butterflies began to stop stinging, and start inserting their proboscises into the rapidly softening flesh of mother and daughter. Several minutes of slurping later, the only thing that remained was their blood-stained summer sundresses.

An hour or so later, the tent flap opened again. The elderly man looked in, nodded, walked calmly over to pick up the rumpled, ruined clothing. The lovely green butterflies hovered amiably around his head, and he whistled cheerfully as he stuffed the dresses into a plastic bag. "All right, you lot, you've eaten for the week, now tomorrow, remember, back to fluttering nicely, all right?"

Almost as if they understood every word, the dainty creatures lit sweetly on his arms, then flew gently away, circling in pretty patterns as they went.

Original author: Queenofscots

\_Beep!\

You have 7 New Messages.

First Message at 10:43 pm

“Hi Stacy, its Troy from the 3 Kings Bar. Yeah, so just got those digits from you and I didn’t see you leave, so I’d thought I’d hit you up. Just wanted to apologize again, for spilling that guy’s drink on you, he should have realized that you were taken and that I was busy working my magic, haha. Anyways, I’m just chillin outside the bar right now. They won’t let me back in after pushing that guy away from us. Again, sorry if I lost my cool, I don’t ever yell in people’s faces like that. Well, just hit me up for that coffee later.”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 11:11 pm

“Hey Cutie, it’s Troy again. Didn’t want you forgetting about me…where did you head off too? Maybe we can finish that dance at another place? It’s getting a little boring out here. I hit up another bar to grab a drink and this skank tried to ask me what time it was. I knew what that slut was trying to do; she was trying to get yours truly. Don’t worry baby, I’m all yours. Left that bitch high and dry. Soooo, where you at? Call me.”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 12:04 am

“Staaaaccccyyyy, it’s your man, Troy. Girl, where you at? I hope you’re not trying to ditch me. Hey, where bout’s do you live again? Maybe we can have us a night time romp, if you know what I’m saying, haha. If not, that’s cool. I’m just playing with you. I am, the truest of gentlemen babe, trust me. Seriously though girl, hit me up. Let’s see where love takes us, haha. Call me.

\_Beep!\

Next Message at at 12:47 am

“Stacy! I don’t know if you’re trying to play me but I swear we had some kind of connection back at the bar. I can’t just ignore that. You and me girl, we were meant to be together. I felt it once I saw you and when we started vibeing together on the dance floor. I remember every beautiful detail about you and I can’t get you out of my head. I even remember where bouts you said you lived…412-something Kressner St. right? I hope you call me soon. I’m struggling over here without you. I keep rubbing the spot on my cheek where you kissed me. Damn, you have some soft lips. Just want to kiss up on them…forever. Don’t ignore what we found Stacy. Hit me up!”

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 1:10 am

(Heavy breathing…………………………………………)

\_Beep!\

Next Message at 1:52 am

“…I thought you were the one Stacy. I thought you were the girl to pull me out of all this bullshit, finally bring some happiness in my life. Not like all those other bitches. They all just laughed and took advantage of me. They took my shit, my heart, my life…NO MORE! I’m tired of these games. I’m out here to find love and when I do, you spit it back at me. Right in my FUCKING FACE! FUCK YOU STACY! BURN IN HELL BITCH!

\_Beep!\

Last Message at 2:30 am

“Hey girl, sorry about all that…must have forgotten to take these pills my doc keeps on prescribing me. It’s nice finally being able to take them by choice, rather than a couple guys holding me down and force feeding me, haha. By the way, I didn’t know you were a dog person. Yours is such a cute little bastard. Well, I hear you fumbling for your keys at your front door. Can’t wait for us to finish that dance…”

Original author: theangrygooch

Mary awakes to the sound of dripping water. She doesn’t bother her mind with the question of where it is coming from, all she can think of are her newly installed hardwood floors.

“Mommy, I’m cold.” The little girl cries, standing at the foot of Mary’s bed. The dripping was still there, driving her crazy.

“Grab an extra blanket from the closet and go back to bed sweetie.” Mary says to her daughter. She doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance from her voice. Of course, the girl doesn’t listen to her and makes her way around the bed. As her little feet pitter patter across the floor, Mary can only hear the sound of the water dripping onto her floor, ruining them!

The little girl crawls into the bed and snuggles up next to her mother. Mary doesn’t open her eyes, but she does put her arm around her daughter, reluctantly. She really is cold Mary thinks to herself.

Not for the first time since the birth of her child, she is filled with an overwhelming dread and anger. The doctors told her that the postpartum depression was normal, that it would go away after a little while. Maybe that would be true if her husband hadn’t abandoned her. Now, here she was, four years later and she still couldn’t look at her child without feeling grief and sadness. She felt something new now, as she held her little girl, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Was it guilt? Why would she feel guilty? Suddenly, as she gains full consciousness, a memory buried deep, resurfaces in her mind.

It was a cold night, she remembered the hypothermia setting in as the police officer wrapped a blanket around her soaking body. She remembered the sadness in the officers eyes when he told her that they found her daughter still in her car seat, strapped in the van. She didn’t remember driving into the freezing lake, but she did remember telling her little girl to stay calm and stay in her seat as she climbed out of the sinking van. As all of this comes back to her, she becomes fully aware of the cold, wet child she was holding in her arms.

“Sweetie?” she whispers with a shaking voice. The apparition begins to turn, her wet hair wrapping itself around Mary’s arm. When she is fully facing Mary, she opens her eyes. They are pure white and water is leaking from them, pouring down her face. She opens her mouth and let’s out a flood. she then makes a gurgling noise and whispers, “Why did you leave me mommy?”

Mary is frozen with fear. Her body shakes involuntarily from the cold, she is now soaked from head to toe. The girl whispers her question again but Mary can’t open her mouth to answer. Suddenly, the water stops flowing from the ghosts mouth. She opens her mouth much wider than should be possible and let’s out a wailing scream.

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME MOMMY?! WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME??” She repeats this question over and over as water fills Mary’s lungs. Her vision begins to blur and she feels water leaking out of her ears, muffling all sound. The last thing Mary hears is a giggle from her daughter.

“Now mommy will never leave me.”

Original author: Sebastian\_Wolf

"The only way to conquer your fears, Brad, is to face them", Daddy said. He was gathering some things together in a box as he spoke: a couple of clown dolls, a ventriloquist dummy, a stuffed monkey with a horrid, leering grin, three old Halloween monster masks....all things that gave Bradley the shivers.

"My father always told me that, Brad, and it's true. And do you know what he did?" Brad, seven, shook his head. He didn't really want to know what Pop-pop had done; he just knew that he was getting worried about what Daddy was planning to do with all those creepy dolls and things.

Daddy grinned. "He made me face my fears. He locked me in my closet with all the things he could find that I was afraid of, and made me stay there all night, every night, till I could go in there at night without being scared. That's why I'm not scared of anything now."

This was true, Brad knew. Daddy wasn't scared of anything at all. He drove recklessly, even around curves, making Mommy scream, and laughing at her. He picked up spiders, even big ones, and dangled them in Brad's and his sister's faces, chasing them around the house. He even would chase them with a red-hot poker from the fireplace, and giggle while they all cringed.

"So, Bradley, now it's your turn! We''ll make a man of you yet, son!" Daddy arranged all the horrible props in the closet, and grabbed Brad by the collar when he saw Brad starting to edge away. "Now, don't worry! I survived it, and look at me! This is the only way to conquer your fears, trust me." He pushed a pale, sick-looking Brad into the closet.

"Oh, I almost forgot...one more thing." Daddy reached back into the box, and took out a jar with several large spiders in it. "We can't forget the spiders!" He emptied the jar into the far corner of Brad's closet, then backed out. Brad was weeping, nearly paralyzed with fear. "D-Daddy? P-p-please don't..."

But it was no use, he knew. He'd tried to escape Daddy's lessons before, and it only made the next lesson that much worse. He curled into a helpless, weeping ball, and Daddy locked the closet door, chuckling. "You'll grow up into a fine, brave man, just like me! Goodnight, Brad."

Original author: Queenofscots

“Have you seen my son?” asked the frantic woman to the old lady across the street

“No, sorry dear” the old woman replied

“Have you seen my son?” the woman asked the local police officer, more terrified this time

“No, I’m sorry mam, but we’ll search right away” the officer replied

“Please…please tell me my son is in there” asked the woman to the mother of her son’s best friend

“I’m really sorry Clarice, we haven’t seen him” the mother replied

The woman searched everywhere, ran through every part of the street, screaming, “Where is my son”.She was crying, pulling her hair out of despair. Her neighbors, out of pity, helped her in her search

“JIMMY, JIMMY! WHERE ARE YOU! PLEASE COME OUT!”

Every day, from 10 in the morning till 8 in the evening, the woman would leave her house, looking like trash. She looked like a risen corpse; Pale skin, frizzy hair, and her skinnier body. She screamed at every part of the town, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SON?”

Alas at the second week of her search, everyone must have thought that she'd already gone crazy.

She went to the local police department again…

“Have you seen my son?”

The officer in charge left out a deep sigh, “I’m sorry mam”

The mother walked home, looking depressed. But as soon as she closed her front door, a smile painted across her face.

With a smirk, the woman whispered to herself.“I guess I hid his body that well"

Original author: badfakesmiles

David unfolded the letter gingerly, trying not to touch it any more than he had to. God, why couldn't she just leave him alone? But no....

My Dear Son,

How are you? I never see you anymore. Are you getting my letters? I never hear from you, and nobody tells me anything here.....

Blah, blah, blah. Fucking old bat. Why couldn't she just die already?

I'm hungry a lot here. I don't think they bring meals as often as they should, but you know how forgetful I am...maybe I just eat and then forget I ate.

"Forgetful? Fucking senile, more like it." But then, she'd never been a great mother-- with her string of ever-changing boyfriends, going out drinking and God knew what else, leaving David locked in the house....

And there was never enough to eat--bags of chips, maybe, or a fucking Happy Meal, when she remembered in her alcohol-addled brain that she had a child to feed. But now she was the one locked up, having to wait for someone who might or might not remember to bring her a meal, or clean up after her. Too senile to realize she was in her own bedroom, instead of the senior home.

Too senile to realize she was being slowly starved to death....

For Christ's sake. David refolded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope, re-sealing it carefully. He took out a pen, and wrote "ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN--RETURN TO SENDER" on it, and shoved it back under his mother's locked bedroom door.

Original author: Queenofscots

Why can't they just provide more lighting? Everyone knows how unsafe parking lots are - there have been enough debates about it. Enough data provided. How many more missing and murder cases until this city decides to make CCTVs in lots mandatory!

The sound of my heels hitting against the cemented floor echoed as I walked towards the car. It was so deserted - I could hear the elevator music as it stopped at the floor above me. I must hurry up.

God! It's so easy for a person like Dev to overpower me from behind. Or just slide into my car. I had caught him staring at me so many times. Not like my manager cared. Apparently that was no reason to ask for a change of cubicles.

As I sat inside, I made sure that everything inside was as it was before I came in. Locked the doors and put my head down. I took deep breaths and tried not to look outside.

The lewd comments at the office parties, all passed off as drunken jokes. The persistent proposals. The snide remarks on women. The hints at how my career can really take off if only...

Worst was when he tried to pull me away towards his car a week ago as I was walking in the same lot! Not that the management believed it, anyways.

There's only so much that I can take.

Suddenly, the door opened. As Dev made himself comfortable behind the wheel, I came out from the shadows and placed the cool stainless steel under his chin.

Maybe it's a good thing that there are no CCTVs here.

Original author: He\_Who\_Must\_B\_Named

For as long as I can remember, I’ve sat steadfast by my master’s side. I have revered him for his many precious gifts of love and affection. The man has taken me to interesting places and showed me things which I wouldn’t otherwise know. For all of those wonderful traits and others, his benevolence is unquestioned. I always lie at his feet and patiently wait for him to arise. Then I lick his hand when he offers it, in my loyal tribute.

In truth, my master always smells like a spring meadow. His familiar soapy scent has washed over my olfactory sense a hundred times as it passed through my nostrils. I’ve sniffed his fragrant skin until it’s permanently etched into my mind. There‘s no question of his identity. It’s definitely him lying motionless on the floor. Unfortunately that ‘spring meadow’ now seems like it has a ‘decaying elk carcass’ lying in it.

I’m starting to get very hungry. I’m losing confidence he will feed me anytime soon. I’ve licked him a dozen times to wake him up but he just lies there. Why is he ignoring me? I’ve whimpered and barked with increasing fury but he still hasn’t moved at all. With my stomach rumbling furiously now, I don’t know how much longer I can wait; but what choice do I have? I’m starving and he just lies there like a selfish jerk! I want to paw and bite him in anger for making me suffer like this. The fact is, he doesn’t really smell like himself anymore. I’m starting to forget who he was. All I can think of is the room temperature meat lying on the floor.

Original author: OpinionatedIMO

Yeah, man, so I’m using this telescope I found at a garage sale-

Wait.

Wait.

Holy shit.

Did the Eye of Jupiter just fucking blink?

Original author: QuestionerOfTheTower

I've always loved this place.

I've lived here for a few months now, I guess, pretty much all by myself. No landlord ever shows up. No new tenants. Just an empty, cheap, apartment building, a little run down, but perfect for me.

And my life's work. The walls are thin here, so the isolation is welcome. No nosy neighbors to hear when things get a bit noisy, which they sometimes do, if a gag isn't tight enough, or someone manages to slip a restraint, and go thumping around, trying to get out. I don't blame them for wanting to escape, but they all have done wrong, and need to be punished. That's what I do. I capture the wanton, the greedy, the vain--sinners all--and bring them here, and give them their just punishment.

And if they don't survive? Well, no great loss. The world is better off without them. They wait, tidily bound and bagged, in the empty apartment next door, till I have a chance to drag them away.

It's very gratifying work, improving the world, and thin walls or no, I've never had a bit of trouble. No-one is close enough to hear or see anything suspicious.

Just the last few days, though, I've been hearing some odd sounds myself, coming from over there. Muffled voices, whispers. Thuds. I've gone and checked the whole place, but find nothing.

I know I've been careful to cover my tracks. No-one could've found me out. I know my "storage space" is empty; I dragged the last two girls out last week and buried them. And I refuse to believe in vengeful ghosts, but those whispers--they sound like....scheming. They sound sly.

Now it's evening again--I don't have electricity here, and my candles are making odd shadows, and the thumps and whispers are starting up again. Scraping sounds, too. And a knowing little taptap on the wall, by my kitchen table. Fear is such a foreign feeling to me, but it comes creeping in from the corners of my room, and I wonder if I really did bury those girls, all of them, or if they are still over there, waiting for me, and wanting revenge.

I've never been afraid before.

I am not losing my mind.

taptaptap

The walls are so thin here...

Original author: Queenofscots

The children were playing tag nearby. I saw one girl trip, fall one hand on the ground, catch her balance and run on. As she ran, she looked at her hand, looked around to find the adults, and turned; the group moved this way. She broke away, ran up and hit me on the forearm. "Tag", she said, "you're its". I reflexively corrected her, "you're it". Her smile vanished. "No." she said, and looked down at the mark on my arm. "You're its".

Original author: Pohlcat

It started on my 16th birthday. It was my first birthday since mother died, and father and I sat at the kitchen table, picking at the dinner he’d made, and trying to pretend we didn’t miss her smile, and her laughter, her decorations and special chocolate cake. Birthdays were always mom’s favorite, and she never failed to miss one. She always made me feel so special. I wanted her back so badly.

But that night, as I lay in bed, drifting off to sleep, a grim vision of my mother appeared to me. She sat in the chair across from my bed, a corpse with her head partially caved in from the car accident and her once beautiful smile transformed into a grimace now that rot had eaten away her soft lips. She watched me silently. I stared back, my body cold, and waited for her to fade away, sure that I was dreaming. But she remained that night, and every night since.

Every night, when I turned out the lights to go to sleep, her eyes would glow dimly in the dark of my room. Sometimes I would wake in the night to find her face floating silently just inches above mine, the moldy smell of her hair ripe in my nostrils. It would seem that mother was watching over me as I slept, and while that thought should be comforting, there was nothing in my heart except terror. On those nights, I would silently roll over and bury my face in the pillow, choking back terrified gasps and struggling in vain to slow the beating of my heart. It always took me a long time to get back to sleep.

I was relieved to finally go away to college, hoping she wouldn’t be able to follow me, and for a while things went back to normal. But on the night of my next birthday she returned once more, startling me into a scream when I felt her stroke my cheek in the dark. My roommate was oblivious both to her presence and the smell of an open grave that permeated my sheets and clothing, but I could feel and smell her everywhere. No one else seemed to notice. My grades suffered, and my hair began to fall out in clumps from the stress. Eventually I dropped out of school.

I’m almost 34 now. It doesn’t matter where I go; she finds me every year on my birthday. I’ve learned to plan well in advance, and if I move within a day or two afterward, I can get a little peace for almost the whole year. I even managed to finish school – online, of course, since I can never stay one place for more than a year. Until my next birthday. Until today. Dear Christ, is it time again so soon? I quietly finish a solitary dinner, and watch some television, but my eyes keep flitting to the clock on the wall. 9:45. 10:08. 10:36: the time I was born. The moment she brought me into the world. The stench of old decay fills my nostrils, and I feel the spongy flesh of her hand fall softly on my shoulder.

Hello, mother.

Original author: wetmosaic

We're a small family of four: the two of us and two kids -- four and three years old. My daughter is the older one and for the last year has had nightmares off and on. Some mornings I'll wake up with her wedged firmly in between my wife and I, which is fine. We've all been there. I have no problem with it.

What I do have a problem with is when she walks in twenty minutes after we've turned the lights off and the house is dark, just to stand next to the bed on my side and stare at me. I get the sensation that I'm not alone and wake up with a dark little silhouette right next to my face. Although at times it sends me into a slight panic or at least, leaves me with slight chills (not very manly or dad-like I'll admit), I'll break the silence. "Yes, sweetie?" She'll usually ask me if I'm awake and tell me she had bad dreams. I'll let her climb into bed with us at that point and that's the end of it.

Well, last night, the same thing happened. I got the uneasy feeling I wasn't alone, my eyelids opened and there she was again -- a dark little silhouette mere inches from my face.

"What is it, sweetie?" I asked.

No response. Just silence. Then it clicked that both my kids were staying with my in-laws for the night.

I no longer wonder why my daughter wants to sleep in our bed. I was able to reach up and flip on the light, but of course there was no one there. However, I looked down the hallway and into my daughter's room and the silhouette is standing in the door way and hasn't moved for the last hour.

I think it's waiting for my daughter to come home.

Original author: tortuga\_de\_la\_muerte

My wife has always liked Pixy Stix. It was fine at first. She’d have one every once in a while. Then she’d need one after every meal. I thought she was going through a phase.

That was when I started noticing that there were massive wads of crumpled up Pixy Stix wrappers buried in the trash where she thought I wouldn’t notice them. I started looking at the online grocery orders she was placing, and she wasn’t getting packs of Pixy Stix. No. She was getting cases.

She was going through two packs a day, like a lifetime smoker. And, honestly, if there was a way to smoke Pixy Stix, I wouldn’t put it past her. It was getting out-of-control.

I had to do something.

Sitting in bed one night, I knew it was time to talk to her about it.

“Honey, it seems like maybe you’re having a little bit of trouble with controlling how many Pixy Stix you eat.”

“Oh?” she asked sweetly. “And why do you think that?”

“Well,” I said, “I did the math, and you averaged over a hundred and fifty Pixy Stix a day last week.”

She just laughed. And when she turned to look into my eyes, I knew something was wrong.

My wife has beautiful hazel eyes. Rich browns with a hint of green. But when she looked at me, her eyes were the bright powdery blue of Maui Punch-flavored Pixy Stix. When she breathed out, a cloud of mist came out, like it was cold, but our room was a perfectly comfortable temperature. And the cloud of mist was the vibrant chemical purple of Grape-flavored Pixy Stix.

“Maybe,” she growled, “you should mind your own business!”

“I just worry about you, hun,” I said.

“Worry about this,” she roared. She opened her mouth so wide, it seemed like her jaw had unhinged, and brightly colored powder began erupting from her mouth like a Pixy Stix volcano. It pumped out fast as a fire hose, blasting me off the bed. As the powder began to flow off our bed, I started to back away from the bed and towards the door. The air was full of a cloud of flavored dust, and it got into my nose and eyes, causing my face to burn. The flow wouldn’t stop, and as drifts of Pixy Stix dust as deep as my thighs began to form up in our bedroom, I bolted. Running through the living room, I kept on running to my daughter’s bedroom.

Yanking the door open, I grabbed my daughter from her bed and began to run again.

“What’s going on?” she mumbled, a mix of sleepy and afraid.

“Just hang tight, kiddo. I’ll explain when we’re safe.”

When I reached the living room again, huge waves of Pixy Stix powder were flowing out of the bedroom, creating a rainbow-colored tide. I waded through the powder, yanked open the front door, and with my daughter in my arms, ran out into the night.

WR

Original author: WendigoRoar

That's what they told me.

An incident. An accident. Like it was some freak of nature thing that no one could have predicted. Prevented. Just destined to be.

An incident.

That was the same thing they told my sister when Steve finally put me in the hospital. Shattered collarbone, busted lip. Black and blue from tip to tail.

It was my fault he'd gotten out of it that time around. I'd taken off in his car and wrapped it around a tree about a block away from our house. No one believed me when I told them the injuries had happened first, all because of the five of glasses of wine he'd pressured me into drinking while he played nice for dinner.

It was when I turned down the sixth that he'd thrown his glass at my face.

An incident. Just destined to be.

My sister believed me, thankfully, even when the judges didn't and I was granted visitation rather than custody of our eight year old son. He'd always told me he had friends in high places. He'd always said that if I left that he'd destroy me.

Say what you want about Steve, but he's not a liar.

I existed in my sister's spare bedroom, while living for supervised visits with Bailey. It was impossible to explain to him what was happening, why mom couldn't come home. So I just held him, read to him, fought back the tears that burned my eyes every time I saw his round red cheeks and big blue eyes.

The nights were the worst. I couldn't sleep without seeing Steve's face, his fist, feeling every pinch and shove and blow I'd acquired over the years. During the day I job hunted, kept it together, but as soon as the sun set I started to shake as if something deep inside of me wanted out.

One night I grabbed my tennis shoes, and every evening since I did my best to find relief in the worn dirt paths of the park down the street. To outrun the sneered barbs and insults buried deep within my psyche.

My family hated it. They said it was dangerous. There was a small creek in the park leading off into the rain drainage tunnels under the city. Some ten years back a girl, Emma Wilson, had been found dead inside them. Her parents moved away shortly after and the neighborhood never really recovered.

How could I explain to them that that small rush of danger was the closest I felt to home since my face had hit the steering wheel?

Besides, I didn't have much of a say in it. My feet moved underneath me and I was helpless to follow. One second the scratchy fabric of my floral comforter was prickling at my arms, the next the wind was rushing past my ears. Trees and playground equipment darted by me in a blur and I didn't come to until I was huffing, hands on my knees, staring into the dry creek bed and the black abyss of a tunnel at its end.

Time moved slowly during those long, lonely nights. Sometimes I lost minutes, sometimes hours. Each night drew me closer in. Once I pulled out of my daze while teetering over the jagged rocks, nearly ready to dive in face first to the stones below.

It was a night like that when I got the call. My cell phone sprung to life in my pocket and consciousness crashed back into me. Mud squelched beneath my shoes, and the darkness was heavy, suffocating. I blinked and realized the tunnel was right in front of me. Somehow I'd ended up in the creek without realizing it.

Another ring sent me scrambling, raising the phone to my ear with trembling hands.

I'm sorry, ma'am. There's been an incident.

A new kind of numbness settled over me, into my bones. I was completely aware but frozen in place, gaze pulled into the tunnel as if it were a black hole as the police described what had happened to my son. My Bailey.

Eventually the line went dead, the phone dropped from my hand. Eventually I was shaken out of my stupor by a different police officer, one called by a neighbor awoken by the sound of screams echoing off the stone like a ping pong ball.

"I can't believe our boy is gone." That's what Steve said to me at the hospital, wrapping his heavy arms around me like a straight-jacket. Tears streaked his face, but his eyes were as empty as ever. I swore I could make out the hint of a smirk on his thin lips.

He'd been running around the pool late at night, that's what they told me. What Steve told them. Snuck out and slipped in. He was gone before the ambulance made it on the scene. Steve was a hero, apparently. Performed CPR until they pried him off of our son's cold body.

They didn't know that Bailey hated the pool. He was scared to death of the water ever since Steve pushed him in as a joke four years earlier.

The only ones that knew that were me and Steve.

Before we left the hospital he leaned down close to my ear and said, "If only his mother had been there to watch over him."

Already slow days moved even more sluggishly after that. Each movement was difficult, like crawling through molasses. I was trapped in a viscous grief that was determined to pull me under.

But at night, I still ran. I still ended up at the tunnel. Each day I drew closer to it, until I was at the mouth of the tunnel, and then several feet inside.

Just before the spell wore off and I found myself back inside my body, I swore I could hear the sound of Bailey laughing in the distance.

"I'm worried about you, Meg," my sister told me over lunch one day. It was actually breakfast for me, considering I couldn't drag myself out of bed until mid-afternoon, but Rae dutifully whipped up some eggs and sausage anyway. God bless her.

"Huh?" I mumbled between small bites, staring off out the window.

"Meg, look at me."

I blinked, rolled my head slowly to the side. Just that small movement felt nearly impossible, an uphill battle. I could see my sisters face, but it felt so far away, bathed in a strange sepia hue like I was looking out from an amber cage.

"You're streaking mud in every night. Staying out till dawn. I know you have so much on your mind right now. I can't imagine how difficult this must be. Maybe it's time you talk to someone."

Her words sounded like static feedback in my ears. I struggled to pull the bits and pieces I caught into something coherent.

"I'll clean up the mud," I said, before dropping my fork and retreating back to my bedroom.

I curled up in the rocking chair sitting just in front of the window, wincing against the bright daylight that rested outside of it. I could see the park in the distance, bright green and filled with life, children squealing in the play area. During the day it lost its pull on me.

My eyelids grew heavy. Just before they slipped close I caught sight of Steve's red Ford parked on the street a couple houses down.

My dreams were filled with Bailey’s laughter and a teenage girl standing at the mouth of a black hole, motioning me forward.

By the time my eyes fluttered back open the sun had dipped low in the sky and Steve’s truck was gone. Had I imagined it there in the first place? It was possible. Everything these days seemed to exist somewhere on the cusp of fantasy and reality, sleeping and awake.

I’d woken earlier than usual, of that much I was certain. I didn’t notice what had woken me until several seconds later when my ears caught my sister’s hushed whispers down the hall.

“It’s time for a restraining order, Dad. This is the third time I’ve caught him.”

I let her words fade back into oblivion and slipped on my running shoes. Her back was turned as I snuck past her open bedroom door, cellphone shoved against her ear. I crept down the stairs and out the door without a sound.

As soon as my feet hit the cement, my body kicked into action, knowing exactly what to do. Exactly where to take me. The last remaining tendrils of light cast gloomy shadows off the houses and trees and kept me in my body as it pushed forward. I sucked in the hot summer air, grateful to feel sticky droplets of sweat dripping from my forehead.

Even with a vague and unwanted level of consciousness, I was still drawn toward the tunnel, helpless to the gravitational pull that it had over me. I stood on the jagged rocks overlooking it and closed my eyes, taking in the peaceful, distant sound of laughter.

And then two strong hands planted themselves against my back, shoving me forward.

My heels dug down into the stones below me, but with nothing to find purchase in I jerked over off the side of the wall. A shocked squeal escaped my lips, only to be cut short as I hit the muck-covered cement that lay below. I threw my arms out to cushion the fall, and groaned, low and distant as my elbow took the brunt of the impact and snapped like a twig on the forest floor.

"Megan." Steve's voice floated in the air above me like a storm cloud, electric and ready to burst. "I think you and I need to have a conversation."

My groaning turned to whimpers in my throat. That sentence, so familiar, was like a blow on it's own. Be quiet, it told me, be small. If you do what you're told, it will be over soon. If not…

His loafers crunched against loose gravel as he started down the slope. They'll get dirty, the voice told me, and it's all your fault.

I pulled my feet underneath of me and pushed up with all my might. That voice, it wasn't mine. I used to think it was, but through the space, through the grief, I knew better now.

It was his.

I turned toward the dark of the tunnel, my only way forward. The last remnants of daylight refused to puncture the darkness but for a split second I swore I could see something poking out.

A stark white hand gesturing me onward.

I stumbled forward, bracing my broken elbow against my body as I went. Steve splashed down in the rancid water behind me just as I slipped through the opening, swallowed whole. Every time I'd ended up in the tunnel beforehand I'd done so in a near dream-state, wandered out with the flashlight on my cell phone and a tingling fear deep in my gut. This time I was running in blind.

But so was he. Blinded by the darkness and his own rage, I heard him thrashing behind me, cursing.

"Megan, get your ass back here."

But my body knew what to do. For real this time, not the false reaction he'd beaten into me.

I ran.

A blinding light tore through the tunnel from behind me. I ducked around an upcoming turn, sticking close to the wall, fingers brushing against it to keep myself steady. The walls were lined with layered, colorful graffiti.

R.I.P.

It all ends here.

Emma, can you hear me?

Can you hear me now?

I kept moving.

Steve rushed at me, gaining ground. I had practice and familiarity on my side, but his legs were longer, his rage cleaner. Soon I was farther in the tunnel than I'd ever been before.

Up ahead there was a sudden hole in the wall, a small hallway jutting off to the left. I took the turn so fast I bashed my right shoulder into the wall, making my elbow scream in protest.

There was no time to slow down.

Without the flashlight shining behind me I was blind again, shoving through the inky blackness like a linebacker until the floor gave out from underneath me and I found myself tumbling forward once more into a basin of stale water.

I sucked in a breath involuntarily, quickly sputtering and coughing to expel the liquid from my lungs. Light burst into my peripheral as I staggered to my feet. I spun in place, searching for another hallway to duck into. All I saw were grimy stone walls and more graffiti. My eyes caught on a stick figure in a dress, two large X's in place of its eyes.

Goodbye, Emma.

A splash from behind pulled attention away from the wall. Steve was in the water with me, knee deep and livid. The shadows cast from his flashlight made his eyes seem darker, rabid, like two more little dark tunnels running through the sockets. How had I ever looked at this man and thought he was handsome? Thought he was kind?

"I'm sick of this shit, Megan," he huffed, water rippling around his knees as he stepped forward. "You're coming home tonight. That's final."

"You killed Bailey!" I sobbed, sloshing backward. "You killed him, Steve!"

He scoffed. "I killed him? I killed him?! A boy needs his mother, Megan. You took that away from him."

My head bobbed violently back and forth. "No, no…" I hated how small I sounded, how quickly he shook my foundation.

I took another step backward only for my calf to catch on something thick under the murky surface of the water. I began to tilt backward just as he rushed me, burying his hand in the collar of my shirt and yanking me forward.

"You think I wanted this?" he sneered. "You think I like what you make me do?"

Whatever was behind my leg shifted, shuddered, rippled against me. The sensation sent a burst of bile rushing up my throat, before a slap across the face brought me back into the moment.

The thing jerked back behind me.

I started to tumble again. This time my husband followed the movement, letting me collapse to the ground. He fell with me, knees landing on either side of my body until he was straddling me in the water, fists still clenched against the side of my neck.

"He needed you, Meg. I needed you. You selfish fucking bitch."

He shoved me down, under the thick dark water. I gasped in a breath just before I went under, and it was as if it brought a small bit of fight back into me. I trashed wildly, kicking, clawing, bucking like a bull.

He stayed firmly planted on top of me, his distorted shouting bubbling just above the surface.

Pushing against him was like pushing against a brick wall, and so my hands flailed outward, searching through the muck for anything I could grab ahold of. When one landed in something solid I wrapped my hand around it and pulled with all my might.

My chest began to burn, lungs screaming for air. Just when I was sure they were about to explode he released me, falling backward away from my body. I rushed to the surface, gasping desperately. He was gasping too, I realized, sprawled out on his ass in front of me. A dark, mottled figure with blond matted hair and red marks around its neck sat kneeling between us, back turned to me. It, she, was naked, skin bloated and greying, raising one arm in Steve's direction.

The other was still gripped tightly in my hand.

I dropped her arm, a deep tremor rumbling through my shoulders. Steve's black-hole eyes were wide as baseballs, fixed on her. There were four long gashes in his cheek, leaking crimson blood into the sludge below.

The figure rose to it's feet.

It was just a girl, I realized, thirteen at the oldest. Even with her back turned a wave of recognition washed through me. That blonde hair, those angry ligature marks. I'd seen her face countless times before, staring out from the missing person posters scattered around my sister's neighborhood even long after they'd discovered the body.

Emma.

I stood as well. All the fear and adrenaline that'd been rushing through me cooled to a distant whisper through my veins. I heard Bailey's laugher echoing off the rounded walls, and I smiled. She'd been trying to bring me here all along.

We both stepped forward, Steve scrambling back. I wrapped my hand around hers, squeezing slightly, smiling down at her. Her face was only a shadow of the pretty girl she'd once been, her lips cracked and peeling, busted teeth poking out from behind them. But looking at her I couldn't help but think of my Bailey the first time I held him.

"Emma," I said softly. "I'm here now."

She let my hand fall, jerking forward in a burst of speed. I barely saw her move until she was on him, thin boney figures wrapping around his neck, broken teeth sinking into his cheek bones. His screams were as sweet as children's laughter, until she dunked him under and those screams became garbled white noise.

I knelt down beside the two of them, she pulled him up to look at me. It was like staring into my own eyes for so many years, scared and helpless and oh so confused. It made me smile. I reached out to brush a hand along his bloody cheek, and then leaned in close.

"Fuck you, Steve."

I jerked my hand back and let it crash back into him, reveling in the crunch I heard as his teeth broke loose and cut his lips.

And then I stood and let his whimpers fade into the distance as I made my way back out of the tunnel.

The sun had fully set by the time I made it out. A cool, lovely breeze blew through the trees, rustling my damp hair. Even with my clothes sticking against my skin, I felt lighter than ever before. Free.

I couldn't wait to come back the next day to thank Emma for everything she'd done for me.

My sister was waiting at the dining room table when I made my way back into the house. She gasped, taking in the blood and dirt soaking my clothes.

"Oh my god, Meg," she said, jumping to her feet. "What happened?"

I smiled.

"There's been an incident."

Original author: AM\_Hathazard

My sister Anna and I were thick as thieves, though she was twelve years older. She was a rebel, in and out of trouble. I wore her hand-me-downs and aspired to be her, someday.

When I was twelve, my parents told me Anna's secret. She was my mother, not my sister, and they'd raised me because she'd had me way too young. It explained some of her difficulties, they said, some of her reckless behavior. It was time I knew the truth.

"Who's my father?" I asked, but they didn't know. They said she spoke about a demon who came to her room and impregnated her. They assumed she was trying to protect someone, some shitty teenage boyfriend.

That night, I gave Anna a hug and told her I knew, that it was okay, that I loved her. "I can't believe we aren't sisters," I said. "It's so weird that you aren't my sister."

Anna cried a little, and whispered, "We are sisters."

"No," I told her. "They told me the truth. They told me you had me when you were my age. It's okay. I love you. I forgive you."

"No," she repeated, and held me tighter. "We are sisters, too."

My heart leapt to my throat, knowing Anna had been my age, knowing a demon lay sleeping down the hall.

Original author: zcharlie3

Are you reading this on your phone?

Do you have the light turned down as to not disturb the person sleeping next to you?

Do you bring the phone closer and closer to your face as your vision blurs when you get sleepier and sleepier?

Are you laying on your side?

Is the charger plugged in?

If you answered any of these questions with "no";

then it’s not you I’m watching.

Original author: EdgarAllan\_Poet

The world of TikTok and Snapchat and whatever other emerging social media platforms, that my 11 year old daughter watches has always been something, I found as being childish and didn’t interest me much.

However, when online news media outlets, like Yahoo and MSN would derive their stories from TikTok, then I said why not and at least give TikTok a try.

I was pleasantly surprised by TikTok on its numerous topics people post about everything from cats, to military, to true crime video posts.

Some of the posts on TikTok, I do find childish, but eventually TikTok has filtered them out and honed in on the things a 38 year old guy likes, like true crime mysteries. I love watching videos on people who have mysteriously vanished or grainy footage of unknown suspects, who have never been caught.

So given that my daughter has just left a few hours ago for a weekend retreat at a Girls Scout camp, I decided to indulge on TikTok.

The old Girl Scout leader, Macy had gotten diagnosed with cancer, so she had to regrettably step down, but thankfully another mother has volunteered to step in as the new leader.

With my now separated wife, Sheila, who is still “trying to find herself,” I am just happy that my daughter, Grace has something to do this weekend, rather than just mope around the house feeling depressed.

The new leader, Carol was nice enough to pick up Grace, along with her own daughter, Raquel and another girl named Amanda, as well and drive them to a campground in the Poconos.

Carol sold me on her years of being involved with the Girl Scouts, so I’m going to do nothing more than relax this weekend.

I start to swipe through TikTok videos and find mostly crime related posts that I have seen already, so I decide to expand beyond the people I’m following to see what’s new on TikTok.

A post came up that caught my attention, because it said “Girl Scout tragic camping trip” that was posted by @serialkillerblossoms. I really didn’t want to watch the video because I didn’t want to get paranoid and draw parallels to the possibility that something similar could happen to Grace on her current trip.

But whoever coined the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” probably was thinking of some numbskull like me.

I clicked on Part 1 of the video that was posted five days ago, which showed the outside of a small yellow unmarked school bus. The creator of the video then showed the interior of the bus, which looked like your typical smaller bus with about six rows of seats. The camera person pointed to various video cameras installed throughout the bus. I wasn’t sure the intent of this Part 1 video. I didn’t know if this bus was part of a crime that had happened in the past or just some type of converted recreational RV.

My interest was weaning, but I decided to click on Part 2 anyways.

This time the bus was moving and I could make out kids on the back of the bus. The video camera was by the driver and I couldn’t make out much more than there was about three kids sitting on the bus. Then with just a few seconds left on the TikTok post, a different camera angle is shown.

As I’m sitting on my living room couch, I start to make out the faces of the kids. They appear to be middle school aged girls and something inside me tells me to look at when the video was posted, which was three hours ago.

When I see girls that are around my daughter’s age, I typically get a sense of empathy because whatever is going to happen in this series of TikTok posts, isn’t going to be good and I never want anything bad to happen to my daughter or anyone else’s kids.

But this time, my brain couldn’t get over a hump, because one of the girls looked spot on to Grace, however I didn’t want to commit to this theory, so I played Part 2 again.

Unfortunately, I can’t fast forward the video, so I have to wait again for the last few seconds. As I’m waiting, my mind is going through the what if’s. Most importantly what if that girl is actually my daughter?

As the video nears to its end and zooms in on the girls, my worst nightmare comes true as I take a screenshot of the video. My daughter left wearing a Niagara Falls souvenir sweatshirt that she bought a few months ago. Also, the two other girls look like Amanda and Raquel.

My thoughts instantaneously go to, why is my daughter sitting on a bus and not Carol’s car? And why is someone videotaping the girls?

I quickly click on Part 3 of the video series which was posted two hours ago.

This video shows the three girls still sitting on the bus, where each of the two other girls are sitting on the isle ends of the back seats and my daughter is sitting right in front of them. I could tell right away by my daughter’s facial expressions that something isn’t right. Grace isn’t crying, but I could tell that she looks like she is confused and scared, where Raquel and Amanda have the same frightened facial expressions.

I really start to panic as I reach for my phone and attempt to call Carol.

“I’m sorry this phone number your trying to reach is no longer in service, goodbye.”

“What the hell!” I say out loud in a confused tone.

Then, I try to call Grace’s phone which goes straight to voicemail.

I fall deeper into this nightmare as I frantically try to find the phone number for Amanda’s mother. Grace’s mother, Sheila used to deal with all the Girl Scout issues, so I’m limited with contact information. Luckily, I am able to get into Sheila’s email account, where I look for Girl Scout names and phone numbers. I find Amanda’s name with her mother, Joy’s phone number, so I quickly dial the number.

“Hello, Joy! Listen this is Grace’s father, Ted. Are you aware of Carol taking the girls on a little yellow bus to the camping trip?”

“No, Carol picked up Amanda in a blue Mercury Sable! Why do you think there on a bus?”

“Listen, your on your cell phone right now, Right?”

“Yes!”

“I’m going to send you a TikTok video, please watch the video and call me right back.”

“Sure, send the video!”

As I sent the video, I didn’t know what my next step should be, but calling 911 was definitely going to happen in the near future.

Within a couple of minutes, I get a return phone call from Joy.

“Ted what’s going on? Why is someone filming our daughters?” Joy said in a hurried frantic voice.

“I have no idea, but I don’t have a good feeling about this!”

“Did you try calling your sister Carol?”

“My sister? She ain’t my sister! She’s Raquel’s mother!”

“Ted, that woman Carol told me that she’s your sister, when I met her before the camping trip!”

“Well, She told me that she’s Raquel’s mother!”

“Oh my God! That woman isn’t Raquel’s mother!” Joy said in a perplexed tone.

“Oh God! Who is that psychopath? You know that Grace’s mother, Sheila used to go to all of the Girl Scout meetings, so I’m not familiar with all of the parents!”

“What do we do?”

“Im going to call the police!” I said.

“Okay and I’ll call Raquel’s mother!”

I’ve never called 911 before and I’m nervous to begin with, so calling 911 makes me even more nervous.

“911 - What’s your emergency?”

“My daughter went on a Girl Scout camping trip with two other girls and a woman ‘Carol’ who has seemed to have lied about her identity!”

“Okay so what’s the emergency?”

“I came across a TikTok video of someone posting the three girls on a little yellow bus and not the blue Mercury Sable that Carol picked them up with!”

“Okay, so what are the girls ages and what are they doing in the TikTok posts?”

“There around 11 years old and they all look nervous and scared!”

“Okay, so could they just be nervous from being away from home?”

“I suppose, but this woman ‘Carol’ lied to me and said that she is the mother of one of the girl’s, but she’s not! She told one of the other mother’s that she is my sister which obviously isn’t true!”

“Okay, sir I’m going to send an officer over to your house because there’s kids involved, but we have a really busy night with a lot of things going on, so it might take a while for the police to show up to your house!”

“Wait! What? Why?” I responded.

“Listen sir, you haven’t told me anything that sounded like your daughter or the other girls are being harmed, so we have to prioritize our available police officers.”

“Listen, i didn’t give that woman permission to videotape my kid and I’m certain these girls have been kidnapped and I have no idea where they’re going!” I say in an angered tone.

“Well sir, I have a daughter that’s in the Girl Scouts and I have personally experienced when the leader’s are dealing with multiple parents, that sometimes things get lost in translation, so I wouldn’t rush to judgement yet! All you have is your daughter on a TikTok video sitting on a bus going on a Girl Scout camping trip where she would understandably be nervous!”

“Listen, my house address is 664 Mockingbird lane! Hurry up and send someone over!” I said in an angered tone as I hung up the phone.

The video cameras on the bus are pointed in a direction so the viewers can’t see the outside of the bus, so I don’t even know if they’re heading to the Poconos.

it’s pretty much dark outside now which worries me even more. It’s such a sinking feeling seeing that my daughter is in danger.

I look to see if Part 4 has been posted and it has, so I click on it.

Again the girls are being videotaped as they’re just sitting on the bus. The unnerving thing is that none of the girls are talking to each other. The three of them look like there completely petrified doing nothing more than just looking straight ahead. The girls remind me of the war videos, I watch of D-day in how my daughter specifically had that same doomed look as the soldiers had, while they sat on the transport boats waiting to storm the heavily entrenched beaches.

The video was posted less than an hour ago and this video is darker than the others, so I could tell that the video was actually taken about an hour ago.

My phone starts to vibrate as I see that it’s Joy calling.

“Hey Joy Listen, I called 911 and they’re sending someone over but apparently they have more pressing issues!”

“More pressing issues! What the hell is more important than three girls being kidnapped?”

“The 911 operator thinks that a crime hasn’t necessarily been committed or that this isn’t an emergency situation. She thinks the girls could just be looking nervous because their scared about going on a camping trip and being away from their parents!”

“Well who the hell gave that ‘Carol’ permission to videotape my daughter and post the video on TikTok and who the hell is ‘Carol’? And why is she using @serialkillerblossoms as a username?”

“You know, I was so frustrated with the 911 operator that I didn’t even mention her username, but I doubt that wouldn’t of made a difference. @serialkillerblossoms is a new account and only had the four videos posted. There’s not too many people, who have viewed the videos so far, which is good because I don’t want them to be taken down for violating a TikTok policy!”

“Ted, I really don’t have a good feeling about this! Should I drive to the Poconos to the Red Squirrel campground?”

“The thing is, you can but I’m not sure If the bus is even going to that campground or even to the Poconos! The campground is less than two hours away, so they should of been there already!”

“So what should we do?” Joy asks me, while I can hear her crying over the phone.

“Who is this ‘Carol’ person?” I ask.

“I really have no idea! When Macy got diagnosed with cancer, her story was plastered everywhere on Facebook and the fire company even had a fund raising dinner for her to cover her medical expenses! So she could just be some random psychopath that came across Macy’s story and figured ‘hey this is my opportunity to kidnap some kids!’”

“What is her motivation? Is she trying to get TikTok famous?”

“Getting TikTok famous for kidnapping girls and taking them on a camping trip?” Joy said while still crying.

That’s when it dawned on me the naive mindset that Joy was having. I’m guessing she hasn’t seen the countless videos of the horrible-ness this world has to offer, like the idea that there’s people who kill just for some type of sick fun, like that eerie picture of the notorious serial killer, John Wayne Gacy, who is dressed up as a clown for a kids performance. Joy hasn’t paid attention to the fact the hashtags #serialkiller and #crimevideo were used in the video posts, hence why they came to my video feed.

If I thought that this ‘Carol’ person was just videotaping them going camping, I probably would be a little mad, however nothing about her actions or the videos point to her future actions as being harmless.

While I’m on the phone with Joy, I see Part 5 has been posted.

“Listen Joy, Part 5 has been posted, so I’m going to hang up and watch it. I pray the girls are alright. Try to find any possible information about that ‘Carol’ woman, Bye!”

I really didn’t want to play Doctor Phil with Joy as I know my daughter’s faith rests in the hands of these video posts.

I click on Part 5 and besides the light from the video camera, I could tell that it’s pitch black outside. The video camera pans the surroundings area, as I see a thick Forrest with nothing more than trees. I haven’t seen the girls yet, so my heart is beating double time.

The camera eventually shows a makeshift campsite with a small fire burning. Based on the remoteness of the surroundings, I’m certain that the video is not of the Red Squirrel campground and is probably in some very remote area, based on the thickness of the forest.

The camera turns it’s attention to the small fire pit and then to a small two person tent. I can hear the camera person breathing heavy as she walks towards the tent.

Every single inch of me is experiencing absolute terror as I don’t know what’s inside the tent, because so far I’ve seen no signs of Grace or the other two girls.

The tent slowly opens up and I start breathing to the point where I could go into convulsions at any moment.

As the tent is opened, I let out a sigh of relief, as I see the three girls are partially sitting up in the cramped tent, but then my heart sinks to my feet as I see there helpless facial expressions.

I focus in on Grace, as I see that her eyes are watery. She looks like she had seen the inner belly of hell and is too terrified to move. The camera moves from left to right as I notice the two other girls have the same petrified face as Grace.

Not a single word is said in the video and I feel angry and completely helpless as I scream out “don’t you fucking harm my daughter you son of a bitch!” Then the video ends.

Original author: mtp6921

Times were tough. It was no secret I was miserable. A cloud of gloom followed me everywhere, including my job. A relationship breakup like mine would put anyone to the test and frankly, I was failing it. Still, I had bills to pay and it wasn’t going to help if I gave up and stopped getting out of bed. Each day I’d drag myself to the office and go through the motions like a zombie. I know my performance and attitude suffered but I didn’t care at the time. Much of the occupational grief and aggravation of the nine-to-five grind involved being employed so a person could afford nice things and have a fulfilling relationship with a significant other. Once the relative rewards of that dynamic went out the window, so did my motivation to work.

I guess it’s a testament to my ability to do my job well, that I wasn’t fired outright after I went off on a difficult client. Behavior like that was a threat to the corporate ‘bottom line’. Obviously they didn’t want that. Apparently they didn’t want to let me go either. Instead, management tried a very unorthodox tactic which I only found out about much later. They actually hired a temp to ‘romance’ me, and boost my ego. It’s called ‘the girlfriend experience’ because it is supposed to feel ‘real’. It’s far more than paying a person to be intimate with me. That stipulation wasn’t even in the contract. Legally it couldn’t be. They just paid her to pretend to be infatuated and smitten. How she managed to achieve that artificial flattery was her business.

I must say, it totally caught me off guard. In all fairness, I might’ve recognized the ‘snow job’ a mile away if I wasn’t deeply sad and emotionally vulnerable. Instead I ate up the attention with a spoon. They were smart enough to not hire a supermodel. They found a lady that was probably in the top register of who I might’ve had a chance with in real life, if I tried really hard to woo her. Not that I had to, mind you. She was the definition of a ringer. I gotta say, it takes a certain skill set to seduce a person with that level of believable sincerity. I totally fell for it.

They brought her in to the office and assigned her to assist me on a big account. At first, it pissed me off. I didn’t care that she was attractive and working extremely closely with me. I resented the idea of having to hold anyone’s proverbial hand in training her to be actually helpful. To my relief, she was a quick study and eager to learn. Knowing what I know now, I still marvel at the theatrics and lengths the company went through to insert this woman into my life. It is kind of flattering to know they orchestrated the whole thing. I know it was only about the money I normally brought in, but it makes me feel damn important.

‘Missy’ was coy at first. Respectful and aloof even. She maintaining a polite distance while giving off a slight smitten vibe or schoolgirl crush. Like a big knucklehead, I swallowed the performance hook, line, and sinker. The truth is, I wanted to believe. Honestly, who in their right mind would’ve suspected such an elaborate hoax for my behalf? it wasn’t long before we were sneaking off after hours to see each other socially. The whole time, I was scared to death they would send her back to the temp agency.

Inter office romance is strictly forbidden by HR so we kept the relationship a secret as long as we could. Once we had moved past a certain point, I didn’t care if anyone found out. I was finally happy again. By all appearances, she was too. I eventually asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Of course I didn’t know it was originally an arranged fling, so I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was about to lead to an arranged marriage. The thing is, at what point does the facade cease to be worth playing along with for the corporate payout? Even for a person pretending to be interested in me, at some point, you’d think she would call the whole thing off, right? Either that or invent an excuse to break things off and still maintain the original deception.

Here was an actress who entered into a contract to perform as ‘my girlfriend’ and then (for whatever reason) kept up the pretense long enough to marry me. At that point I still didn’t know the truth. I would have expected my employers to come clean then but it had went too far. It’s one thing to pay for a brief little office ‘flirtation’, it’s quite another to keep silent while their gullible employee committed to a legally binding contract. I was blissfully happy and absolutely ignorant to the disturbing truth. She was everything (I thought) I ever wanted.

Believe it or not, she confessed the whole organized charade on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary! I was gobsmacked. I thought it was part of some prank or practical joke but she was dead serious. My whole world crumbled. Our three children were grown up and already out of the house. I’d made partner with the firm and yet, I found out the last 25 years of my life were based on some bizarre farcical performance script. Missy explained that while she had entered into the contract just trying to be a professional actress, she soon developed sincere feelings for me. On one hand, after admitting it started as an elaborate seduction hoax, it was hard to believe anything she said. On the other however, I’d had a quarter century of marital happiness and fantastic kids. Was she finally telling the truth, or was she still acting as a consummate professional actress dedicated to the role?

I thought long and hard about it as she slept peacefully beside me. I loved her and I honestly believe she loves me. Much of life is pretending until it becomes true. In the end, does the duration of the facade matter as long as both parties are committed to it?

Original author: OpinionatedIMO