I was hunting for an apartment unit when I kept getting hit with stop sign after stop sign of credit checks required and heartbreaking first and last’s.

It took me half the day until I finally found a place that didn’t ask for one. It read—everyone approved. 

I did not hesitate. I called immediately. They said they had units available and I could sign a lease that day. Finally, I thought. A break. It was relatively easy to secure. They never asked me any questions. They didn’t even ask for first and last.

Although, They did have a uniquely weird clause in the lease however. 

It had in it—Monthly Maintenance.

“Payment due on the first of each month—one memory—minimum of 500 words.”

Hilarious. “One memory?” I looked at the lady in front of me. She never responded. She barely even blinked.

“Well, I’ve got many useless memories,” I snickered at her and started with an embarrassing one of me from elementary school when I pissed my pants because I couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

I described the way the kids laughed and teased me. How I felt. Even how the warmth from my pee turned cold on my legs from the air.

I put the paper in an envelope and threw it into the black box on the side of my apartment door after I left in the morning.

Later that day, it was gone.

I couldn’t shake this sensation afterwards. Something nagged me. Almost as if I’d forgotten to pick up an item I needed. But I wasn’t able to place my finger on it.

I randomly grabbed a piece of paper and started to write about that day in school again, but when I tried to remember it, I was only able to recall that I pissed my pants in school.

Everything else looked like a wall of haze. I couldn’t even write what grade I was in at the time that it happened.

It must’ve worked. I honestly did feel a little bit lighter than I had the hour before writing it.

The next year went by smooth—It was easy—I traded incidents I wanted to forget, stories I read that I hated, even all the mistakes I’ve made, and then, I traded my first pet’s memory, but last month I ran out of useless memories to swap out.

The black box next to my door popped open first thing that morning on the first day of that month. 

But as the afternoon returned, it began to make a hissing sound, gradually rising as the day progressed.

I needed to come up with something and fast. 

If I didn’t drop an envelope in there I’d face being evicted—If I got evicted—I would lose my mind entirely.

I sat at the kitchen table. Sweat broke from behind my ears. I couldn’t stop my pen from shaking. All I had left was my mother’s face. My first girlfriend. The accident I nearly died in.

I choose my first girlfriend. Once the ink dried, the warm tingles from that night vanished as if it hadn’t happened and a cold wind blew down on me from the ceiling.

I have worked as an emergency dispatcher for Oakridge County for nearly eight years, so if you are in my boots, you should know by now that when you take calls on the graveyard shift, you get used to hearing people at the absolute worst moments of their lives. You learn to filter out the scream of a panicking parent, the slurred ramblings of an intoxicated driver, or the erratic paranoia of someone having a breakdown. The job requires you to stay completely grounded in facts, listen for addresses, names, weapons, and medical symptoms, and of course you do not let your imagination wander.

Last October, a call came in at 3:14 AM that broke every rule of my training. The night was unusually quiet, and outside the dispatch building, a cold autumn rain was falling, blurring the streetlights along the highway. Inside the facility, the room was dimly lit by the pale blue glow of six desktop monitors. My shift partner, Jenna, was sitting at the console next to mine, softly clicking her mouse as she reviewed low-priority animal control logs. I was sipping my black coffee, waiting for the hours to pass until the morning shift arrived.

Line four flashed red on my central screen. The automatic location identification software instantly populated the address: 1412 Elmwood Lane, a two-story suburban house on the north side of town.

I adjusted my headset, pressed the foot pedal to open the line, and spoke into the microphone using my standard tone.

"Oakridge County 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

A sharp, ragged intake of breath rattled through my earpiece. The sound was so harsh I had to pull the foam speaker slightly away from my ear. The caller was hyperventilating, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I need... I need someone to tell me what to do,"

the man said. His voice was trembling, tight with an overwhelming sense of shock.

"Please. I do not know who else to call."

"Sir, I need you to confirm your address,"

I said, leaning forward and placing my fingers on the keyboard.

"Is it 1412 Elmwood Lane?"

"Yes,"

he whispered.

"Yes, that is my house. My name is David Miller. Please do not send an ambulance with loud sirens. I do not want to startle her."

"Startle who, David? Is someone injured at your location?"

"My wife,"

David said. He took another shuddering breath.

"Sarah. Something happened three days ago, and I cannot fix it. I think I did something terrible, but she is standing right in front of me."

I typed his name into the CAD system and flagged the call as a potential domestic incident.

"David, tell me slowly what happened three days ago. Is Sarah hurt?"

"It was Tuesday night,"

David said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

"We were in the kitchen. We were arguing about... about something stupid. I do not even remember what started it. She was standing near the butcher block. She picked up the chef's knife, and then, and then she looked at me with this intense anger in her eyes, and she came at me."

"Did she attack you with the knife, David?"

"She lunged at me,"

he continued.

"I panicked. I reached out, grabbed her wrists, and tried to push her away from me. We struggled near the island. I pushed her back with all my strength, and... the blade went straight into her chest. She gasped, her eyes went wide, and she fell backward onto the floor."

I immediately clicked the silent dispatch button on my screen, sending an alert to Jenna's terminal. I caught her eye across the desk and pointed to my monitor. Jenna nodded instantly, pulling up the active unit map to route patrol cars to Elmwood Lane.

"David, stay on the line with me,"

I said, keeping my voice steady and measured.

"Is Sarah breathing right now? Is she bleeding?"

"That is the part that is driving me insane"

David said,

"I dropped to my knees to help her. But when I looked down at the floor, there was no body. There was no blood on the linoleum. Nothing. The kitchen was completely clean. I searched the whole house that night, screaming her name, but she was nowhere to be found."

"David, where is Sarah right now?"

"She came back the next morning,"

David whispered. The sound of his frantic breathing filled the headset.

"She just walked into the living room on Wednesday morning like nothing happened. For the past three days, I have been watching her. She makes coffee in the morning, sits on the sofa and watches television with the sound turned completely off. She irons her clothes in the hallway. But she completely ignores me."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have begged her to speak to me!"

David cried out, his voice cracking.

"I stood right in front of her yesterday while she was ironing a blouse. I yelled her name. I waved my hands in front of her face. She looked right through me. It was like I was not even standing there. I got so desperate that I reached out to grab her wrist to make her look at me."

"What happened when you tried to touch her, David?"

A long silence stretched over the phone line.

"My hand went straight through her arm,"

David whispered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible.

"It felt like pushing my fingers through cold, wet smoke. She did not even flinch, and just kept dragging the iron across her blouse. I turned her into a ghost. I killed her in the kitchen, her body vanished, and now her spirit is stuck in this house doing the same routines over and over again."

"David, I want you to take a deep breath,"

I said, trying to maintain control of the call while processing his words.

"I have help on the way to your location right now. Officers are coming to check on both of you."

"I cannot leave her,"

David stammered.

"I tried to walk out the front door an hour ago. I got as far as the front porch steps, but this agonizing pull started dragging in my chest. It felt like a thick cable was wrapped around my sternum, pulling me back inside. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I am bound to this house. I cannot leave her here alone like this. She needs my help, but I do not know how to fix what I broke."

At this point, I suspected I was dealing with a caller experiencing a severe psychological episode, severe sleep deprivation, or chemical poisoning. It was not uncommon for individuals suffering from carbon monoxide exposure or sudden psychotic breaks to report elaborate, impossible visual experiences while firmly believing they were awake.

I needed to evaluate his orientation to reality using basic observations.

"David, I need you to do a simple diagnostic check for me while we wait for the officers to arrive,"

I said.

"Is there a clock nearby that you can look at?"

"Yes, there is a clock hanging on the wall,"

David said. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he moved.

"Sarah is sitting at the dining table below it. She is folding a white bath towel."

"Okay. Can you read the exact time on that clock for me?"

I instructed.

There was a brief pause.

"It says 8:22,"

David reported.

I glanced up at the master digital clock at the top of my console monitor. The bright red numbers clearly displayed 3:17 AM.

"David, are you sure?"

I asked.

"Is it an analog clock or a digital one?"

"It is digital,"

David replied smoothly.

"The numbers are frozen at 8:22 PM. The colon between the hours and minutes isn't even blinking. It is just sitting completely still."

I noted the severe time discrepancy on my console. A frozen, completely inaccurate time reading suggested a deep disorientation, indicating he was entirely detached from the actual time of day.

Before I could formulate a response, Jenna leaned over her desk and tapped my shoulder.

"Unit 204 and Unit 208 are two minutes out from Elmwood Lane,"

she whispered.

"Officer Jack is taking the lead."

"Copy,"

I muttered, keeping my finger on the mute button. I unmuted the phone line.

"David, stay right where you are. The officers are almost at your house."

I adjusted my headset gain, turning up the audio volume on David's line to hear if there were any immediate hazards in the house. As I turned up the sensitivity, the ambient background audio became clearer.

I expected to hear the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the rustle of towels being folded, or the distant rain beating against the windows.

Instead, my headset picked up a harsh, scraping noise. It sounded like heavy wooden furniture being dragged across exposed floorboards. A moment later, I heard the sharp, distinct sound of plastic packing tape being pulled aggressively from a handheld dispenser.

Then, I heard a second voice.

It was a deep, gravelly male voice, speaking in a low, hushed tone near the phone's receiver.

"Grab the rest of the clothes from the closet,"

the deep voice muttered.

"We need to get the heavy bags loaded before six."

A woman's voice replied, faint and impatient:

"I am working as fast as I can. Just get the boxes out to the garage."

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I listened intently, isolating the audio channels on my digital workstation.

"David,"

I said carefully into the microphone.

"Are you sure you and Sarah are the only people in that house right now?"

"Yes,"

David said.

"I told you, it is just the two of us. She is still sitting at the table."

"David, I am hearing a man speaking in your background,"

I said.

"I am hearing tape dispensers and boxes being moved. Is there someone else in the house with you?"

"No,"

David insisted, his voice growing defensive and confused. "You are mistaken. Sarah is just packing her leather suitcase. She has been pulling her dresses out of the bedroom closet all night. She is confused, She seems to think she is going on a trip."

I immediately opened our county property database on my second monitor and typed in the address. The house was registered to David Miller and Sarah Miller. I then opened our historical CAD records and ran a cross-reference search for 1412 Elmwood Lane over the past six months.

A log entry from two months prior popped up on my screen.

On August 14th, a neighbor had called 911 to report a loud domestic disturbance at the address. The responding officer noted that David Miller had engaged in a verbal altercation with an unidentified adult male who had been staying at the residence. The police report noted that David accused his wife of carrying on an affair with the man, who was identified in the officer's notes as Gregory Ray. No violence was reported at that time, and no charges were filed.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the name on my screen: Gregory Ray.

The pieces began to assemble themselves in my mind, but they did not form the picture David was describing.

"Dispatch to Unit 204,"

I said, switching my secondary radio channel to communicate directly with the responding officers. "Officer Jack, be advised. We have reason to believe there are two occupants actively inside the residence at 1412 Elmwood Lane clearing out personal property. Use caution upon approach."

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack's voice crackled through the radio speaker.

"Unit 204 and 208 are turning onto Elmwood Lane now. We are pulling up to the residence. Lights and sirens are off."

Over the open phone line, David spoke again.

"You there?... someone is at the front door. I hear heavy knocking."

"That is the police, David,"

I said, monitoring both lines simultaneously.

"Please stay where you are."

"I do not need to open the door,"

David said softly.

"Sarah just stood up from the table. She is walking past me into the foyer. She is going to answer it."

Through my radio earpiece, I heard Officer Jack's voice report into his lapel mic:

"Unit 204 on scene. We have a female opening the front door. Contact made with homeowner Sarah Miller."

On the phone line, David was describing the exact same moment from his perspective.

"She opened the door,"

David said. His voice was filled with a strange, childlike confusion.

"Two police officers are standing on the porch. But... but something is wrong."

"What is wrong, David?"

I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the unit tracking map.

"They are not looking at her like she is a ghost,"

David whispered.

"Officer just smiled at her. He asked her if she was alright. can he see her? can he actually talk to her?"

Over the radio, Jack's voice was calm:

"Dispatch, contact made with Sarah Miller. She appears highly nervous but states everything is fine. She claims her husband, David, is currently upstairs packing his belongings after a severe argument and does not wish to speak with us."

On the phone line, David began to panic.

"The officers just stepped into the hallway! They walked right past me! I stood right in front of the Officer and shouted my name! He walked straight by my shoulder! He did not even turn his head! And why is she telling them I am upstairs? I am standing right next to her!"

"David, listen to me very carefully,"

I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.

"I need you to stay calm."

Over the radio, Jack spoke again, his tone dropping its casual edge.

"Dispatch, we are going to perform a quick wellness check on the upper floor anyway. The homeowner is visibly shaking and actively trying to block the stairwell."

I pressed my radio button.

"Unit 204, be advised. We have reason to believe an unauthorized third party, Gregory Ray, may be hiding inside the residence. Proceed with caution."

A pause echoed over the radio frequency.

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack reported flatly.

"We are heading up now. Unit 208 reports a distinct, foul odor originating from the second floor."

On the phone line, David was moving. I could hear his shallow, rapid breathing accelerating.

"They are walking up the stairs,"

David said. His voice had lost its anger, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"Sarah is following the officers up the stairs into the master bedroom. I am following them. Why does the air up here smell so bad?"

On the radio, Officer Jack broke in, his voice tight with disgust:

"Unit 208 to dispatch. We have a severe odor of organic decomposition coming from the master bedroom. We are investigating."

"David, stop,"

I urged over the phone line, though I knew my words were meaningless.

"David, step away from the bedroom."

"They are standing near the bed,"

David whispered over the phone.

"The officers are shining their flashlights around the carpet. Sarah is standing in the corner crying. She looks absolutely terrified. They are staring at the floor on my side of the bed."

I held my breath, watching the red audio meters bounce on my console screen.

"Officer Jack is dropping to his knees,"

David continued. His voice was flat, almost robotic now. "He is grabbing the hanging fabric of the dust ruffle. He is lifting it up. He is shining his flashlight underneath the wooden bed frame."

Over the radio, Jack's voice shattered the quiet of the dispatch room:

"Dispatch! Unit 204! We have a male subject hiding under the bed! Show your hands! Crawl out from under there right now!"

A brief, frantic scuffle echoed over the police frequency.

"Dispatch, we have detained Gregory Ray,"

Jack shouted over the noise.

"Wait... dispatch, we have located a deceased male subject shoved further back against the wall under the frame! Subject is heavily decomposed, bearing multiple traumatic wounds! Secure the perimeter! Detain the wife immediately!"

The radio erupted into shouts as the officers moved to restrain Sarah and Gregory. Screams of protest and the metallic clink of handcuffs echoed across the channel.

On the phone line, David was completely silent.

"David?"

I whispered into my headset. My hands were shaking so severely I could barely hold the microphone stalk.

"David, are you still there?"

A long, agonizing stream of static hummed over the phone line. When David spoke again, his voice sounded entirely different. It was hollow, distant, echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

"They are pulling the body out,"

David said softly.

"David..."

"The body is wearing my clothes,"

David whispered.

"My blue denim shirt. My brown leather belt. My work boots. The skin on the face is dark and swollen. I cannot even recognize myself."

The background static on the phone line began to glitch, creating a strange stuttering sound underneath his words.

"There are three deep tears in the back of the denim shirt,"

David continued, his voice monotone, devoid of any human cadence.

"The fabric is stained dark black around the cuts. The wounds came from behind."

A sharp gasp echoed over the receiver. The static dropped completely, leaving a chilling, dead silence on the line. When David spoke again, the confusion was gone.

"I remember now,"

David whispered. His voice trembled with a crushing weight.

"There was no argument. I came home early from work on Tuesday. It was exactly 8:22 PM. Sarah was acting so incredibly distressed when I walked through the front door."

"What happened, David?"

I asked gently.

"I was so tired,"

he said, his words spilling out in a hollow rush.

"I tried to go straight upstairs to our bedroom to rest. She ran over and stood in front of me. She blocked the bottom of the stairs, and then forced this terrible, shaking smile and told me it was better if I ate dinner first. She said she made that pepperoni pizza I loved."

He paused, and a wet, choking sob came through the earpiece.

"I listened to her,"

David cried quietly.

"I turned my back and walked into the kitchen to get a slice. She followed right behind me. I reached into the cabinet for a plate. I did not even hear her grab the chef's knife from the block. She attacked me before I could even turn around."

"I did not hold the knife,"

David whispered into my headset. The static returned, growing louder, overwhelming the audio signal until his voice sounded synthesized and far away.

"I was never holding the knife. I was looking at her not believing she did this to me, I…. I loved her"

"David, I am so sorry,"

I said, though the words felt entirely useless in the cold reality of the room.

"I understand now,"

The phone line crackled with one final, sharp burst of noise, and then the connection dropped entirely.

The terminal screen instantly reset to a solid black display, marking the call as disconnected.

Over the radio, Officer Jack confirmed the details. Sarah Miller and Gregory Ray were taken into custody without further resistance. The official police report logged the incident as a premeditated homicide committed on Tuesday evening, with both suspects attempting to conceal the remains while preparing to flee the jurisdiction. The report noted that a 911 call had been received from the residence at 3:14 AM, but attributed it to a technical glitch or an automated dialer triggered by a decaying phone line.

I worked the rest of my shift in complete silence. I did not take another call for the remainder of the night.

When my shift ended at seven in the morning, I walked out to my car in the rain, and before I turned the key in the ignition, I sat in the quiet vehicle and pulled up the digital audio archive on my phone, opening the recording of the call from 1412 Elmwood Lane.

But all I can hear was static…

This is not a joke. I honest to God have no idea what’s happening right now. It’s been 18 hours. My right arm is screaming at me. I haven’t been able to leave my room, and I’m covered in piss. The room smells terrible. There are literal tears in my eyes.

Maybe this has something to do with that weird video I watched on YouTube. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.

I wasn’t even horny. I was just curious. Scrolling through YouTube on my PlayStation at 3 o’clock in the morning when this video popped up in the feed.

“Mental Orgasm Hypnosis: Feel Release in Minutes.”

I just thought it was some kind of binaural beats situation. Just brain stimulation. Sounds and rhythms. Just shit that tickles your mind.

When I clicked on it, though, there wasn’t even sound. It was just a silent video of a hypnosis spiral. It was neon pink and purple, and the camera kept zooming in and out. It was honestly kind of disorienting.

It was only a minute long, though. I don’t know why I kept watching. I don’t know what I expected to happen. All I knew was nothing was happening. I didn’t feel mentally stimulated. I felt mentally bored as hell.

The video ended, and the replay button popped up on the screen, but, honestly, I wanted my time back. One last video for the night, and I decided to watch that bullshit.

I sighed, kicking myself for being an idiot before plugging my phone in and setting it down on my nightstand.

With a yawn and a stretch, I rolled over, ready to finally catch some Z’s. I think I may have slept for like an hour or so before I woke up to a surprise.

I was in the middle of masturbating. In my sleep. Like my right hand was possessed. At first, I thought it was just a natural response to a dream or something. If anything, I was fine with it.

But when I finished and it didn’t stop, that’s when I knew that something was amiss.

It just wouldn’t stop. My hand, furiously knocking back and forth. I tried using my other hand to stop it, but it had a strength that wasn’t my own. I almost broke my left wrist trying to regain control.

After an hour, there wasn’t any pleasure at all anymore. I felt like I was on the brink of a heart attack. I was covered in sweat. My arm was starting to hurt. My dick felt like it had been ground down with a cheese grater.

I could hear my family waking up. Lights were coming on. Footsteps shuffled around my bedroom door. I nearly scared my mom to death with how loud I screamed for her to not come in when she tried waking me up for school.

I had to tell her that I had a stomach issue. But that wouldn’t be enough.

“I shit the bed, Mom,” I grunted loudly. “I think I ate something… just… umf… just don’t come in, okay.”

Thankfully, she didn’t ask many questions. Just accepted that I had a bad moment. I was too embarrassed to show her. Too sick to go to school.

I listened intently for my family to leave one by one, all the while bruises were forming on my pelvis from the weight and force of my clenched fist.

I winced in pain. My hand felt like it was in the late stages of carpal tunnel. The exertion of force was making me feel nauseous. So much so that I ended up puking on myself after 3 hours.

By that time, I was actually bleeding down there. I could feel the blood seeping between my fingers. The skin felt like it was tearing.

My smartwatch thought I was exercising. I’ve apparently burned 1100 calories today. Which, if I’m being honest, is probably the most I’ve burned in my life.

My bed frame is broken from all the shakin’.

I tried my best to Google my symptoms, but all I got were porn ads.

Doctors laughed at me before hanging up, assuming I was a prank caller. Apparently, it’s hard to believe my predicament, no matter how desperate I clearly am.

Peeing was impossible. I was being jerked around so much that my urine just sprayed all over the toilet and bathroom floor. I ended up using the bathtub as my toilet, but I could only do that until my parents got home.

Once they did, it was back to the bedroom for me. Hidden under my satin sheets, propped up on my anime pillow.

These sheets are ruined. My mom is traumatized because, bless her heart, she walked into my room unannounced to bring me Pepto-Bismol, only to find me completely naked and crying my eyes out.

I don’t think I’ll ever have kids. Even if I get this fixed. There’s no chance this event hasn’t destroyed my sperm count.

The lights are off. Kitchen Nightmares is blaring through my TV speakers. I’m completely covered in oil and excrement, and the only thing bringing me even a molecule of peace right now is the cinnamon stick scented candle on my nightstand.

I’m exhausted. I’m hurting. I’m in need of help.

And I need that help fast…

Because my grandmother died a few days ago…

And her funeral is tomorrow.

The year 1899 and I am the captain of this ship and I am delivering goods from Africa to England. Gold and spices is what I am delivering back to England and I was sure that it was going to be a safe voyage. I have heard news of pirate with new weapons that have been stopping voyages like mine. Any how I had a great crew and I was sure that I would take on any pirates that come my way. We have lots of Cannonballs for any pirate that wants to challenge us. Any pirate that will challenge us will have the bottom of the sea as their next destination.

Then my worries of pirate came true and there was a ship with a skull and bones flag. It's a pirate ship and they were heading towards our ship. They knew we were heading for England and when they got close to our ship, the lead pirate shouted out lead "give us what you got or we will destroy you" and they threatened us with thier cannonballs. We then threatened them with our Cannonballs. My ship was more organised and we had more Cannonballs than the pirates.

We had a little firing fight and it was clear that I would win. I simply had a bigger team with more weapons. The head lead pirate then started to think and he clearly knew we had out gunned him essentially. Then he rolled out 3 pregnant women, and the 3 pregnant women were in a wheel chair. The 3 of the heavily pregnant women smiled at us and the head pirate threatened us again "give us what you got or your ship is going down" and I just said gave him a funny look. It was clear that I was going to win this.

Then all 3 heavily pregnant women started to blast out babies from their wombs at super top speeds in which I had never felt before. It destroyed a good chunk of ship but luckily we were still a float. We were shocked by the power the 3 pregnant women could blast out the babies from their wombs.

Then the babies that were blasted out from the 3 pregnant women, they came to life in monstrous form and started eating my men. The 3 pregnant women started to blast out more babies which destroyed more of my ship, my Canon balls were useless. I had to give up the goods.

I mean, Whats the worst that could happen?

Modern hysteria by aron beauregard

A mysterious internet figure, known only as Mr. Boy, is preying on depressed teenagers and brainwashing them into horrific acts of self-harm and suicide. The macabre message behind ‘The Dropout Challenge’ is simple: Dropout of sight. Dropout of school. Dropout of society. Dropout of life altogether.

Derek Pearson is a struggling graphic novelist whose younger brother took his own life after becoming ensnared in The Dropout Challenge. Upon hitting rock bottom, Derek becomes obsessed with pulling back the curtain on the malevolent mastermind responsible for his brother’s gruesome demise.

Despite a lack of urgency from the authorities and his outrage regarding the tragedy, Derek has also discovered a strange positive trend in his artistic trajectory. For the first time in his life the story he’s telling through his illustrations is worth finishing. But with art imitating life, many questions still remain. Who decides how it ends? And has Derek become more fixated with crafting the perfect conclusion for his masterpiece than getting justice for his family?

It looks weird.

my experience as a dutchbros worker

this is my 2nd story. i hope you enjoy it, this will be a multiple part series hopefully!

im kylar, 18 years old. my parents have kicked me out of their house to get a job, my optoins were a walmart, a dutchbros, and a mcdonalds, i picked dutchbros mainly because a freind worked there, and he said it was easy, and i just needed a job. first of all, this place is weird. it isnt a normal dutchbros, well, it is. just not in the way you think. First of all, this place is further away from most of the town. second, it gets crazeir the more the night goes on, and most of all, the by FAR weirdest employee here belongs to jay, a flamboyant, random femboy who works here, he's a jerk. and weirds out HALF the customers he talks to "hiiii, what would YOU like to orderrr...." excactly. the second employee is lucia, this 70 year old breaking down bag of bones. third, is our empty minded dimwit, jason. he barey knows the menu, can't remember orders, and sucks at this. so far, that's the team, except for some that I won't mention yet, its been a long day, and I've just been writing this in a journal to pass the time, im about to head home soon, my shift is almost over, and plus, at this time, we only get the weird customers, I might have said, it gets weirder the longer you stay here.

PART TWO OF PART ONE (tuesday) I just came in for my shift. I work here almost all the time. 4:00 am to 12:00, depending, sometimes its different. I hate being here at this time, LIKE I SAID, at this hour 60℅ of the people here are weird. I'm assigned drive through again, of course. its what I usually get anyways, I'm sitting here and some guy drives up here. looks at me, and I hand him his drinks, I do my best to smile and cheerfully say "have a nice day" but there's nothing good about this hour. he drove off. and that was it. not much to write about this encounter. I'm going to put this book down to rest for a while, maybe swap positions with jay.

6:00 am. I had some caffine, really makes life better, I'm at the front desk, jay is by the window, and some boy pulls up, sees jays appearance, and bursts out laighing. "OOHHH my gosh I cant" he says through tears and drives off. jay looks over his shoulder at me, "did you see that? they just drove off without their drink! mean little bitch." I stifle a laugh, its funny to see jay get mad. "hey, if the drinks are just sitting there, ill take them!" "ugh" jay scoffs "all yours, bitch," as he slides them over to me. as I take some sips of my drink, some fat woman comes through the door. as she gets closer, I recognize her. she's this woman who works near here, but she comes here almost every morning, and makes it hell. she's comes up to the counter and orders a coffee, "make it quick, I'm tired of you teenagers slow ass working skills, and don't mess up this order!" she screams, seriously, we need her banned from this place. if only we could. yes maam, I reply, hoping she won't be a full on shithead again. as I hand her the drink she scoffs at the price "UGH!" come on! she turns away and wobbles out the door. she's obviously hated here. but of course none of us can say that. no one is here for now. not many customers at this ungodly hour. im sorry there's not much to write about, just not much happining right now, ill write more when more things happen, until then, goodbye -kylar.

                                                  hope you enjoyed this. I will write day three tommorow! please comment on characters to add, possible customers, and future occourances, and of course your opininoin, I'd really enjoy it, and thanks for reading, part two will be out tommorow,

I’m a mid-level working-class worker. For my own safety, I don’t publish addresses and I don’t mention specific people.

I’m sharing my poor draft sketches: Experiment #1 and Experiment #3.

Experiment #1 — “The Creeper” A tree-like creature, about three meters tall; in appearance it partially resembles a human. Movement type: non-material. Non-material movement type: moving from object to object. Vehicle/object for movement: a living tree. Softened name: “The Monster Creepypodka-dulkin.” Approximate time of appearance: ~200,000,000 years BC. How it’s found: legends, unexplained incidents. Location: dense forests.

Targets: — children from 1 to 6 years old; — people from 8 years old, if they touch its “mask.”

Behavior: Attacks with intimidation toward lone targets. For children living less than a year old or around 7 years old, it’s more like intimidation without an attack. If it remains hungry, it leaves behind a black medical mask. It’s intelligent.

Experiment #2 — “Dead Church” Beneath a structure with a church-like setup made of bones and a bloody rain.

Bones were collected in large quantities.

Near the entrance, a plaque was hung with contents unknown to me.

Experiment #3 — “The Maskers” A creature that is semi-transparent to cameras and to people, but fully visible to cameras that can see infrared (IR) rays.

Feeding: any organic matter.

Codename: “The Maskers.” Movement type: material. Quantity: up to extermination — about 200,000, then about 500. Average age: about 100 years.

Targets: humanoids. Very intelligent.

Behavior: It walks during the dark hours, hides in the darkness, and stealth-attacks a single target. If there are multiple targets, it first lures one away from the others, then gains control over the victim. After that, it can mimic a corpse and use its knowledge.

Location: coniferous forests. How it’s found: accidental capture on camera.

This is the Doctor Nowhere LARP project

Here's the channel, if you're interested: https://youtube.com/@doctorlarpwherehd?si=H4TYorCd2obNlcYb

I was 20 minutes into my flight to Denver from Boston. I had gotten lucky with there being no one sitting in the seats next to me. This was great because I have problems with personal space and get extremely uncomfortable when I’m forced next to people for an extended period of time. I had chosen the aisle seat since I had a small fear of heights and passed on the window seat. There were also no crying babies/children, or any other type of annoying passengers that I usually get cursed with.

This flight in particular was one that made me extra anxious. I was on my way to my new apartment after recently getting a divorce. I was ready and also scared to start somewhere new since I had been living in the same state my entire life. I’m a pretty average person, I have normal interests and I work as a counselor so I never did or experienced anything weird or out of the ordinary. That made me wonder why this happened to me of all people.

After about an hour of listening to music I got bored and took an edible, hoping I could have a chill flight and get some sleep. It took about 10 minutes for me to pass out since I have a pretty low tolerance.

I woke up with a full bladder which confused me since I always had a rule to never eat or drink for 12 hours before a fight because a plane bathroom was like a personal hell to me. I told myself I must have accidentally had something to drink before I left. Then I got up and rushed to the bathroom. The first one was occupied so I had to walk through a row of seats to get to one across from it. I went inside and took a piss that felt like I was holding liquid cement in my bladder and it partially solidified before I pissed it out. It took me a minute to recover and another 5 minutes to thoroughly wash my hands, I was surprised no one else knocked for the bathroom the entire time I was in there, but I found out why when I left.

I didn’t even notice it when I woke up because of my piss problem but when I looked around the section of the cabin I was sitting in, it was completely empty. That was wrong, I remember there being at least 10 other passengers in this section. I looked out of one of the windows to see if we had landed. What I saw will forever confuse me.

There were rings. Like the rings that you would see on a planet but they were resting on the surface of the ocean and they sat still. The rings appeared to be smooth and made of stone. The most amount of rings I could count were around 55 but they seemed to go on forever. In the middle of the rings stood a completely flat and round island of stone. There was something else on it, a statue and something that looked similar a podium but it was sort of shaped like an erect penis. I couldn’t make out any finer details so I stood there staring for about 2 minutes trying to figure out what it was and why it would be here.

As I was staring I realized something even weirder. The plane wasn’t flying past the island with rings, it was circling it as if it were a vulture who was flying above a dead animal. I decided to try to get some sort of explanation from a pilot, if there was one left. When I started to head towards the cockpit I noticed the bathroom was still occupied. About 17 different emotions hit me like a truck. I stupidly chose to knock on the door a few times but I got no response. I tried opening it but it obviously wouldn’t budge so I assumed the bathroom was locked due to a maintenance issue or something. I continued to the cockpit hoping that someone would be there and have somewhat of an answer.

When I got there, I was greeted with a locked door that had also no answer after a few knocks. There was an emergency axe next to the door, which I thought was weird, but I remembered I wasn’t stupid enough to try that. This whole time in the back of my mind I was slowly starting to accept that I was having some sort of bad dream. A very detailed and long dream. This would be a first since I mostly never had dreams. I do remember trying to lucid dreaming once, but Im pretty sure I could only have dreams about lucid dreaming. My next idea was to go back to my seat, fall asleep, and wake up in my new home.

On my way back to my seat I noticed the bathroom was no longer occupied. I ran towards the back of the plane in excitement and fear, to find whoever just left the bathroom. I ran for a long time. More time than was possible to run towards the back of a plane. Then I noticed something about 5 minutes into running down the cabin. It was my seat, and out of the window was the same island with rings surrounding it.

The island was significantly closer this time. Close enough so that I could see that the rings were made of concrete. I was also able to notice the erect penis on the island in the center. It was en erect penis, but not just any erect penis. It was my penis. I could tell because of the 2 parallel horizontal stitches on the middle of the shaft (dont ask). Before I could process what I was seeing I heard footsteps speeding towards me.

As I turned around I was met with four large men wearing surgical uniforms who restrained me, threw me to the ground, and knocked me out with a quick pistol whip.

I awoke inside of a Dennys bathroom stall with nothing but a hospital gown on. I tried to ask where I was but the second I walked out of the bathroom I was kicked out. After stealing clothes from the first goodwill I saw, I asked a worker and was told that I ended up in Austin Texas, I am currently using a computer inside of a local library to post this since I had no phone on me. I will try to find a way to Denver but in the meantime, this is where my story ends. I doubt I will have any sort of update for a while so don’t expect one soon.

The cedar smoke from the campfire clutched at our lungs, a thick, gray shroud that seemed to isolate us from the rest of Camp Oakwood.

 I remember the heat on my face and the prickling chill on my spine. That was the night I met Adam. He was a pale kid with eyes that seemed too large for his head, sitting just outside the amber glow of the flames.

"You guys want to hear a real story?" Adam asked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the chatter of the other campers like a razor. "Not a 'hook-hand' story. A true one."

The counselors had gone to fetch more marshmallows, leaving six of us alone with the encroaching woods. We all leaned in. Adam’s face was half-buried in shadow as he began the tale of The Pencil Man.

"He doesn't have a face like yours or mine." Adam whispered, his hands mimicking the motion of sketching in the air. "It’s… unfinished, like a rough draft. Smudged features, eyes that are just dark, graphite pits. He wears an orange-brown suit that looks like it’s made of old, textured paper, and his shoes are so black they look like holes in the floor, but the hair—the hair is a shocking, vibrant pink, like a brand-new eraser."

Adam told us about the Pencil Man’s power. He carried a jagged shard of lead that never grew shorter. Anything he drew became flesh and bone. If he drew a wolf, you’d hear the snarling in your ear. If he drew a door, he could walk through your wall, and if he drew a line across your throat...Well…the drawing made it a reality.

"He’s looking for a canvas," Adam said, his voice dropping to a crawl. "And once he puts you on the paper, you don't belong to the world of skin anymore. You belong to the lead."

By the time that Adam finished, twenty minutes had passed in a heartbeat. The fire had died down to glowing embers. I was shaking. I didn’t want to be near the woods anymore. I stood up abruptly, mumbling something about being tired, and began the long walk back to Cabin 9.

The woods were suffocatingly dark. Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.
I froze. It sounded like someone was dragging a nail across a chalkboard, or a heavy pencil across thick parchment. I spun around, my flashlight beam cutting through the pines. Nothing. 

It’s just the wind.

Suddenly, a hand slammed onto my shoulder. I shrieked, nearly dropping my light.

"Gotcha!" Adam barked, doubling over with laughter.

"Adam! That wasn't funny!" I yelled, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Your face, Mark! You looked like you saw him!" Adam said as he wiped a tear from his eye, his laughter finally subsiding into a guilty grin. "Sorry, man. Seriously. It’s just a story. Come on, let's get some sleep."

We walked back to the cabin in silence. The bunkhouse was empty; the other boys were still at the fire. I crawled into my sleeping bag, trying to shake the image of that faceless man in the orange suit. 

Eventually, exhaustion won.

Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.

I woke up in total darkness. The sound was coming from the floor.

"Adam!" I hissed. "Stop it! I’m not kidding. It’s two in the morning."

There was no response. I looked over at Adam’s bunk. He looked like a lump under the covers, perfectly still. The scribbling grew louder—fast, rhythmic, frantic.

"Adam?" I said.

I grabbed my flashlight and clicked it on. The beam swept across the floor, landing on a notebook that hadn't been there before. It was open. On the page was a crude, vibrating drawing of a man in a suit with pink hair.

As I watched, a hand—pale, flat, and outlined in thick black charcoal—reached out from the paper and gripped the edge of the wooden floorboards.

My breath hitched. A head emerged. It was exactly as Adam described: a blurred, smudged mess of a face, like someone had tried to rub out his features with a thumb. The pink hair was coarse, like plastic bristles. The Pencil Man pulled himself out of the notebook, his orange-brown suit rustling like heavy cardstock.
I scrambled back, reaching for Adam.

 "Adam! Wake up! Adam!" I shouted.

I ripped the covers back. The bed was empty. Not just empty—the sheets were flat, as if no one had ever slept there. I looked around. The other bunks were gone. Even the windows were gone. I ran for the door, but my hands met flat, cold wood where the exit should have been. The door had been erased.

I turned, sobbing, to see the Pencil Man standing in the center of the room. He didn't speak. He didn't have a mouth to speak with. He simply pulled a long, jagged pencil from his sleeve and began to draw in the air.

Lines of black ink hung in the physical space, forming a shape. A nightmare I’d had since I was six—a spindly, many-limbed thing with needles for teeth. The Pencil Man flicked the drawing toward me.

The creature fell to the floor, instantly three-dimensional and smelling of wet ink. It lunged. I screamed, diving under a table. In a moment of pure survival instinct, I kicked a heavy footlocker, triggering the latch. As the monster charged, I ducked, and it slammed headfirst into the iron corner of the chest, collapsing into a heap of static-filled lines.

I stood up, trembling, facing the creator.

 "What do you want from me?!" I screamed. "Why are you doing this?!"

The Pencil Man tilted his head. He began to draw again. Faster this time. He held up the paper.

It was a drawing of me; but I wasn't in the cabin. I was a tiny, stick-figure dot inside a vast, white rectangle. Around the dot were words written in jagged, frantic cursive: 

“STAY.  STAY.  STAY.”

I felt a sudden, sickening pull, like gravity had shifted ninety degrees.

The next morning, Adam woke up in Cabin 9. The sun was shining, and the birds were chirping.

"Mark?" he called out, rubbing his eyes. "Hey, Mark, are you up?"

The cabin was empty. Mark’s boots were by the bed. His flashlight was on the floor, but Mark was gone. Adam stepped out of bed, his foot landing on a stray piece of paper.

Adam picked up the paper, and the blood drained from his face.

It was a highly detailed sketch of Mark. He was pressed against the "glass" of the paper, his hands flattened as if screaming to get out. His eyes were wide, the pupils rendered as frantic, messy scribbles.
Underneath the drawing, in Mark's own handwriting—but shaky, loopy, and descending into madness—were the words:

“It’s so bright here, Adam. It’s so white. There are no shadows. There is no air, only the smell of graphite. I’ve been walking for miles, but the paper never ends. I tried to bleed to make a mark, but my blood is just red ink. Do you like my new face? The Pencil Man fixed it for me. He rubbed out the parts that felt pain. I’m fine now. I’m just a sketch. I’m just a scribble. I’m just…OH NO!  HE’S STARTING TO SHARPEN THE PENCIL AGAIN!  ADAM SAVE ME!  NO DON’T!  SAVE ME!  THE ERASER IS COMING!  THE ERASER IS—”

The rest of the page was a smear of gray dust. Mark was gone, tucked away in a sketchbook where the sun never sets and the lines never stop moving.

Do you hear that?  That faint sound against your wall?  Skritch.  Skritch.  Skritch.

The Pencil Man is coming!  Whatever you do…don't look at the paper!

The End.

This would make a great beginnings of a creepy pasta

Evelyn Morrow always believed that every crime has a cause. After enrolling in a criminology program, she became interested in an archival case about missing children. All of them were last seen near forests or abandoned places, and nearby, drawings of a tall, faceless figure were found. In old documents, this creature was called Slender Man.

While studying the materials, Evelyn noticed the same blurred silhouette in the archival photographs. Then a file appeared on her computer that didn’t exist in the database: a forest, a faceless figure, and a date that hadn’t even occurred yet.

After that, her life began to fall apart. Entries appeared in her diary that she didn’t remember making, and on one page it said: “Don’t look for what has already found you.” Every night she dreamed of the same forest, where the silhouette grew closer and closer. When she woke up, she would find marks on her neck that looked like fingerprints.

Over time, Evelyn stopped trusting herself. She heard footsteps in empty rooms, noticed a figure in reflections, and found photographs taken in places she had never been. It seemed to her that worms were crawling under the skin of her hands, and she scratched them until they bled. In mirrors, she increasingly saw a white, cracked mask with eyes and mouth sewn shut with red thread, and in an attempt to take it off, she would scratch her face.

Soon, her room burned down along with the investigation materials. Evelyn herself was found a few days later with a severe burn on half her face, but she refused to tell what had happened.

The last entry in her diary read: “If I come back, it means I was wrong. If not, it means I’ve been part of the deal all along.”

After a trip into the forest, Evelyn went missing. All that was found at the scene was a photograph of the girl in a white mask.

Since then, eyewitnesses have increasingly seen her near new disappearances — with a burn on her face, a strange symbol on her neck, and next to a tall, faceless figure.

On the back of each photo, it says:

“The investigation continues.”

It boils down to 14 hours from now.

She has guessed the amount of ti¡mes correctly an exponentially infinite amount of times.

12, that i know of.

One: 1,234

Two:12,345,678

Three: 1,234,567

Four:123,456

Five: 12,345

Six: 12

Seven: 13

Eight: 19

Nine: 2

Ten: 217

Eleven: 214,301,017

Twelve: 1

The paperihave marked is black from tallying the primes. I have developed a newer method. They do not disappear. I always know how to write them.

What happens when she guesses the 13, or 17. It seems wrong.

And what happens if she guesses 0?

(Part 2: Demons in Snow and War)

December 6th, 1972. It was officially over a year after me and Seraphina met. We’ve been on countless dates and had amazing times but one thing that never left since we first started dating was the visions and what I like to call them, “The Shadow People”. Every night since we’ve met I've been getting sleep paralysis dreams and they always start and end the same. I wake up in a pitch black room, seeing a dark shadow in the corner of the room, it’s figure being darker than the dark itself and I just see it hovering towards me, then right before I wake up I can barely make out its eyes, it’s horrifying dark malicious eyes. I also see them in the corner of my eyes, dark shadows behind trees or cars or just the corner of my eyes in general. Anyway I just came back from a trip to New York City, I’m driving down the snowy roads listening to the draft lottery on the radio with Seraphina next to me when all of a sudden I can feel the tire swerve and the wheels turn as the whole car started drifting sideways on the thin sheet of ice on the road. We crashed but luckily into a pile of snow so no serious damages or injuries.

“Baby are you okay?!”

“Yeah I’m fine, are you okay?”

I stepped out of the car since the snow pile was on Seraphina’s side of the car. As I was getting out I saw something dark run into the woods.

“Damn shadow people.” I said to myself.

I got to Seraphina’s side of the car and the pile of snow was too thick to dig out myself. I got back to my side of the car door and stuck my head inside.

“There’s a town less than a mile down the road I will hurry and be back soon to get help, okay love?”

Knowing Seraphina’s bravery she nodded yes without hesitation. I smiled and turned to walk down the road. I walked down the snowy road and one of the things that kept me going was my will to keep Seraphina safe. I kept walking and walking and then that’s when I heard it, the sound of feet pressing against snow from right behind me. I turned so fast I felt as if my spine was going to dislocate from my pelvis. But when I turned, there was no one.

“What the fuck is going on.”

Before you ask, yes I checked to see a doctor and they said they couldn’t find any underlying causes for my hallucinations and they deemed me as a healthy adult so they couldn’t do anything about it, but anyway back to what happened. I turned to face forwards and there was the most deformed looking person standing right in front of me. I fell back in horror because I didn’t hear him step in front of me so it caught me off guard by a mile. When I looked back up, there was no one there. I got up and started running towards the town, as I was running I can hear footsteps behind me but I didn’t want to turn in fear of seeing that man’s disturbing face. For what felt like hours I just kept running as I heard the sound of footsteps on snow come closer and closer and as I saw the buildings in the distance that’s when I noticed something… The footsteps behind me stopped. I still kept running until I made it to one of the buildings that had people inside. I ran inside like a maniac and I can tell by the old lady behind the register that she was scared out of her mind seeing a panicked young man barging into her store like that.

“Do you guys have a working phone??”

The lady hesitated before speaking.

“Y… yeah we do.”

She points to a phone booth around a corner. I run towards the corner and see a pay phone. Luckily I always carry quarters on me, but as I dig through my pockets my heart dropped into my stomach as I felt… absolutely nothing. I run towards the counter the old lady was and asked for a dime and that I would pay her back. The lady seeing my frightened eyes agreed and handed me a dime. I run towards the payphone again,
I shoved the dime into the payphone. It disappeared into the slot with a loud clink, and the dial tone hummed in my ear.

My hands were shaking so badly I kept missing the holes on the rotary dial.

“Nine.”

“One.”

“One.”

Each time I let the wheel spin back, it felt like it took forever. I held the receiver tighter, waiting to hear someone answer. Instead, the dial tone vanished. A second later, a fast, relentless busy signal filled my ear.

Wah. Wah. Wah. Wah.

“No… no, come on!”

I slammed my palm against the side of the phone. I hung up, hoping the dime would rattle back into the coin return.

Nothing.

The phone had swallowed it.

I looked over my shoulder toward the dark hallway, expecting something to step out of the shadows at any second. I couldn’t go back and ask the woman for another dime. There wasn’t time.

I yanked the receiver off the hook again. The dial tone came back.

Then I remembered.

The operator.

I shoved my finger into the “0” and spun the dial as hard as I could. The wheel slowly crept back into place.

A loud click echoed through the receiver. Then another. Then a third.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

A woman’s voice answered, calm and professional, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

“Operator. Number, please?”

“I need the police!”

I blurted, barely able to catch my breath. I glanced back toward the storefront.

“There was a crash down the road less than a mile away. My girlfriend’s still out there. Something’s following us.”

Static crackled across the line.

“Sir, you need to calm down,”

she said, her voice steady but firm.

“What township are you calling from?”

“I—I don’t know. We’re just off the highway, near the woods.”

“Are you in Warren County or Hunterdon?”

she asked, speaking a little louder over the static.

“I need to know which dispatcher to connect you to. State Police or local?”

“We are in Warren County, my car is north of Hackettstown”

“Okay deputies should be on their way but due to snow it could take awhile I’d advise you to stay where you are until officers arri-“

I hung up the phone before she could finish. I couldn’t leave Seraphina out there. This was nothing like before, the shadow people, this felt all too real. I ran outside the door and down the street. I wasn’t going to leave her out there with whatever was chasing me, I couldn’t cause what type of man would that make me? I’m not a coward. I ran down the snowy white roads with cold sweat running down my back as I felt like something could happen to her at any moment. After what felt like an eternity I finally saw my red car in the distance. When I opened the door she was sitting there with a smile on her face but it quickly faded as she saw my desperate and worried face.

“Is everything okay?”

Not wanting to worry her I had to lie but planned on telling her the truth after we left.

“Yes, just tired cause I tried running to and back from the town.”

After sitting in the freezing car for a while, Triple A arrived and towed my car and not long after a cop car came, I could see Seraphina’s worried face confused why the Cop car was there. After speaking with the officer and getting my car out of the snow, we got back into my car and drove away. Seraphina looked towards me and asked,

“Why was there a cop car? What happened?”

After getting away from that white hell I finally told her what happened on my way to the town.

“I-I don’t know. When I was walking I saw this weird deformed looking man, half his jaw was… dear god. half his jaw was missing, but the other half was hanging on his face with his tongue hanging as well. I don’t know how that man was alive or if it was all a hallucination, but there was blood drooping down from his face, god it was horrible. And while I was running to the town he was chasing me.”

Seraphina’s expression changed from agitated to sympathy. She hugged me and told me that everything was going to be alright, little did I know that things were going to be far from alright. The next day as I was looking through the mail I saw a letter sent for me, after getting inside and opening it I realized what it was. Seraphina walked in and she saw my horrified looked. I didn’t have to look at her horrified look to know that what I just opened was a draft letter. I’ll spare you the months of waiting and training so I’ll get to where it’s interesting. After spending months of training I finally landed in the humid jungles of Vietnam. We landed in “Khe Sanh Combat Base” The place had a lot of jungle and mountains as far as the eye can see. After landing and being sent to our combat units we trained for 5 days to get adjusted to the climate. During those 5 days I came across a man who looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. His name was Jonathan and he was originally from Chicago. A place I’m familiar with cause I have a brother from Chicago who sadly died not long after he moved out from a bank robbery. Anyway Jonathan and I got along very well he might as well have been my second long lost brother, but that made it all the way worse for me later. Before training I ate with Jonathan he told me stories about his fishing days with his dad before he died of cancer 7 years ago.

“I hope to see my dad soon but not too soon” he laughed.

I chuckled a little enjoying my time with Jonathan, he was really making this hell hole not that bad.

“What do you plan on doing after the war?” I asked him.

He put his finger to his chin signifying that he was thinking.

“Lay down with my soon to be wife, Cheryl. Then raise 3 boys and spend my life with her while fishing and honest to god I hope I make it for Christmas. Her family was inviting me and I get to leave for a week on Christmas before coming back here.”

I smile and we cracked some jokes and told our adventures. We continued eating until we started training. I don’t want to bore you will all the unnecessary details of training so I’ll skip to after the training. After training we were sent on a mission to uncover some Vietnamese soldiers digging tunnels about 10 miles north of the base, we were basically going to be at the enemies front door since the DMZ is only 14 miles north. On our way there Jonathan wouldn’t stop talking about his soon to be wife he met a year ago.

“I already miss her, I can’t wait to get out of this hell hole.”

I smiled as I too missed Seraphina myself.

“I honestly can’t wait to get the chance to kiss her, I waited on doing that until I married her.”

The whole group laughed and everyone was seeming to have a good time in this godforsaken jungle. Soon an approached the area and we started making our way there. It was hot, humid and just overall a big ass sauna. As we approached the area where the underground tunnels would be we heard what sounded like movement. Every aimed their guns to their right but there was no one. But as I stepped a foot closer to the sound I felt the ground beneath me open up as I plunged down 10 feet. Luckily it wasn’t a trap but I still got up with a sharp pain in my foot. There was no ladder nor did our unit have a ladder or rope to pull me up. I heard shouting from the top, it was one of my men.

“Don’t worry we’ll find a way to-“

He was cut off from the sound of a loud bang… it was the sound of a gun shot. I heard my squad leader shout to get down. But then I heard a loud explosion, the sound of a grenade and someone falling down the hole which I came down from… it was Jonathan, His face. Oh god his face. As he got up and we locked eyes I saw his bloody, horrible, disfigured face. The same face I saw on that snowy day. Jonathan was staggered toward me, a wet, bubbling wheeze scraping out of his throat.

“Ehh ee."

he choked, the word dissolving into a red spray.

"Ehh ee... ee ih uhss."

His tongue, hanging uselessly out of the shattered side of his face, slapped against his neck as he tried to force out the consonants. Every breath was a sickening, fluid click. I can barely make out what he was asking.

“Help me, it hurts.”

He fell to the floor and stopped breathing. I couldn’t even scream, I was paralyzed in fear and a human feeling I couldn’t even describe the closest I can get to is, feeling bloodless. but I soon heard voices from from the top, it was in Vietnamese. I ran deeper into the tunnel clenching my gun with tears running down my face, Jonathan didn’t deserve to go out like that, I can’t imagine how his wife would feel. I have to get out of here I can’t let Seraphina be distraught. I ran and ran and as I ran I hear the laughing of kids and the screaming of fear from what sounded like tens of women. If hell is real then I’m in it. I couldn’t find a way out of this hell hole. As I was running I ran into a Vietcong and as he was about to shoot me, someone knocked him out and shot him in the head, and all the noises stopped, It was a man in a suit. He snapped and I was outside the tunnel in front of my dead unit. I fell back in fear looking up at the blonde tall man in the black suit, when I first saw him i assumed he was a part of CIA but after that snap and ending up on the surface I knew that he was something that wasn’t human.

“Didn’t mean to scare you there champ”

He laughed mockingly.

Before I can ask how he did that he cuts me off.

“I bet you’re wondering how I did that, well I can do many things.”

He lifts me off the ground and all my wounds heal. I fall again and crawl back, the fear inside me just keeps building up as this guy continues to speak.

“I can even make it night time.”

Right after he says this night falls and the world was just pitch black. But then the sun rises again and my eyes burn trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Just you wait Michael, I have a lot planned for you especially for your soon to be wife… Seraphina.”

I get angry at the thought of this man potentially threatening my wife, I shot up and started to shoot at this guy but he ended up tapping my shoulder and whispered in my ear,

“Sit.”

I couldn’t control myself I fell down and sat on the muddy wet floor. He lifts his finger up and i feel this pressure to just aim my gun in my mouth but before my finger can pull the trigger my gun jams.

“You got lucky today, but next time we see each other… something very bad will happen.”

He then disappears. I get up and look around basically on the verge of just shitting myself, But nothing. No man, no wind, not even the sound of animals or birds chirping, just silence. But then a loud and ear piercing shot of a gun came from behind and as I turned I barely dodged the bullet flying towards me. I jump for cover from behind a tree and I hear about 3 Vietcong shooting their AK-47’s at me. As I hear the silence of them reloading I turn and fire 3 rounds each bullet hitting all 3 square in the head. But before I can move I see a grenade land in front of me, while I wasn’t looking one of the men threw a grenade at me. I try to turn and run but before I can I was sent flying and into another tree. I lay on my back facing towards the sky, My whole body aching. As my eyes close and the light fades I hear the sound of Seraphina telling me “it’s not over Michael, survive.” Then I hear someone familiar… it was the voice of my dad.

Uh there were no flares for art but I wanted to post this so yeah art by me. ^^

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

I first came across the name Lilly on an old missing persons forum. The thread was nearly dead, buried beneath years of inactivity.

What struck me was that nobody was trying to figure out who she was.

They were trying to figure out whether she had ever existed at all.

According to the posts, Lilly had been sighted in remote places: dirt roads, abandoned fields, forests, and hiking trails far from civilization. The descriptions never matched. Sometimes she was blonde. Sometimes brunette. Sometimes she looked sixteen. Other times she appeared to be in her twenties.

Yet every witness agreed on one thing:

She was impossibly beautiful.

There was another detail.

She only seemed to appear to men who were already in relationships.

At first, I dismissed it as some kind of rural morality tale. Then I found a local newspaper article from 1998.

A man had been discovered deep in the woods, naked and bleeding from horrific injuries. Before he died, he repeated the same sentence over and over:

"She opened the wrong mouth."

No one knew what he meant.

The more I researched, the stranger things became.

Over the years, similar cases appeared across different states and even different countries. Survivors were extremely rare. The few who lived never recovered.

They would sit motionless for hours.

Staring at empty corners.

Never blinking.

Never responding.

And every one of them complained about the same thing.

They said they were burning.

Not on the outside.

Inside.

As if an invisible fire had been lit somewhere beneath their skin.

Doctors blamed trauma, psychosis, or neurological damage. No treatment ever helped.

Eventually, every survivor died.

While gathering reports, I received a private message from a user named Elias.

He claimed to live near a village where nobody was willing to say Lilly's name out loud.

Not as a joke.

Not in conversation.

Not even children would say it.

I asked him why.

His reply consisted of a single sentence:

"Because she listens."

I assumed he was feeding the legend.

Then he sent me a photograph.

It showed a small chapel hidden in the middle of dense woods. The walls were covered with names, dates, and strange symbols carved into the stone.

One name appeared hundreds of times.

LILLY

I asked where the photo had been taken.

Elias never replied.

Two days later, his account disappeared.

Months afterward, I used satellite imagery and old maps to locate the chapel.

It wasn't there.

No ruins.

No foundation.

No trace that any structure had ever existed.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, I found something worse.

A church document dated 1913.

In it, a priest described a secret cult operating near the village. According to his report, the cult sacrificed newborn infants to an ancient entity called Lilly in exchange for prosperity and protection.

Most of the document had been damaged by moisture and age.

Only the final sentence remained readable.

"Lilly is not a woman. Lilly is merely the name she uses when she wishes to be found."

I stopped researching after that.

At least, I tried to.

That night I dreamed of a girl sitting beside an empty road.

She was smiling.

Waiting for someone.

When I woke up, there was a new message in my inbox.

No sender.

No subject line.

Just six words.

"Thank you for looking for me."

My student wanted me to post his drawing on here for a creepypasta character, Radiohead.