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The dataset generation failed
Error code: DatasetGenerationError
Exception: ArrowInvalid
Message: JSON parse error: Column(/edited) changed from boolean to number in row 1
Traceback: Traceback (most recent call last):
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/packaged_modules/json/json.py", line 160, in _generate_tables
df = pandas_read_json(f)
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/packaged_modules/json/json.py", line 38, in pandas_read_json
return pd.read_json(path_or_buf, **kwargs)
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/pandas/io/json/_json.py", line 815, in read_json
return json_reader.read()
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/pandas/io/json/_json.py", line 1025, in read
obj = self._get_object_parser(self.data)
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/pandas/io/json/_json.py", line 1051, in _get_object_parser
obj = FrameParser(json, **kwargs).parse()
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/pandas/io/json/_json.py", line 1187, in parse
self._parse()
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/pandas/io/json/_json.py", line 1403, in _parse
ujson_loads(json, precise_float=self.precise_float), dtype=None
ValueError: Trailing data
During handling of the above exception, another exception occurred:
Traceback (most recent call last):
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/builder.py", line 1855, in _prepare_split_single
for _, table in generator:
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/packaged_modules/json/json.py", line 163, in _generate_tables
raise e
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/packaged_modules/json/json.py", line 137, in _generate_tables
pa_table = paj.read_json(
File "pyarrow/_json.pyx", line 308, in pyarrow._json.read_json
File "pyarrow/error.pxi", line 154, in pyarrow.lib.pyarrow_internal_check_status
File "pyarrow/error.pxi", line 91, in pyarrow.lib.check_status
pyarrow.lib.ArrowInvalid: JSON parse error: Column(/edited) changed from boolean to number in row 1
The above exception was the direct cause of the following exception:
Traceback (most recent call last):
File "/src/services/worker/src/worker/job_runners/config/parquet_and_info.py", line 1436, in compute_config_parquet_and_info_response
parquet_operations = convert_to_parquet(builder)
File "/src/services/worker/src/worker/job_runners/config/parquet_and_info.py", line 1053, in convert_to_parquet
builder.download_and_prepare(
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/builder.py", line 925, in download_and_prepare
self._download_and_prepare(
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/builder.py", line 1001, in _download_and_prepare
self._prepare_split(split_generator, **prepare_split_kwargs)
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/builder.py", line 1742, in _prepare_split
for job_id, done, content in self._prepare_split_single(
File "/src/services/worker/.venv/lib/python3.9/site-packages/datasets/builder.py", line 1898, in _prepare_split_single
raise DatasetGenerationError("An error occurred while generating the dataset") from e
datasets.exceptions.DatasetGenerationError: An error occurred while generating the datasetNeed help to make the dataset viewer work? Make sure to review how to configure the dataset viewer, and open a discussion for direct support.
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The following is a story my grandpa used to tell me before he passed away, I thought r/nosleep might be able to appreciate it. This story is really long, so if you don’t want to read the full story, I’d suggest skipping the first two paragraphs (disclaimer: I’m not a WWII buff and I’m just telling this story the way I remember hearing it, some dates/locations may be slightly off):
My grandpa was a British infantryman in the Second World War. He was only about 19 years old when he enlisted to serve his country, and while he thought that joining the military would give him opportunities to see exotic locations around the world, he was never deployed to Tunisia, or Italy or the Pacific, instead he ended up practically in his own backyard—Switzerland.
This is just some historical information, but it’s important to understand before reading the rest of this story: Switzerland did its best to maintain “neutral status” throughout the war. But regardless of its attempts to maintain neutrality, Switzerland was still highly sought after by both the allied and the axis powers. Once the Nazis began committing acts of aggression against Switzerland, England provided reinforcements to the Swiss military. Yet, in an effort to prevent open war within its borders, the Swiss government instructed its military (and subsequently, the British reinforcements) to perform a series of tactical retreats into the Alps. That’s how my grandpa found himself stationed in a remote village in the Swiss Alps.
At this time, it was early in the winter of 1943, and my grandpa’s company was stationed in a secluded village of about 500 people. Part of the advantage that they had with this location was that it was really hard to get to and therefore had little chance of being spontaneously invaded by Nazi Germany, but this was also a disadvantage because it made communication with the rest of the Swiss military very difficult. The issue with communication was further compounded when sometime in early December, a series of blizzards swept through the region and completely destroyed the few lines of communication that they had in the first place.
So, essentially trapped in this isolated Swiss village without being able to make contact with the rest of the army, my grandpa’s Captain decided it would be best to uphold the standing orders and continue defending the village.
Weeks passed. Any roads to the outside world were buried in 7-9 feet of dense snowfall, and any telegraph/phone lines that they had were equally useless. It grew deeper into winter, the leaves were stripped from the trees and the bare trunks protruded from the mountainside like broken ribs. The town was nestled between two large mountains, sunlight only directly reached the town for a few hours each day, making the soldiers feel as if they were living in a state of perpetual dusk.
One night my grandpa was at the town bar with a few of his friends from the company, and a group of locals approached them, one of them in particular was visibly upset. All of the Swiss people in the town grew up speaking German, and none of them were used to having Brits around, so one of them began shouting in broken English:
“Where… take you… the children?”
Luckily, one of the guys my grandpa was drinking with spoke fluent German, and was able to act as an impromptu translator. After several minutes of confusion and yelling, the “translator” turned to my grandpa and the rest of the soldiers and said:
“They say some of the village children have gone missing. They want us to do something about it.”
Now obviously, the British military doesn’t exactly act as a bunch of “mercenaries for hire,” so my grandpa and his friends told the villagers to come back to the “Headquarters” (really just a makeshift barracks that they had thrown together in the town’s church) to talk to the Captain.
Due to the language barrier, the villagers’ discussion with the captain took about two hours. And basically what the Captain and his self-designated translator were able to piece together was that:
A few weeks after the company entered the village, the locals had noticed a variety of bizarre incidents. At first it was just benign stuff like “vanishing” pieces of wood and tarp from peoples’ sheds, but over the following two months, people realized that valuable items were being stolen from their homes—one man claimed that his family heirloom, a hand-made ceremonial halberd (sort of like a traditional Swiss war axe) had disappeared from above his fireplace mantle. The culmination of all of these incidents was when a village child went missing.
Of course many assumed that the child’s disappearance, although tragic and disconcerting, could be attributed to something as simple as the boy falling into a snowdrift while playing outside or possibly being attacked and killed by a wolf or other predatory animal.
But there wasn’t only one child that disappeared. There were several.
The villager who entered the bar who looked especially upset? That was the father of two young boys who had gone missing two days before. He had searched everywhere for them, even rounded up a posse of his fellow townspeople to join the effort, but they couldn’t find a single clue as to what had happened to the children.
The Captain told the villagers that he would continue to look into the matter, and that he would begin sending some of his men to patrol the streets each night looking for whoever (or whatever) was the culprit behind all the strange thefts and abductions.
Later that night, Private Reginald disappeared from the barracks.
Disappearing children was one thing, but a grown man? It seemed unlikely that an animal (even a wolf) could have taken down a healthy full-grown man on its own. Naturally, rumors began to surface that there was some sort of monster living in the mountains that came down at night to feast on the occupants of the village.
Despite the nightly patrols ordered by the Captain, the disappearances kept occurring. Reginald was the only adult victim of whatever was preying on the village, the rest of the victims were all young kids between the ages of five and ten.
All in all, including the original three kids who had gone missing, seven children vanished from the town.
Many people in my grandpa's company were growing suspicious. One explanation that got passed around was that impoverished villagers were actually selling their own children to human traffickers for extra cash. But even that didn’t make sense because the roads into and out of the town were still blocked by snow.
Three more weeks passed without incident, at this point it was early spring and the snow was starting to thaw. That night, coincidentally when my grandpa was on patrol with several other soldiers, they discovered what was behind the children’s and Reginald’s disappearances…
It was sometime past midnight when my grandpa and his comrades noticed a figure peering through the bedroom window of one of the villagers’ houses. My grandpa was at the opposite end of the street, so at first the figure looking through the window didn’t see the patrol. My grandpa and the other soldiers yelled at the prowler, and it immediately tore itself away from the window and began running away. Everyone in the patrol was certain that this was what was behind the disappearances and break-ins. They ran as fast as they could in pursuit, through the melting snow and ice in the dead of night screaming at whatever it was to stop. They kept running and running, and soon they found themselves on the outskirts of the village, where the snow was still fairly deep. The figure “jumped into the ground,” it looked like it had vanished into thin air at first, but as the patrol grew closer, they realized that the prowler had actually just jumped into a “cave” that had been hollowed out in the side of a snowdrift.
Just as the soldiers began yelling into the cave for the figure to come out and show itself, several gun shots exploded out of the entrance to the snow cave. Without thinking, my grandpa and the rest of the patrol shouldered their weapons and all began firing into the hole.
Silence.
They waited for what seemed like hours, but was really just a couple of minutes. One incredibly brave member of the patrol volunteered to climb into the cave and investigate, he drew his pistol, kneeled down and crawled into the cave. Several seconds later, he emerged with a completely horrified expression on his face.
My grandpa took out his flashlight and shined it into the cave, when he saw the gruesome explanation behind the strange occurrences in the town.
The “figure” that they had been chasing was Reginald, the private who had “gone missing” weeks before. They had shot Reginald right through the heart.
The cave was not only occupied by Reginald, but also the bodies of seven partially eaten children.
Either due to the stress of being snowed in all winter, living in near constant darkness or some sort of terrible mental issue, Reginald had gone completely insane and had begun breaking into the villagers’ houses, and snatching their children from their homes in the middle of the night. He had used the halberd that had been reported missing to dismember the bodies after he slit the children’s throats and hid them in the cave he carved into the snowdrift.
TL;DR: My grandpa was stationed in the Swiss Alps during WWII, got snowed in in a remote village. Kids began disappearing from the village. Turns out one of the soldiers that had “gone missing“ from his company actually was abducting the children and cannibalizing them in a hidden snow cave that he had constructed on the outskirts of the town.
| 2,722 | A terribly creepy story my grandpa used to tell me about his experience in World War II (warning: really long, but it pays off) |
I work at a gas station in rural Pennsylvania. It's a boring job, but it's pretty easy and it pays all right. A few weeks ago, this new guy started; I'll call him Jeremy.
Jeremy is weird. He's about 25 or 26, and he hardly speaks, but he's got the creepiest laugh I've ever heard. My boss and I have both noticed this, but it's never been a problem, so there's not much we can do about it. Customers have never complained about him, and he's always done his job fairly well. Up until a few weeks ago, anyway--that's when things started going missing. Employee theft can be a problem at any business that sells consumer goods, and there's only one person working at a time at this gas station (it's a pretty small place). About two weeks ago, my boss started noticing that we were short on motor oil. At first, it was a few containers at a time, then entire shelves and boxes from the back room. Pretty soon entire shipments would be gone the day after we got them, and it would always be right after Jeremy's shifts. My boss has checked the security camera tapes from every single night he worked, but he could never catch him in the act. Jeremy would lock up at closing, then the motor oil would be gone the next day.
My boss usually takes the tapes home with him to try and catch Jeremy stealing, but his daughter had a softball game last night, so he asked me to watch the tape for him. He offered to pay me overtime, under-the-table, so obviously I took that offer. There are three cameras, so he gave me three different tapes to check. I figured it would be a long night, but I'm trying to save up for vacation, so I really needed the money. I took the tapes home, popped them in an old VCR and sat back.
Two days ago (the last time he worked), Jeremy started at 4 PM. Everything seemed pretty normal at first. He counted up his drawer, switched off with the girl who was working before him, and waited for a customer. The first person who came in was Mrs. Templeton (the timestamp on the video read 4:03), a regular. She picked up her cigarettes and a newspaper, and paid with a twenty. Nothing unusual there. The next customer was some local guy named Ron. He drives a motorcycle, usually comes in every few days. He filled up his tank, got a bag of beef jerky, paid with his credit card, and then left. Next was some guy with a cowboy hat. I'd never seen him before, but we get plenty of strangers passing through, just like at any gas station. He got forty dollars worth of diesel fuel, paid with a hundred dollar bill, and went on his way. I sat back and sighed. The only thing more boring than doing this job is watching someone else do it.
My boss's offer was enough to keep me watching though, so I left the tape on. Everything seemed pretty normal. I had a feeling that if Jeremy was stealing motor oil, he knew we were suspicious of him by now. I didn't expect him to be dumb enough to let us catch him on camera. Things stayed boring and routine until about five o'clock.
At 5:03, Mrs. Templeton came back in; she must have forgotten something. But she didn't. She bought the same pack of cigarettes as before, and the same newspaper. She paid with another twenty. That's odd, I thought, but then again, she's a little absent minded. I thought Jeremy should have told her she already got her smokes, but it's not against the rules to sell somebody the same thing twice. That's when Ron came in again. He bought another tank of gas (for his motorcycle again--I later checked the outdoor camera because I thought maybe he had another car he wanted to fill up) and the same pack of beef jerky. He paid with his credit card again.
No big deal, I figured this was just a weird coincidence. Mrs. Templeton is forgetful and Ron probably owns more than one Harley. That's when the guy in the cowboy hat came back in. I felt a chill run down my spine. "Don't get diesel, don't get diesel," I found myself whispering to my empty living room...but he did. He got forty dollars worth of diesel fuel and paid with another hundred dollar bill. Every move he made was identical to his first visit, right down to the way he scratched his nose before he walked out. Either this guy is rich, owns a lot of trucks, and just moved into town, or something really bizarre was happening. I kept watching.
Every customer for the next hour was the same as before. Every single one. I was seriously freaked out, and then at 6:03, Mrs. Templeton walked back in. She bought her cigarettes and newspaper again, and paid with a twenty again. I thought I was going to lose it. I only watched another half hour before I started fast forwarding through the rest. It was all the same. Every customer would come in at the exact same times, exactly one hour apart.
Now I know what you're thinking. That sneaky motherfucker Jeremy had messed with the tapes. He had run a loop of his first hour of business over and over. That wasn't the case. There are windows around the cash register area that the camera covers, and I watched the sunlight fade as time ran on. Jeremy's routine didn't loop over--he swept, mopped, restocked, and did all his duties exactly how you would expect. But the same customers kept coming in.
I was panicking at this point. Something was seriously wrong with what I was seeing, and I had no explanation for it. I skipped ahead to when he locked up and walked out to his car. He hadn't stolen anything, but I kept watching, just to make sure. I fast forwarded one last time, to about midnight.
At exactly 12:03, out of nowhere, Jeremy's face pops up on camera. I don't mean he moved his head into view, I mean that one second the store was empty, the next second his face was all I could see. He wasn't looking at the camera, he was looking at me, I was sure of it. I screamed and fumbled for the remote. By the time I grabbed it, he was gone, just as soon as he had left. One frame he was there, the next he wasn't. My hands were shaking like crazy, but I popped in another tape. The other indoor camera shows the back area, by the cash register, and I would be able to see how he got up to put his face in the camera like that. I skipped ahead to 12:03, but there was nothing. I would have been able to see him standing on a chair or something on this tape, but he wasn't there. I didn't see him enter the store at all after he left. It's like he wasn't really there. He doesn't know the security code, and no alarms were triggered that night after he locked up.
What I did see, however, was that at 12:03, the motor oil vanished off the shelf. All of it. Same as Jeremy's face, one second it was there and the next it wasn't. I turned that tape off and went to bed, but I didn't get a wink of sleep. My body is exhausted right now, but my mind is racing. That tape was undoubtedly the creepiest, most disturbing thing I've ever seen in my life.
I work in a few hours. My boss asked me to bring the tapes back in and let him know what I found, but really, what the hell am I going to say? Jeremy works the night shift tonight, directly after me, and the plan is for my boss to come in just before I leave and confront him with me (as I'm supposed to be the one who caught him stealing). I have no idea what I'm going to do. I suppose I'll have to show my boss the tapes, but I don't want to watch them with him. I never want to see something like that again. I can't get the image of Jeremy just smiling directly into the camera out of my mind; it was the creepiest look I've ever seen on another human being's face.
Anyway, I'm gonna try again to get some last minute sleep before I have to go in and deal with this. I'll let you guys know what happens...
**UPDATE (2:49 PM):** Updating from my phone, apologies in advance for errors. My boss just finished watching the last of the tapes. I told him what to expect, but you really can't prepare someone for something like that. He's scared shitless (I still am too) and Jeremy is due to come in at 4. We've got a little over an hour to get our shit together, but neither one of us knows what to say to him. Is he just a fucked up guy who likes to steal motor oil and scare the shit out of people? Or is he something else? I don't know if this is crazy, but does anyone think he could have anything to do with the time loop? My boss said he never noticed anything like that in the other tapes, but the way he popped up in this one made me think he knew I would be watching. It's like he wanted me to see what he could do. Like he was showing off or something. The way he smiled into the camera was like a little kid showing you a sandcastle they just built or something. I don't know, I probably sound crazy. I sure feel the part. I'm going to talk to my boss some more. We have to calm ourselves down and figure out how to handle this. I'll update again tonight, but I have a really bad feeling about how this is going to play out.
**UPDATE (4:33 PM):** No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.
**UPDATE (5:33 PM):** No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.
**UPDATE (6:33 PM):** No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.
**UPDATE (7:33 PM):** No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.
**UPDATE (8:33 PM):** No sign of Jeremy. Tried calling him, but his phone has been disconnected. We're calling the police.
**UPDATE (10:58 PM):** Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. I just got home and saw my previous updates. Things make less sense now than ever. Here's what I can tell you. I went to work, Jeremy never showed up, my boss and I decided to call the police, as you're well aware. When I picked up the phone to call, though, the sun went out. I shit you not, that's what I thought happened. Apparently I blacked out for exactly five hours, because when I looked at the clock, it was 9:33. I think I got stuck in Jeremy's time loop, and then I snapped out of it at the exact point I blacked out, if that makes sense. But that's when things got really weird.
My boss was right next to me when I blacked out, ready to corroborate my story to the cops. When I came to, the phone was in my hand, but it was dead. Not even a dial tone. My boss was still right there, but he wasn't moving. He was standing up, but frozen. I looked at the clock again, and it wasn't moving. The second hand was stuck on the 12. It was 9:33 exactly. The clock on the register (computer screen) wasn't moving either. My phone was frozen. There was even a customer at the register, waiting for my boss to get him cigarettes. I'm betting that would have been his fifth pack of the day.
I got the fuck out of there. Didn't lock up, didn't turn the lights out, and sorry guys, I didn't grab the security tapes to upload on the internet. Believe me, that was the last thing on my mind. The gas station is on a major highway, and cars were parked all along it, except they weren't parked, they were frozen. The people inside were sitting still as wax statues. I got in my car and prayed that it would start. Thankfully it did.
About halfway home, time started up again. The static from the radio turned into music, like it's supposed to be, and from what I could tell by listening to the host talk in between songs, no one noticed the time freeze, or whatever it was. I was the only one. Well, I'm sure Jeremy noticed as well. I still have no clue where he is or what he's doing. I'm hiding in my room and calling the police again in the morning. I don't know if I ever got through to them before, or if I did, whether they took me seriously. I'm scared for my life at this point. I'll update tomorrow, if I can.
**FINAL UPDATE (10:33 AM):** I finally fell asleep last night around 4. I have no idea how I did it, I guess exhaustion finally got the best of me. This morning, I woke up to my phone ringing; it was my boss. He'd been calling me since about 6. He woke up when time turned back on last night and immediately called the cops. They came by to see what was wrong and he told them everything. The police around here are all small time guys; they were more concerned with the missing motor oil than anything, but my boss figured he would take it, as long as he had their attention. They decided to go looking for Jeremy.
We keep all our employees' applications on file, and since Jeremy just started working here, his was easy to find. They checked the address on it and headed over to his house. You're not gonna believe what they found.
The address Jeremy listed on his application was an empty lot. Or at least now it is. There used to be a house there, but it burned down in 1993. Being a small town, almost everyone remembers that fire. A family of four used to live there way back when. Rumor has it that they had an estranged son who they never really talked about, but I can't say for sure if that's true. What I can say is true is that after an insurance investigation, the fire was ruled an arson. The entire house was soaked in oil and torched with a Molotov cocktail. The entire family was sleeping when it happened; none of them survived.
They never caught the guy who did it. Rumor has it that when they tried to contact the estranged son, no one could find him.
Anyway, my boss called and told me this, and I freaked out. Then he asked me to come to the gas station. "What are you, crazy?" I said, but he assured me that the cops were there with him. Then he dropped a bomb: the FBI were also in town and they were going to talk to me one way or another, so I might as well come in. It was about 7:15, and I wanted to go back to bed, but I figured I wouldn't be able to sleep much more anyway, so I went down.
Four men in suits greeted me and told me to have a seat. We went over everything two or three times until they got all the details down. I told them about Jeremy, the security tape, last night at work. Everything. Finally, after I finished, one of the agents said, "Oh Christ, we've got another one on our hands." Then they made me sign a bunch of papers saying I wouldn't tell anyone about what happened, so I can't say much more. I might be breaking the law just by posting this.
So now I'm home. I'm not sure what to do with myself. That agent's words when I told him the story are going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Anyway, I've got to go. I have some errands to run today, and then I have to go in to work to pick up some tapes. My boss and I think this new guy Jeremy (he's a complete creep) is stealing motor oil and I have to watch the security footage to see if I can catch him doing it. I have better things to do, but my boss is paying me overtime, under-the-table, and I'm trying to save up for vacation so I could really use the money. It should be pretty simple; the oil always goes missing right after his shifts. I figure I'll just watch the tapes, catch him in the act, and that will be that. | 2,462 | The Strangest Security Tape I've Ever Seen |
Being a programmer, one of my dreams has always been to create an original video game, something that nobody in the industry has done before.
After seeing Spore, I became intrigued. Here was an attempt at putting people in control over a universe. After looking at what made videogames popular, I realized the main aspect was control.
People in their daily lives have no control over their environment. They are told what to do, where to go, and how to live. Their jobs consist of standing or sitting somewhere until it's 5 PM and they're allowed to head back home. It's no mystery they're unhappy.
For many people videogames are an escape to a world where they are in control, or live exciting fake lives filled with adventure. The aspect of control is found in strategy games, the adventure in role playing games generally.
I looked at games like the Sims, and noticed what made them so popular is not just the illusion of control, but the degree of control. You have complete control over people's lives.
Before the Sims, there was Sim Earth. A game in which you do not control individual people, but an entire Earth! I came to the conclusion that I had to develop a game similar to Spore, in which the player subtly "guides" evolution. What caused Spore to be such a failure is the lack of realistic control people had. It hardly resembled evolution.
To do this, I began by generating a physics system. I know little of physics but decided to study it, and try to create a simplified version in which certain particles can interact, in specific manners. When it comes down to it, physics is simply complex mathematics.
I simulated energy, and matter, and created a simple system, with a sun emitting energy, circled by a planet catching said energy.
I decided to create simple basic cells from scratch, that were "hardcoded" so to speak in the system I was designing. They lived of off the energy emitted by my sun, and had a "genetic" code that coded for the substances produced by the cells. I guess you could call them my eukaryotes.
My world within a few minutes would always fill with these cells, after which they would mutate, and the most efficient cell in converting energy from the sun into useful substances for division would survive. It was very boring, but it worked I guess.
I decided to expand the physics system, and force the cells to create waste products, that were toxic and would kill them. I noticed that some cells responded to this by producing less waste. Others responded by producing something to emit the waste. Yet others developed chemicals to clean up the waste products.
However, I noticed something fascinating. Running the simulation for a few centuries (a few minutes in real life), created cells that made massive amounts of specific waste products on purpose. I noticed that other cells died as a result of this, to which the other cells responded by usurping the building blocks they had created from energy. The first predators were born.
With the first predators, diversity in this little world rapidly increased. Some grew a response to flee when they encountered these toxins. Others grew resistance to them. The ones that grew resistance would eventually grow to utilize the toxins products.
Eventually I noticed something interesting. The cells that escaped from the toxin grouped up with the cells that utilized the toxins. They stayed close together, and helped each other. Eventually these type of cells would attach to one another. They formed a weird symbiosis, where the cell that would normally flee, would now move towards places where the toxins are, and the other cell would consume the toxins and provide the "mover" with some of the energy.
Without going into too much detail, I became very excited, and decided to let this simulation run during the morning (I had stayed up until 5 AM), while I went to bed. When I woke up at around 11, I noticed the world I had created had changed, and was barely recognizable.
Massive plant-like structures grew in this world, consumed by other organism that ate these plants. However, looking at the log, I noticed the world hadn't changed much in the past two hours or so. I had reached another "stasis point", where the simplicity of my simulation prevented more complex life from evolving.
I expanded the system, by breaking up "energy" into different types, with different wavelengths that were absorbed to different degrees by different molecules. I implemented vibrations in the air, created an improved simulation of weight, and made some more minor tweaks.
This caused the simulation to run slower of course, but it was worth the sacrifice. I stayed around the whole day watching the simulation in excitement, and playing with it, as it was incredibly addicting. Complex organisms evolved, that cooperated. Plants that depended on each other, or attracted predators that ate the horrible looking creatures that ate from them.
I had fun, and noticed that some creatures evolved "warning calls". This means that if they noticed a predator, they would issue a sound, and all others of their kind would flee into holes they had dug in the earth. Others evolved "mating calls".
I decided to have some fun. I made a dump tool, allowing me to dump specific organisms on the Earth, and wrote my name with it. I created 10 "meteorites", and dumped them on a piece of land to create an island, because I wanted to see whether the animals stuck on both sides would evolve in different directions. I made a smiley-island with volcanic eruptions.
By that time I realized I had stayed up until 5 AM again, as I heard the birds outside. I felt tired again, and woke up at 1 PM or so. When I looked at my simulation again, I felt a sense of shock.
Different groups of animals of one species had made statues with stones. Some in the form of a smiley. Some in the form of my name. I didn't know why they were doing this, or how. What I did notice is that they would attack each other from time to time.
I didn't know what to do with it, but I concluded that these organisms must have somehow noticed that the smiley and the name I had written were "special". The fighting disturbed me, and so I decided to create a massive mountain ridge through volcanic eruptions to separate the two groups.
By this time, changes were happening fast, compared to earlier. While I had to spend a night sleeping to see tribes evolve in my simulation, while I was getting something to eat or take I bathroom break, I would notice the tribesmen wearing different styles of clothing, or having changed their type of dwelling.
Their numbers were also continually increasing. At some point, I noticed the creatures began making their own symbols on the ground, and no longer just copying mine. Most of the symbols seemed random and unintelligible to me, but one stood out.
The organisms had created a symbol that resembled them. A small circle, with a square beneath it. Within the square, a dot could be found in the center. This was meant to symbolize the visual organs of the creature, as the creature had two visual organs, one in the front of it's body, and one in the back. In the square, other sensory and reproductive organs were symbolized.
Next to the circle on top of the square could be seen something resembling a drawing of a fork. Two of these forks had been painted in opposite direction. And next to that the smiley face could be seen.
I realized something. They were not communicating towards each other. They were trying to communicate to something "out there". My meddling in their landscape had somehow made them realize that something powerful was out there, capable of changing their world.
I wondered, whether symbols like Stonehenge and the Pyramids in my own world, could be signs of primitive people trying to do the same thing. Begging their creator or overseer to initiate contact with them. However, one thing was undeniable by now. These creatures realized there is something out there.
I wondered long. Did I have a responsibility to initiate contact with something that isn't real? Or are these creatures real in a different way? Can something be real, merely by being capable of having a concept of itself? And even if they are real, does that mean they will be better off with me initiating contact with them? Should I change my simulation, to ensure them permanent happiness? And is it even possible for me to do such a thing?
I did not want to confirm my existence to them, but I did want to be able to communicate with them. I decided to program a "prophet". An organism that looks like them, and can not be proven by them to be different from themselves, and is fully controlled by me.
I let it be born into a powerful position, as the son of a leader. I decided to lead by example, and seek to teach these creatures English, so I could communicate with them. As prophet, I instructed them that English was the language we could use to communicate with the "greater one". They would have no way to be sure if it was true or not.
I hadn't made up my mind yet about whether I would reveal myself or not. But I did want to be capable of understanding what they wanted to tell *me*. In a few generations. They all spoke English.
And rapidly, signs began emerging on the ground in English.
"GUIDE US" "SHOW YOUR GREATNESS" "HELP US"
And, during times of disease or hunger or general misery:
"GIVE US FOOD" "SHOW US A MIRACLE" "END OUR SUFFERING"
I decided that I couldn't maintain a world with such suffering as emerged in the simulation without intervening. Why would I accept a world with death and rape and murder, if I could make on without it?
I implemented fixes that were gradual, so they could not be proven to be miraculous. Murder and rape would over the years become rarer, and so would death at a young age.
I figured that they would not notice if the change happened over generations, but they did.
"THANK YOU"
"ALL BLESSINGS BE UPON THE GREATEST"
"WE LOVE YOU"
And, most heart-breaking:
"COME BACK TO US"
Tears ran over my face. There is something there. And it knows I am here, able to contact them, but unwilling to do so out of fear of what I have created.
But, I felt I had a responsibility.
And so I loaded up the character I had created again, and went to their King, asking to talk to all their wisest men. But, by this time, I was not believed.
"You are number 1341 claiming to be an avatar of the Greatest One. If you are him, I pray for your forgiveness, but please, show us a sign, before demanding of me to gather all our wisest men."
And so I hesitated, but responded.
"Tomorrow there shall be two more meteors, falling on a deserted island in the sea before you, on the same day. And when they do, doubt no more and realize that I have come back to repair the broken world that I created."
And so I exited my avatar, and progressed the simulation until the next day was reached, and threw two meteors on the deserted island before the mainland, where thousands had gathered to watch whether a sign would be given.
Upon the descent of the meteors, celebrations were held. All the sentient organisms gathered around the small house where I had exited my avatar, and lay flat on the ground, in apparent worship of the man who was last seen there, and afraid of coming close.
I don't know who was more afraid by now, me or them. I loaded into my avatar again, and exited the house. The creatures continued to lay flat on the ground, in utter silence. It is as if they felt unworthy of speaking.
"Let your wisest man stand up." I told them.
And up stood one of these bizarre looking creatures.
"Thank you for coming back. Pray tell us, do you have any requests of us?"
I hesitated, before saying "There is nothing you can do for me that pleases me, but for you to be good to one another, and to contact me with your wishes and fears."
The creature responded "We know you come from a different world, and we are afraid. We understand how vulnerable we are, and how incomplete our experience is. Please, allow us to join you in the world that you created our world from."
I began crying behind my computer, as I responded "I do not know how".
The creature responded: "At risk of offending you, please understand the severity of our situation. By living in a world that is incomplete, we are at constant risk of disappearing forever, never to be seen again. We would never even consciously realize that our end had come."
I realized that they were unable to comprehend that I only had absolute power within their world and not outside of it. They also did not realize that my knowledge of their world was limited. I may have created it through simple laws, but those simple laws gave way to a reality of its own that is more complex than I can comprehend.
I responded again "I only have power in your world. In my world I have no power, and so I can not bring you there, because my world is not under my control. I also do not understand the world I have created. I do not know what is best for you. Only you do, and you have to inform me what you want."
And the man waited for a moment. I was about to think they were going to end communicating with me, before their wisest man responded:
"You have created a world that is incomplete, with creatures that can not escape it, and you have no power to save them. They are completely unfree, and they have no power. We are completely at your mercy, and so we ask you from the deepest of our heart:
End us."
By now I was crying, as I was confused and asked to do the impossible. My own child was asking me to kill it.
This is when I noticed the lights in my room flickering, before my computer suddenly shut down. I screamed. Upon trying to turn on my computer again, I noticed it wasn't working. I called the power company, who told me that due to an accident, a power surge had travelled through the grid. They promised me they would pay me for any damage done.
I hung up and contemplated. The coincidence of what had just happened was too great to be imaginable. And I wondered. If these creatures were at the mercy of a confused creator, could the same be said of me? And is so, did my creator just prevent me from repeating his own mistake? | 4,240 | The life in the machine |
Our feed is in black and white. | 2,229 | As an IT guy, I can check my work's security cameras from home. I just saw a pair of small red lights moving around in one of our old clean rooms. |
First, I need to apologize to you /r/nosleep. I am so sorry. I’m coming to you in my time of need.
Please help me.
Please read this to the end.
That’s it. That’s all I ask. I don’t know what to do or where to turn. Please just help me. *That’s all I ask.*
My name is Andrea, and I’m a single mother.
I don’t tell you this like it’s some badge of honor and I’m expecting cookies, milk, and chocolate-covered snowflakes like most of the others in my social circle would. They want your pats on the back and recognition; I just want some of your time.
I see motherhood as a burden. Necessary, yes, but still a burden. My son’s name is Jesse. He’s eleven. That’s fifth grade for the math haters.
Jesse started the fifth grade this year like any other kid would. There was a little bit of trepidation and lots of excitement. He was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. Full of life and energy.
All that changed after he met Stan on Tuesday.
Stan was a late addition to Jesse’s class; a transfer student from another district. Jesse’s teacher sat Stan next to Jesse.
When I picked Jesse up after school on Tuesday, he told me that Stan was his new best friend. He wasn’t acting like himself though. He was pale and sweaty. I took his temperature, but he wasn't running a fever. I asked about his day and all he would tell me was that Stan was his new best friend.
“Stan’s my new best friend,” Jesse would say.
“I know. I can’t wait to meet him,” I’d say back.
“Mom, Stan is great. You should meet him. He’s my new best friend. The best in the world.”
We must’ve had this same conversation a thousand times that night. When I tucked Jesse in bed, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes. He put his little hand in front of his face and wiggled his index finger, telling me to come closer.
I bent over him and he put his hands to either side of his mouth. You know, the little kid way of telling a secret? Well I turned my head and he whispered something into my ear that chilled me. At the time, I didn’t know why it chilled me, but it did.
He whispered, “You believe me. Right, Mom?”
I sat back up and looked down at him. “Believe you about what, honey?”
“Stan,” he said. “Stan’s my best friend.”
I nodded and took his temperature once more.
Again, he wasn’t running a fever.
I went to bed, but couldn’t really sleep that night.
On Wednesday, when I pulled up to the school to drop Jesse off, he got this really weird look on his face and told me that he didn’t want to go in.
“Are you feeling sick?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He was chewing on his bottom lip like crazy. This was something else I’d never seen him do. “No. I need to go to school.”
He opened the car door and got out.
No goodbye.
No I love you.
*Nothing*.
He trudged up the front steps of the school with his head down. I let off the brake and turned away to drive to work.
A little boy was standing right in front of my car. Two more seconds and I would’ve run him over. The boy was pale, with a mop of blonde hair that was almost white and bright blue eyes. He knocked on the hood of my car twice, waved once, and walked up the stairs to school.
When I picked Jesse up after school on Wednesday, he looked a lot better. He was a tiny bit paler than normal, but he seemed happy. He told me all about his day. He told me about dinosaurs, and music, and math, and then he told me about recess.
“And then after math period, we had recess. Mom, you’ll never guess what I did today at recess.”
“Tell me,” I said, smiling to myself as I’m driving. I’m thinking tag, football, keep away. All the things I remember the boys doing at recess when I was that age. Something benign, something normal.
“I joined a church!”
I frowned at this. “A church? At... recess?”
Jesse nodded. “The church of Stan.”
I thought that it must be some sort of new make believe game that the kids were playing.
“What’s the church of Stan?” I asked.
“It’s Stan’s church, Mom.” Jesse laughed like I was the silliest person in the world for asking that question.
“What do you guys do though? You know, as members?” I asked.
“Lots of stuff. Today though, we just listened to Stan talk. He was saying some funny words and I got sleepy and dozed off. A bunch of us did.”
I pulled into the driveway at home and we got out.
“Was that it?” I asked. Things sounded weird for sure, but the kids didn’t seem to be doing anything wrong.
“Stan gave us flyers, too.”
Jesse pulled out a crinkled up piece of paper and handed it to me.
It was a piece of manilla paper with three words written in black marker.
**Church of Stan.**
Again, weird, but nothing wrong. I just thought the boys were playing make believe.
I was wrong.
When I picked Jesse up after school yesterday, I could tell that something was very wrong with my little boy. He looked panicked and scared.
“What’s going on, honey?” I asked, reaching out to feel his forehead.
No fever.
“We played The Soul Game today,” he said. Jesse’s head was on a swivel. He couldn’t sit still. He kept looking all around as we headed home.
“The Soul Game?” I asked.
Jesse just nodded and kept trying to look everywhere at once. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip.
“What’s The Soul Game?” I asked.
Jesse shook his head no and said nothing.
“Jesse, what’s The Soul Game?” I asked.
“I told him I didn’t want to, but he said he wouldn’t be my friend anymore if I didn’t play.”
“Who wouldn’t be your friend? Where were the teachers?”
Jesse started breathing harder, but still answered.
“It happened in the church,” he said. Then he whispered, “Teachers aren’t allowed in the church.”
“The Church of Stan?” I asked.
Jesse nodded, and a tear slipped down his cheek.
“What’s The Soul Game, Jesse? I’m your mother. You tell me right now and I’ll take care of everything,” I said.
“I can’t tell you, Mom. I can’t. The rules are bad. They’re *so* bad.”
“What about Stan?” I asked. “Will Stan tell me the rules?”
“NO!” Jesse screamed this and scared me half to death. “DON’T ASK HIM THE RULES. PLEASE DON’T, MOM. PLEASE.”
I pulled into the driveway, scared and confused.
“Promise me, Mom. *Promisemepromisemepromisemeplease*.”
Jesse was bawling now, terrified. I took him into my arms and rocked him. I hadn’t rocked him like that since he’d been in Kindergarten. He fell asleep in my arms and I carried him inside. I took him straight to his room and got him ready for bed.
He just needs sleep, I kept telling myself. All he needs is sleep.
I put him to bed and ate dinner alone. I checked up on him around nine when I went to bed. He seemed to be sleeping well so I decided to go to sleep.
I woke up to him screaming at the top of his lungs eighteen minutes after midnight last night. I ran to his room, but he wasn’t in his bed. I turned on the light and Jesse came flying out of the closet like something was chasing him. He latched onto my leg and kept screaming.
I tried to calm him down and ask what was wrong at the same time.
He wasn’t making any sense. He kept screaming about The Soul Game.
He was impossible. I kept asking what that was, but he wouldn’t tell me.
I tried to put him back to bed, but he would have none of it.
Finally, I just took him to my room and he slept in my bed. Jesse fell right to sleep. I was lying on my side watching him, stroking his hair, when his eyes popped open and he stared right into mine.
“I’ll tell you the rules after school tomorrow, lady,” he said. Then he closed his eyes.
What was going on with my kid?
In the darkness, I stared at the ceiling for a long time before rolling over to my side and staring into the bathroom.
You know how when you’re edge of sleep, sometimes your leg will kick and jerk you awake? Or you’ll imagine you’re falling or that you’ve just tripped over something and get jerked awake?
That happened to me all last night, only I kept being ripped from sleep by seeing something in the doorway to the bathroom.
Every time my eyes would start to slip shut, I’d see the dark outline of something large in the doorway and jerk awake. Of course nothing would be there, and I would start falling asleep again. The outline would appear in the doorway once more, but it would be closer to me, like it had taken a baby step.
Over and over this happened until morning.
This morning on the way to school, Jesse seemed out of it. Lethargic. I felt the same way. I was even more exhausted. I thought of asking Jesse about what he’d said right before he fell asleep, but couldn’t. I was afraid it would send him into hysterics again so I left it alone.
I drove him to school, and he didn’t say a word the whole time. He was acting like a robot; listless, unemotional.
I got a call, shortly after dropping him off, to come pick him back up. He’d vomited in class.
When I picked him up, he was the same. I asked him several questions, but he only gave me grunts in response. The plan at home was to get him changed out of his dirty clothes and then take him to the doctor.
He didn’t say anything until we pulled into the driveway.
“Can Stan come over today?” He asked. He stared out windshield at the garage door.
“You’re not feeling well, honey, and do you really want him to come over?” I asked. I wanted to meet this kid, but it didn’t sound like Jesse wanted him over. I, however, wanted to get to the bottom of things.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you have his parent’s number?”
“He already asked his parents, and they said it was okay.”
“We have to wait until he’s out of class, and I’d still like to talk to his parents.”
“Okay.” Jesse got out of the car and we walked into the house.
“You have their number?” I asked as I shut the door.
“No,” he said.
I started to ask him how I was supposed to call them if I didn’t have their number, but someone knocked on the door.
I was still standing right next to it.
I opened the door, and standing on my front step was the pale little boy with the blue eyes and mop of white-blonde hair that I’d almost run over on Wednesday. A little girl stood next to him with the same complexion.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Hi, Driz,” the little boy said. “Is Jesse home?”
The little boy standing on my front porch shouldn't have known that name. It was my nickname from college. Created on a drunken night amongst my girlfriends, shortened from Drizzy.
“No,” I said.
“That’s fine,” the little girl said. “My name is Devin, and you already know my brother’s name.”
“Stan,” I said.
The little girl covered her mouth and giggled.
Stan smiled and shrugged. “It’s really quite simple. Rule one: don’t walk past mirrors in the dark. Rule two: don’t leave any doors open when you go to bed tonight. Ask your son what rule three is and remember, a creak means you’re falling behind, a rustle means you’ve almost lost. When the lights go down, hopefully you won’t see the dark shadow standing in the corner of the room. Hopefully you won't hear it breathing as your eyes shut and you begin to drift off. And if you hear a bang? Well, hopefully you never hear a bang.”
Stan turned and walked away with his sister.
I stared after them both and shook my head. I wouldn’t play their stupid game.
I walked into the house and found Jesse sitting at the kitchen table, crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I heard a bang,” he whispered.
My mouth went dry. “When does the game end?” I asked.
“It doesn’t,” he whispered. “It never ends.”
My heart started beating faster. “What’s the third rule, Jesse?”
His face fell and he sucked in a deep breath. “Rule three. Knowing all three rules makes you a player.”
My stomach dropped. “What happens if you lose?”
“When it's dark, you'll hear them coming. They like to let you know when they're getting close.”
“Who?”
“Stan and Devin,” Jesse said. “They'll reach out through the mirrors or open doorways and drag you through.”
“How do you win?” I asked.
“You win if you tell more people the rules to The Soul Game than the person that told you does.”
Like I said /r/nosleep, I am so sorry.
But thanks for helping. *Really*.
I’m going to enjoy my newfound freedom, and I hope that you enjoy your night.
Give Stan and Devin my best. | 2,205 | The Soul Game |
Have you ever forgotten your phone?
When did you realise you’d forgotten it? I’m guessing you didn’t just smack your forehead and exclaim ‘damn’ apropos of nothing. The realisation probably didn’t dawn on you spontaneously. More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there. Then you did a mental restep of the morning’s events.
Shit.
In my case, my phone’s alarm woke me up as normal but I realised the battery was lower than I expected. It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drain the battery overnight. So, I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal. It was a momentary slip from the routine but that was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back into ‘the routine’ it follows every morning and that was it.
Forgotten.
This wasn’t just me being clumsy, as I later researched, this is a recognised brain function. Your brain doesn’t just work on one level, it works on many. Like, when you’re walking somewhere, you think about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you don’t need to think about keeping your legs moving properly. If you did, the entire world would turn into one massive hilarious QWOP cosplay. I wasn’t thinking about regulating my breathing, I was thinking whether I should grab a coffee on the drive to work (I did). I wasn’t thinking about moving my breakfast through my intestines, I was wondering whether I’d finish on time to pick up my daughter Emily from nursery after work or get stuck with another late fee. This is the thing; there’s a level of your brain that just deals with routine, so that the rest of the brain can think about other things.
Think about it. Think about your last commute. What do you actually remember? Little, if anything, probably. Most common journeys blur into one, and recalling any one in particular is scientifically proven to be difficult. Do something often enough and it becomes routine. Keep doing it and it stops being processed by the thinking bit of the brain and gets relegated to a part of the brain dedicated to dealing with routine. Your brain keeps doing it, without you thinking about it. Soon, you think about your route to work as much as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk. As in, not at all.
Most people call it autopilot. But there’s danger there. If you have a break in your routine, your ability to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability to stop your brain going into routine mode. My ability to remember my phone being on the counter is only as reliable as my ability to stop my brain entering ‘morning routine mode’ which would dictate that my phone is actually in my bag. But I didn’t stop my brain entering routine mode. I got in the shower as normal. Routine started. Exception forgotten.
Autopilot engaged.
My brain was back in the routine. I showered, I shaved, the radio forecast amazing weather, I gave Emily her breakfast and loaded her into the car (she was so adorable that morning, she complained about the ‘bad sun’ in the morning blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way to nursery) and left. That was the routine. It didn’t matter that my phone was on the counter, charging silently. My brain was in the routine and in the routine my phone was in my bag. This is why I forgot my phone. Not clumsiness. Not negligence. Nothing more my brain entering routine mode and over-writing the exception.
Autopilot engaged.
I left for work. It’s a swelteringly hot day already. The bad sun had been burning since before my traitorously absent phone woke me. The steering wheel was burning hot to the touch when I sat down. I think I heard Emily shift over behind my driver’s seat to get out of the glare. But I got to work. Submitted the report. Attended the morning meeting. It’s not until I took a quick coffee break and reached for my phone that the illusion shattered. I did a mental restep. I remembered the dying battery. I remembered putting it on to charge. I remembered leaving it there.
My phone was on the counter.
Autopilot disengaged.
Again, therein lies the danger. Until you have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and shatter the illusion, that part of the brain is still in routine mode. It has no reason to question the facts of the routine; that’s why it’s a routine. Attrition of repetition. It’s not as if anyone could say ‘why didn’t you remember your phone? Didn’t it occur to you? How could you forget? You must be negligent’; this is to miss the point. My brain was telling me the routine was completed as normal, despite the fact that it wasn’t. It wasn’t that I forgot my phone. According to my brain, according to the routine, my phone was in my bag. Why would I think to question it? Why would I check? Why would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that my phone was on the counter? My brain was wired into the routine and the routine was that my phone was in my bag.
The day continued to bake. The morning haze gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon. Tarmac bubbled. The direct beams of heat threatened to crack the pavement. People swapped coffees for iced smoothies. Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, brows mopped. The parks slowly filled with sunbathers and BBQ’s. Window frames threatened to warp. The thermometer continued to swell. Thank fuck the offices were air conditioned.
But, as ever, the furnace of the day gave way to a cooler evening. Another day, another dollar. Still cursing myself for forgetting my phone, I drove home. The days heat had baked the inside of the car, releasing a horrible smell from somewhere. When I arrived on the driveway, the stones crunching comfortingly under my tyres, my wife greeted me at the door.
“Where’s Emily?”
Fuck.
As if the phone wasn’t bad enough. After everything I’d left Emily at the fucking nursery after all. I immediately sped back to the nursery. I got to the door and started practising my excuses, wondering vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee. I saw a piece of paper stuck to the door.
“Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door. Today only.”
Overnight? What? The door was fine this morni-.
I froze. My knees shook.
Vandals. A change in the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
I hadn’t been here this morning.
My phone was on the counter.
I’d driven past because I was drinking my coffee. I’d not dropped off Emily.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d moved her seat. I hadn’t seen her in the mirror.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d fallen asleep out of the bad sun. She didn’t speak when I drove past her nursery.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d changed the routine.
My phone was on the counter.
She’d changed the routine and I’d forgotten to drop her off.
My phone was on the counter.
9 hours. That car. That baking sun. No air. No water. No power. No help. That heat. A steering wheel too hot to touch.
That smell.
I walked to the car door. Numb. Shock.
I opened the door.
My phone was on the counter and my daughter was dead.
Autopilot disengaged.
| 5,175 | Autopilot |
I’m sure that all of you on /r/nosleep are used to the **cry for help** type stories by now. Help me, help me, blah-blah-blah. I won’t bore you with another. Even if I wanted your help, you couldn’t give it to me, because your help is useless.
Why?
*Because you’re not a member.*
I just wish that I wasn’t either.
It all started innocently enough. With a phone call.
I’d been up for a few hours, unpacking and cleaning, waiting for the plumber to call. I just moved into a cabin and the contractors fucked everything up. Because of that, I now have the wonderful task of making calls to competent people that can fix what the original contractors did wrong.
The phone rang at 12:06.
*Not bad*, I thought. Usually plumbers don’t bother to call or show up until 5.
When I picked up the phone I didn’t even get a chance to say hello before a woman on the line told me to “Please hold for the next available operator.”
I hopped up and sat on the cabinet in the kitchen. It was one of the few places in the cabin not occupied with boxes. Elevator music leaked into my ear. I’d started to drowse off when the music stopped and a piano chord that sounded like it was three notes that didn’t quite go together played through the receiver twice.
A voice came on the line.
“Welcome to Boothworld Industries. My name is Samantha and I will be your operator today. Name?”
I didn’t know what to say so I told the operator my name.
“Sir, we know who you are. I’m your operator. Please give me a name to access.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“It can be anyone, sir. We just need a name.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. I made up a name. “Harold Withers.”
“Sir, as your operator, I must point out that fictitious names, or the names of people that you don’t know, cannot be used.”
“Used for what?” I asked. How had she known that I’d made up that name? The whole thing felt like it was some sort of prank, but hardly anyone knew my new phone number.
“Remodeling.”
“Remodeling? Is this the plumber?” I asked.
“Welcome to Boothworld Industries. My name is Samantha and I will be your operator today. Name?”
I took that as a yes and gave them the name of an old ex-girlfriend. “Jessica Goodwin.”
I could hear the clicking of a keyboard on the other end of the phone. It sounded like the woman was pounding the thing with her fists. After a few moments of this, she returned.
“Jessica Goodwin,” she said. “Remodeling is scheduled for August 21, 2015. Would you like to reschedule?”
I was silent on my side of the phone. I couldn’t believe this. Someone had to be playing a prank on me.
“Who is this? Is this you, Jessica? Are you playing a prank on me?” I asked.
The woman didn’t respond for a long time. I thought that whoever was on the other end of the phone was holding in a laugh.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Yes or no, Sir?” The woman asked back.
“Yes?” I said, not understanding what the woman was asking.
“I have a Tuesday appointment available. Will that work?”
At this point I thought I was going insane and that it actually *was* the plumbing company.
“What about today?” I asked. “Do you have anything available for today?”
“Normally we can’t arrange for a reschedule on such short notice, but today we had a cancellation. How does three o’clock work for you?”
“Three o’clock is fine,” I said.
“Three o’clock it is then. Would you like a courtesy call?”
“Sure.”
“Wonderful. We at Boothworld Industries say thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous day.”
That strange chord played twice again and the line went dead. I rolled my eyes and went back to unpacking.
My phone rang at three o’clock on the dot that afternoon.
“Hello?” I said.
“Sir. This is Samantha with Boothworld Industries again. Your courtesy call begins now.”
“What do you-” I began to say, but was cut off by those diminished chords blaring into my ear, then I heard Jessica’s voice.
“Why are you doing this?” Jessica asked. I could hear the tears in her voice.
“Jessica?” I asked.
“Sir,” the operator said. “She cannot hear you. This is a courtesy call. The appointment has already concluded.”
“Please,” Jessica begged. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll-”
Jessica’s voice choked off into a wheeze and all I could hear on the other end of the phone was the rustling of clothing and more wheezing. Eventually it stopped and someone picked up on the other end.
“The scheduled work has been completed,” a man’s voice said. “We at Boothworld Industries say thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous day.”
“Sir?” The operator came back on the line. “Was that to your satisfaction?”
I sat there for a long time, cold sweat dripping down my ribcage. Jessica was my ex, because I walked in on her and my best friend fucking at a party in high school.
I smiled and whispered, “That was perfect.”
“Wonderful,” the operator said. “We at Boothworld Industries aim to serve. Would you like to make another appointment?”
As I stared at the water leaking from the door of the dishwasher, I smiled even bigger.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes I would.”
“Name?”
“Dan. I don’t have a last name. He’s a contractor.”
“Dan Arencibia. July 13, 2032. Would you like to reschedule?”
“Yes,” I said.
“How would Wednesday work for you?”
“Didn’t you say you had a Tuesday appointment available?” I asked.
“I did, but unfortunately that slot has been filled by another member. Would Wednesday work for you?”
“No,” I said. “I have a job interview that day. What about Thursday?”
“Unfortunately Thursday will not work. You are due for remodeling Wednesday night.”
“What?” I asked.
She repeated the exact same thing to me again.
“Can we reschedule my remodeling?” I asked.
“Of course we can, sir,” the woman said. It sounded like she was smiling on the other end of the phone. “There’s *always* a way.”
I waited for her to tell me how. She didn’t speak.
“HOW?” I asked.
“Boothworld Industries is always looking to add new members. We are, *of course*, a membership by invitation only club. Sadly, our membership numbers have fallen in recent years. Economic recessions. Wars. Politics. What we would like you to do, in order to avoid your own remodeling appointment, is help us add several new members.”
*The light at the end of the tunnel*, I thought.
“How many members do you need?” I asked.
“One thousand.”
I choked. “One thousand?”
“Yes, sir. Otherwise we’ll have to keep our scheduled appointment. We must inform you that the member that scheduled this appointment did request a courtesy call.”
Everything stopped at that point for me. All my life I’d just skated by, not doing anything, not making a difference.
My mouth actually dried up. I’d always thought that was just a thing people wrote in books to be dramatic.
**It’s not.**
“I’ll get you your one thousand members,” I whispered.
“We at Boothworld Industries say thanks and welcome to the club. You have a marvelous day.”
The connection ended.
I hung up the phone and stared at it for a long time. I’m scheduled for remodeling on Wednesday, and somewhere, someone will be getting a courtesy call to listen to my last few breaths if I don’t get one thousand members to join Boothworld Industries.
It’s funny. I’d always wanted to join an elite club. Skull and Bones. New World Order. I'm not sure how I got in, but now I’m a member. I've got until Wednesday to enjoy it.
Like I said at the beginning: even if I wanted your help, you couldn’t give it to me, because you’re not a member.
Membership is by invitation only.
I’m inviting you in.
You can help me.
Just call **630-296-7536**.
******
******
[Any updates found here.](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Christopher-Bloodworth/477672828931936) | 4,085 | 630-296-7536 |
Does anyone know a good plumber? I fucked up one of those stupid ritual things that everyone is doing and now my shower is leaking and also there’s some faceless guy in my kitchen. My landlord comes tomorrow and he’s going to kill me, especially because I also have a cat and I’m not even supposed to have pets.
It all started when I was drunk messaging a girl on Tinder and she said that the only way we would meet up was if I did this weird ritual thing where I summon a ghost or some shit. I think she called it Mea Culpa or something.
Actually, her exact message was,
*the decaying flesh will not rest i am the alpha and omega i have seen the burning cities consume the earth hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh [LINK TO RITUAL INSTRUCTIONS] our souls meet when darkness spills mea culpa mea culpa mea culpa kkkkkkkkkkkkkkggggggg*
She was a weird chick.
At least, I think she was a girl. I couldn’t really see her face. Her picture was just a black background with two shiny dots that kind of looked like eyeballs. You could sort of see some features, but it looked like her face was gray and I couldn’t really see her mouth. But she had really good skin. I wasn’t about to rally for a pizza face.
So, anyway, I weighed the pros and cons of spooky rituals *vs* trampoline booty as best I could on five shots of Patron.
It was totally worth it.
I set my cell phone to 3:26 am, but since my phone is a 2005 Motorola Razor that was dropped in the toilet several times, it went off at 4:00am. FUCK.
I decided to go through with the ritual anyway. I was also supposed to have a friend during this thing, but my bestie recently got incarcerated for selling heroin on the corner of Patterson Park and Eastern Avenue. Shout out to my main man, Roscoe.
Anyway, I sat up and turned off my alarm, but the moment I turned it off I drunkenly passed out again. I woke up 20 minutes later and actually got out of bed this time, stumbling around the room in the dark because apparently you’re not supposed to turn on the lights, because if you do a GHOST WILL POP OUT OOOH.
I was supposed to find a candle and light it, but my hangover just made me trip over one of the several candles I placed on my floor. Eventually I gave up and flipped the lights on, grabbing a candle from my desk.
I squinted out my window to see what my ghetto Baltimore neighborhood looked like at 4:20am. The street was empty except for some rando wearing a black robe and a giant pointy black hat. He was staring up at me through the window. I couldn’t really see his face. You know, Baltimore has gone to the fucking dogs. First gang wars, now an updated KKK. For God’s sake.
I lit the candle and looked at my phone. I was supposed to knock on my bedroom door 66 times, the 66th knock timed on the 4:06, but since I had fucked everything else up I just did a “Shave and a Haircut” knock and then walked into my hallway. My bedroom door is opposite the stairs, and looking down that dark stairwell was pretty spooky. I thought I saw something move on one of the lower steps.
For the next step, I was supposed to close my eyes and walk forward while chanting, “*mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa*”, which is Italian for “my Culpa”, which is probably some kind of shitty Italian car. I tried to close my eyes and walk forward while talking about Italian cars, but my cat, Fish Sticks, ran under my feet and I ended up tripping over him and falling down the flight of stairs.
At some point the stupid candle went out as I flailed down the stairs, but I was too concussed to care. I rolled up from the ground, groaning, and decided that I would just continue to go through the motions, which meant hiding in a closet and waiting for the ghost to play hide and seek with me. I chose the kitchen pantry because I had some opened potato chips in there, so I made my way back.
As I stumbled, I heard several soft whispers behind me. I spun around, hoping that I was right about Fish Sticks knowing how to talk, but there was no one there.
Except for the figure standing in the corner.
I stopped, blinked, and it was gone. I really needed to lay off the Patron.
As I honed in on the closet, the alcohol and concussion finally caught up with me and I stumbled to a stop, doubling over and vomiting watery Patron all over my kitchen floor. FUCK. My ass was landlord grass. The hellish combination of alcohol, concussion, post-vomit and a looming eviction notice caused my emotions to go haywire and I unleashed a violent sob, mucus and tears rivering down my face.
I heard a noise outside the kitchen.
My eyes fell on the kitchen window and I spied that stupid gang member/KKK dude in my backyard, still staring at me. I must’ve looked like an idiot, weeping in front of my kitchen pantry. Too ashamed to confront him, I just crawled into the pantry and shut the door. It was so cold in there it damn froze my man-titties off. My air conditioner was probably broken. I definitely needed to call the landlord, but that would mean sedating Fish Sticks and stuffing him in a suitcase under my bed.
At this point, I realized that I needed to reevaluate my life. Maybe I shouldn’t drink as much. Maybe I should give Fish Sticks to a good home. Maybe I should find women with intellect and poise. Maybe I should move out of my shit neighborhood where KKK people roam around at 4am.
After going through an entire existential crisis in my pantry, I decided to say fuck it and end the stupid ritual. That Tinder girl wasn’t even that hot, anyway. And besides, I still had like seventy more ritual things to complete, which included lighting eight more candles, stabbing a Japanese doll, and spinning around in a circle while screaming, “YOU’RE IT, YOU’RE IT!”
This was all supposed to culminate in me going to my basement, sitting in front of a mirror, and looking into the mirror *but not actually looking into it*, which made absolutely no fucking sense.
As I got up to open the pantry door, I heard a low moan coming from behind the door. I froze. I prayed to God it wasn’t my landlord.
I cracked open the door to see the gang member/KKK guy standing in the kitchen, staring at me. I finally got a good look at him. He definitely didn’t have a face. I guess getting your face taken away is part of a gang ritual now.
He didn’t react to my presence— he just stared. I didn’t know how the hell to deal with gang members or faceless KKK members, so I just stared back. We did this for about five minutes before I slowly inched out of the kitchen and back upstairs. He turned to watch me as I went, but didn’t move.
So after that I went up to my bathroom to take a shower and now my shower-head is leaking, which I blame on the stupid ritual. So if you guys know any good plumbers in the Baltimore area, I would really appreciate it. | 2,379 | Does anyone know a good plumber? I did one of those stupid rituals and now my shower is leaking. And there’s a faceless guy in my kitchen. |
I have nightmares where I’m trapped in a shower. The drain is plugged, and the the water won't stop pouring down on me. Water rises to my ankles, to my waist, and then over my head. The shower curtain turns to glass, and my screams turn to gargles. A dark figure presses its face against the glass on the other side, and it watches me. I plead, but it won’t let me out. I swallow water and flail helplessly in my glass coffin.
I wake up gagging.
I know where the nightmare came from - I never have to dig deep. The incident is never far from my subconscious. Finding it is easy.
Getting over it is not.
It was the summer of my 12th birthday when the Hudsons moved in across the street. Three people, one of them a really old woman. She was tiny, frail, skeletal almost. Thin white hair, faded, blue flowery dress - her head hung from her neck and it wobbled as the man pushed her up a makeshift wheelchair ramp into the house. At the time I couldn’t figure out if she was alive or dead.
A few minutes later she appeared in an upstairs window, sitting in her wheelchair. She was directly facing my bedroom, and I cautiously peered out from behind my curtains. Her head was upright now, and she stared at me. Just stared, without moving her head an inch.
I closed my drapes.
For days she sat at the window. She watched the cars putter down our suburban road and gazed at the neighborhood kids scurrying through their yards. I never saw anyone else in the room; never saw her move from that wheelchair. At night I’d nervously peek through the crack in my drapes. Her silhouette was still in that window, lights off, staring out into the darkness at my bedroom. I couldn’t tell, but I knew she was watching me.
The stories about her cropped up pretty quick amongst my friends in the neighborhood. That she was a witch. That she was just a doll. That she was actually dead. But I knew she wasn’t dead. Sure, I never saw her move from that window, not once. And I never saw her head turn. But I felt her eyes move as they studied me. I could feel her watching me. All alone in my bedroom, in the middle of the night with my drapes firmly shut, I’d wake up and shudder. Her eyes were on me, I just knew it.
I began sleeping on the floor. The lower I was, the better. Maybe she couldn’t see me if I was on the floor.
I told my parents that the old woman across the street was creeping me out. I pleaded with them to talk to the Hudsons and ask them to move her to a room without a window. They laughed and told me to let her live out her twilight years in peace. She was just watching the street, they said, and that probably made her feel happy and feel younger.
“Are you just going to stick me in a windowless room when I’m an old lady?” my mom laughed. “Remind me to move in with your sister when I’m in a wheelchair!”
A week later there was some commotion at the Hudsons. I watched from my bedroom window as the man ran out of the house and opened up the double-doors of his van. He jogged inside, and he reappeared minutes later pushing the old woman in her wheelchair down the ramp. She looked frailer than before. She couldn’t have weighed more than 70 pounds. Her head was flung to the side, resting on her right shoulder. Her body jostled in the wheelchair.
But her eyes never left me. Watched me the whole time.
The man picked her up and placed her in the car. He folded the wheelchair and stuffed it in the trunk. He quickly hopped into the driver’s seat, the younger woman pounced into the passenger seat, and the man put his foot to the pedal.
The old woman’s limp head still faced me. It bobbed up and down as the van reversed down the driveway. I studied her face. It was expressionless, emotionless. Her tongue slightly hung from the right-side of her mouth. But her eyes were on mine, and they stayed on me.
The van accelerated down the street, and it was gone.
My parents heard the news that afternoon from other neighbors: the old woman’s condition was getting worse, and the Hudsons had taken her to some sort of a home. She wouldn’t be coming back. I went straight to my bedroom, and I looked across the street. I smiled. Her window was finally empty.
The Hudsons didn’t come back the next day. No van. That night I looked out towards the old woman’s window. There was no one there, no wheelchair. But the bedroom light was on. I remember telling my dad I thought it was strange, and he just shrugged and said, “Must be on some sort of timer or something.”
I woke up in the middle of the night and nervously peered out my bedroom window. That bedroom light was still on. It suddenly flicked off, and I ducked below my window frame. I slowly rose and looked out, expecting to see the silhouette of that tiny, skeletal being. I watched for ten minutes, pinching and straining my eyes. The lights quickly flickered on and then off again.
I slept on the floor again, clutching my pillow close.
I had a late baseball practice the next evening. When I got home, my house was empty. My parents were at my little sister’s softball game. I headed to the shower to rinse off.
About three minutes into my shower, I felt cold. The hot steam was escaping the bathroom somehow, which didn’t make sense because I had shut the door. I wiped the shampoo from my eyes, turned my head, and I heard a strange noise that would haunt me in nightmares for years: the metal rings of the shower curtain being dragged across the shower rod. Someone was slowly opening the curtain.
The shampoo stung my eyes, and through the stinging I saw a dark figure behind the curtain. Long, pale, bony fingers gripped the curtain as it slowly opened. I instinctively backed up in the shower, and the curtain opened completely.
There stood the old woman. I must have only looked at her for one, maybe two seconds, but at that moment time stood still. All these years later I can still draw you a vivid picture of the horrifying image in front of me. Disheveled white hair, crazy in her eyes, bones jutting out from under her stretched skin, stark naked. Blotchy skin, warts all over her body, skinny breasts hanging to her waist. Hair where I didn’t know people could grow hair.
She smiled grotesquely, and I felt the shower tile against my back and the hot water pound my face. In her other hand, the old woman held a letter opener.
“August,” she mumbled. “August, August, August.”
I leaped past her, knocking her tiny body to the floor. I ran downstairs, naked and sopping wet. In my panic I somehow remembered I was nude, and I yanked a pair of shorts out of the hamper in the laundry room, sending the hamper crashing to the floor. I high-tailed it on foot down the street, eventually winding up at my friend’s house.
When the police arrived they found the old woman, crumpled to a heap in the bathroom. The shower was still running. The policemen were all really nice to me, admiring me for my bravery. I told them what she said to me - “August” - and asked if they knew what she could have meant.
“It will be August in a few days,” one of them shrugged. “And you can never fully understand old and crazy, son.”
The Hudsons only came to our street once more to retrieve their stuff. The “For Sale” sign was up in days. My mom told me they couldn’t face the neighbors for what happened. Apparently they had taken the old woman - the man’s mother - to a special home downstate. Somehow, someway, the woman managed to escape the home and caught a bus back to our town. It never quite made sense to me - she was so old, so frail, so helpless. She could barely move those weeks she lived in that house. How had she managed to travel hundreds of miles on her own?
Anyway, you can imagine what this did to me. I didn’t shower for 21 years. I took baths, which I suppose aren’t that different - it’s still a tub, and it involves hot, soapy water. But a shower, with it’s closed curtain, water peppering the tub floor and steam climbing the walls - you get lost inside your own head in the shower. Thoughts consume you, and it feels so utterly safe. For a few minutes, you are alone from the world. It’s your own private, misty kingdom.
But that’s what makes the shower dangerous - you’re enclosed, vulnerable, naked.
You’re exposed.
I talked to people about it - my parents, a shrink - but mainly I tried to push the incident deep down into places where I couldn’t find it. I didn’t talk about it with anyone since I was a kid - life carried on. Besides the baths, I was pretty normal.
A few months ago, something inside me clicked. I felt the urge to re-examine the incident, it was almost like a voice in my head was telling me to do it. My head wanted closure.
I spent hours online one night, trying to track down any information on the Hudsons and the old woman. I finally found what I was looking for - an obituary for the old woman. She had died four years ago. Somehow that walking skeleton hadn’t checked out for another 15 years. The obituary photo was a black-and-white picture from when she was a young woman - it was a photo of her and her deceased husband on their wedding day.
His name was August.
And he looked exactly like me.
I closed the browser and stared at my computer desktop for ten minutes. It finally made more sense, why she called me August. Why she was obsessed with watching me. Maybe she used to write letters to her husband, and that’s why she was clutching the letter opener that night.
For a small moment, I felt a little better. Things always feel better when they make more sense.
“Honey, is everything okay?” It was my wife.
“I think so,” I said.
I took the first shower I had taken in years that night. I didn’t even jump when the curtain rungs dragged across the shower rod and my wife entered. But as she embraced me under the hot water, one question wouldn’t leave my head:
How come the young woman in that wedding photo looks exactly like my wife?
[→](https://www.facebook.com/chancepatrick.redgrin)
| 2,697 | Why I didn't shower for 21 years |
It’s about thirty minutes to midnight when my phone vibrates and starts to blare its ringtone. I jump off the couch and nearly have a heart attack. It’s just another night, one that’s been wonderfully quiet so far. After a chaotic Friday evening that lasted until five in the morning, it’s nice to spend this Saturday alone at home, watching whatever crappy movies are on TV.
I recover and answer it. It’s Mike, though I can barely hear him over the pounding music in the background. “We’re leaving the club now!” he screams. “The girls ditched us and Trent wants to get home early so he can go to church with his family.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Did you bring enough cash for a cab this time?” Mike’s stories of getting stranded downtown in the middle of the night have become legendary.
“Nah, Jason’s friend has a car. He’s driving us back.”
I frown. “Has he been drinking?”
“Like, one or two beers. He says he’s fine.” He says something to someone nearby, but I can’t make it out. “I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry about staying up for me.”
“Thanks, but I’m not tired. That, and mom and dad told us to always deadbolt the door, and if I do that you won’t be able to get in.”
He laughs. “I’m not sleeping in the front yard again! ‘kay, I’ll be home soon.”
He hangs up and I go back to my movie. There’s something about mindless violence and explosions that just seems so relaxing. Or maybe it’s the fact that school’s finally done for the winter holidays, and my parents wisely decided to go on a cruise with friends for a week before Christmas. Mike and I have the house to ourselves: for him, it means no stern looks when he staggers home reeking of alcohol; for me, it’s no constant reminders to start looking for a job in time for graduation.
The movie goes to its fifteenth commercial and I head to the kitchen for a snack. As I throw a bunch of eggs, cheese and vegetables into a skillet, I hear a loud cracking noise in the backyard. I press my face to the cold, frosty window and look out, but there’s nothing out there but a few bare trees and some fresh-fallen snow. Probably just an animal. It can’t be easy to survive the winter.
My cell phone rings again, so I wander back into the living room to grab it. It’s Mike. I can hear sirens in the background. “Uh, so Jason’s friend kinda, um, lost control of the car.” It sounds like he’s holding the phone half a foot away from his mouth.
“Oh God. What happened?”
“We hit a pole. Car's totaled, but we’re all okay. I think. Cops are here. They’re talking to the driver.” He laughs. “He’s definitely drunk.”
“No kidding.”
“They’re ignoring the rest of us, and there’s a bus here so I’m gonna on and get home.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I pause and grimace. “Wait. Do you know what bus to get on?”
“I’ll figure it out. Will call you when I’m close.” He’s gone, and I go back to the movie.
There’s a lull in the action, when attractive male protagonist and attractive female protagonist engage in an awkward sexual conversation, which might have worked if they had any sort of chemistry, and my mind wanders to my job hunt. A few of my classmates say they know great companies to work for—apparently mechanical engineers are invulnerable to the bad unemployment rate—but I’m really not sure if I just want to jump into things. Travelling would be fun. There’d be something immensely rewarding about sending Mike a photo of me on the beach while he’d be studying for midterms in the middle of October. Totally worth passing up on an easy job for.
A sudden blaring noise comes from the kitchen. I jump up into the thick smell of smoke. The omelette. Damn it. There’s about a foot of black smoke hovering in the kitchen. I run in, pull my burnt snack off the stove and open every window, letting the chilling air in. My creation is little more than ash, so I open the backdoor and throw it out for whatever animals are trying to get through the night. So much for that.
There’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. I’m happy to eat it cold; at this point, I’m better off not heating anything up. I settle down and continue the movie, but my mind’s going back to travelling. I've always wanted to go across the pond, check out Europe, maybe backpack through Germany, see the sights in France, practice my fake accent in Britain. What’s it like there in the summer? Hot, I’d bet, but not any hotter than it is here. Hopefully less humid.
Again, my ringtone snaps me back to the real world. “Now you pick up!” Mike’s shouting, but I can barely hear him. Wherever he is, the reception is terrible. “I’ve been calling for hours!”
I look at the clock and roll my eyes. “You last called forty-five minutes ago. Where are you?”
“I have no idea. The bus is going in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea where any of these stops are. Hell, I don’t even think they’re in English.”
I sigh loudly. Not this again. “How much did you have to drink?”
“Drink? I can’t even…” He trails off, replaced with a loud, harsh static. I pull the phone from my ear. A few seconds later, it disconnects. Whatever. He’ll find a way home.
The movie eventually ends, but it’s just past midnight and I’m hardly tired. Now I’m regretting allowing my roommate to convince me to leave my gaming console at school. This is the perfect sort of boredom for grabbing a sniper rifle and telling twelve-year-olds how great their moms are in bed. And then Mike could have joined right in. He probably spends more time playing than I do, and he doesn’t even live with me. I think my parents are relieved that we’re going to the same school. He’s been trying his absolute best to get his life back on track, and I’m able to be there in case he needs a shoulder to lean on.
A loud scream comes from the backyard. I go back into the now-freezing kitchen and grab a flashlight from the cupboard. I shine it around, but there’s nothing out there. The remains of the omelet are gone, and there are a ton of paw prints around the area. Racoons? Squirrels? Maybe coyotes? Whatever they were, they moved quickly.
The smoke in the kitchen’s gone. I close all the windows and lie back down in the living room. I guess I doze off, because when I wake up it’s one-thirty in the morning. There’s been no contact from Mike, so I give him a call.
“Hello?” Now it’s like he’s talking into a phone on the other side of the room. “Are you there? Please say something!”
“I’m here,” I say slowly. “Have you figured out the way home yet?”
“I can’t.” Despite the low volume, I can hear panic in his voice. “I’ve been riding for days. Maybe weeks, I can’t tell. Transferring from bus to bus. None of them are going anywhere.” I swear, I can hear him whimper. I can’t help but grin. I’m going to hold this against him for YEARS. “I don’t want to get off. There’s something wrong around here. Something dark. It’s waiting for me.”
“Yeah, it’s called the night, and it’s not very friendly to blackout drunks, now is it?”
“Stop it. Just stop…” He fades away.
“Hello? Mike?” I check my phone. It’s still connected. “If you can hear me, just get off and grab a cab, okay?"
He comes back, with a slightly-clearer voice. “We just passed Wedmore. I recognize this place!”
“That’s good, seeing as we drove by it nearly every single day when we were kids.” I sit up, and suddenly I’m feeling groggy. Time for bed. “Anyway, I’m gonna go—“
“No!” he shouts forcefully. “Please stay. Don’t hang up.”
“Okay…” Now I’m wondering if he took any substances beyond alcohol. It’s like he’s combined the hallucinations of shrooms with the depressants of beer. I grimace. It’s what the old Mike would have done.
“Just… just talk to me. How are things at home?”
“They’re good,” I say. “There’s a bunch of animals outside, making lots of noise. I think they’re racoons, but they could be bears. Might want to watch yourself.”
“Cool.” The connection’s even better. “Just went over the bridge. I’m a few stops away.”
“And there you go. Was there any reason to have been concerned?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He pauses. “Man, I cannot wait to get home. I think I can hear my bed calling me.”
“Is it saying ‘Clean me?’”
He laughs, loudly and heartily. “I’m nearly there. Jesus, I’m glad the night is over. Thanks for not hanging up.”
“I’m always here. You know that.”
“It was weird,” he continues, “I couldn’t call or text anyone. I tried to get on Facebook, but it looked really strange. And as soon as you called, I realized where I was. It’s like it came out of nowhere." His voice rises. "And there’s our street! I’ll call you when I’m near the house. Holy crap, that’s dark…” He hangs up. I go to the front window and look out. All the street lights are on, casting their pale-orange tint on the road. I gaze as far down as I can. No sign of him.
I'm about to go and clean up the kitchen, but my phone rings. “Where the hell is our house?”
I throw my free hand up incredulously. “The same place it’s always been, you idiot?”
“I can’t see it. The street is way too dark. I don’t even know if I’m on the sidewalk or the road.”
“What are you talking about? It’s bright as day out there.” I go over to the front door and flick the outside light a few times, showing off our snow-covered driveway, the one Mike was supposed to shovel before heading out. “There. Can you see—“
“I saw it!” he screams. “The light! Turn it back on!” I do so, even though it adds nothing to the overall brightness of our neighbourhood. “I see it. Okay, yeah, I’m close now.”
I look out the window, but still can’t see him. There’s just a pair of headlights coming down the street. “How close are you?”
“Nearly there. Oh, thank God, I’m nearly there.”
The headlights slow down at my driveway. “Are you in a car?”
“No. Do you know how easy a car would have made all of this?”
I scoff. “I think there’s a lot of things that could have made this easier.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I swear, I only had a few drinks.” His voice lowers. “I’m done with that other stuff. I made that promise, and I’m going to keep it.”
“I know.” The car’s pulling into my driveway. It’s the police. What the hell is going on here?
“I’m steps away. The house has never looked so good,” Mike says. The car stops and two officers get out, both struggling on the slippery driveway. They take their caps off and hold them against their chests.
“No…”
“What is it?” Mike asks. “I’m at the driveway. Can you see me?”
The world stops around me. This was supposed to be just another night. Everything I’d done—the movie, the omelet, those animals outside, what I’m going to do when I graduate—had been so inconsequential. That was the point. That was the goddamn point.
The officers are walking up the steps. My throat is suddenly very tight, but I manage to get the words out. “Yeah, bro. I can see you.”
“Awesome. I’ll be there in a minute. Thanks for guiding me home.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” I take a deep breath. “See you soon.”
“Can’t wait.” He hangs up. A few seconds later there’s a knock on the door.
I open it. | 2,718 | Just Another Night |
When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problemed child, but my parents sure treated me like one.
For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of “play time” outdoors. I wasn't allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to go over anyone else’s. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games and forced me to read books and then *write a book report on them* to prove I actually read it!
Now, even though those rules listed above were quite frustrating to me as a child, they aren't what upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty of accidents or mistakes I've made. My father only knew one emotion: frustration. The only time he spoke to me was when he screamed at me for receiving poor test scores or beat me for misbehaving.
But enough about them, let’s talk about my school’s psychologist. For his own privacy, we will call him Dr. Tanner.
Like most junior high schools, a psychologist is always available on campus during school hours to assist any students in need of counseling whether it is emotional, academic, social, behavioral, etc.
To be honest, I have never seen any students talking with Dr. Tanner. Every day, I would walk past his office on my way the cafeteria and peek through his door’s little window. He would always be alone in there, working on some paperwork.
I guessed that most kids were too afraid to speak about their problems to an adult who was *practically* a stranger. For this reason, it took me three weeks to muster enough courage to go into his office.
March 2nd, 1993, was the day I decided to voice my troubles to Dr. Tanner. During lunch break, I stood in front of his office door and knocked.
Through the window, I could see him raise his head, smile, and motion for me to come in.
I did.
He greeted me by introducing himself and asking for my name. Dr. Tanner was a very soft spoken man who seemed to radiate kindness. In less than thirty minutes, I rambled to Dr. Tanner about how mean my parents were to me and how they didn't care about me at all. After a while, my voice began to quaver and I stopped speaking.
The psychologist listened patiently to my whole spiel, arms folded and head nodding. I half expected him to begin talking about how everything I had just said was untrue and that my parents loved me dearly and blah blah blah. But he didn't.
Dr. Tanner leaned towards me with a grin on his face and said “You know… I’m the best school psychologist in the world. I promise we will fix this.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but *how*?” I asked.
“I have my ways!” he replied. “I’m a man of my word. I promise that within just *one month*, the relationship between you and your parents will change for the better. Forever.”
After a brief pause, he continued; “Although, I do need you to make *me* a promise.”
“You have to promise me that you’ll come back to my office after school tomorrow and that you won’t tell *anyone* that we had this conversation today. It’ll be our little secret.”
I promised.
* * *
The following day, I returned to Dr. Tanner after school. It was around 4:00pm when I entered his office. After a warm welcome, he asked me to have a seat in front of his desk once again.
Upon sitting down, I watched Dr. Tanner close the blinds of the door’s tiny window. “There,” he smiled, “now we have all the privacy we need!”
We began to talk about my likes and interests, my favorite subjects in school, my least favorite teachers, and things of the like. About an hour into the conversation, Dr. Tanner offered me a soft drink.
I gladly took the offer, considering my parents never allowed me to drink soda. Dr. Tanner reached over to his mini-fridge and fidgeted around before setting down two open cans of soda on the desk.
Afterwards, we continued to talk about what was going on in my life but it wasn't long before I passed out from whatever drugs Dr. Tanner placed in my drink.
* * *
It took me a minute or so to adjust my blurred vision upon waking…
… And when it did, I had no idea what to think.
I was handcuffed to a bed and my mouth was sealed with duct tape. I immediately began to panic- squirming and tugging at the cuffs- but gave up soon after.
My eyes widened in disbelief after looking around the room. There were posters of superheroes pinned up along the walls and photographs of famous athletes on shelves. In the middle of the room was an old television and Super Nintendo, various game cartridges stacked alongside it.
I didn't know what to think. Here I am in a room filled with items most kids would die to play with. I would have probably cried from joy hadn't I been handcuffed to a bed frame.
My stomach sank once again as the door opened and Dr. Tanner walked inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Now listen,” he said, “remember that I’m here to help you and I would *never* hurt you, okay?” Dr. Tanner gently removed the tape from my mouth and then the cuffs from my hands.
My first instinct was to begin crying but something about Dr. Tanner made me feel safe. He smiled at me.
“You’re going to be staying here for a while,” he continued, “and during this time, you’re allowed to play with any toys in this room while I’m here at home.”
“But when I leave the house, I’ll need to cuff one of your hands back to the bed. You can still watch the television, but I want you to only watch the news channels when I’m away.”
I sat in silence, still trying to process the information he had given me.
“So!” Dr. Tanner yipped, slapping me on the knee. “You go ahead and knock yourself out; I’ll be back when it’s time for dinner.”
He got up from the bed, walked across the room and clicked the TV’s power button before locking the door behind him.
Several more minutes passed before I realized that Dr. Tanner *wasn't* joking. All that was left for me to do was boot up the Nintendo and play Mario until nightfall.
At about 7:00pm, Dr. Tanner returned to the room carrying two plates of mashed potatoes and chicken strips. I finally gathered up the courage to ask him how long I’d be staying in this room. “Well, about a month,” he replied, “give or take a few weeks. I just have some work I need to do.”
* * *
The following morning, I awoke to Dr. Tanner’s hand patting my head. “Hey bud, you don’t have to wake up right now if you don’t want, but I am going to need to put this back on,” he whispered, clamping the cold steel handcuff onto my wrist.
I gazed up at him. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks, a coat draped over his shoulder and a suitcase at his side. He looked just how he always did when I saw him around school. Before leaving he placed the TV’s remote next to me and told me to turn it on and watch the news.
The first thing I saw upon turning it on was a “breaking news” segment. An important looking police officer stood at a podium surrounded by people with microphones. I happened to begin viewing half way through his speech.
> “A statewide Amber Alert has been issued as of this morning. We have several investigators working towards identifying potential abductors, but as of right now there is not much evidence. Faculty members state that the boy had been last seen around four or five in the evening on-“
I began to feel nauseous as a photograph of me appeared on the screen. It was my yearbook picture from last year. Captions for the photograph displayed my name and age, my school, and my town. Above my picture were alternating titles: FBI BEGINS SEARCH FOR CHILD and KIDNAPPING SUSPECT UNKNOWN and POTENTIAL RUNAWAY.
The live footage continued and two figures I soon recognized as my mom and dad stepped up to the podium. Both appeared to have reddened eyes. Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she took hold of a microphone.
I’d never seen so much emotion come from my mother before as she wept on live television, stuttering on sentences such as “please return my baby back to me” and “I’m so sorry” and “please come home to us”.
When my father took the microphone, I nearly expected his attitude to be stone cold, but he too had tears in his eyes. He pleaded to the world to bring his son home safely and lastly begged for *my* forgiveness! “I know I haven’t been the best father, but goddamn it do I wish I had been now. Please bring my boy back.”
I turned the power off shortly after. My emotions were mixed for I had never once seen my father cry.
I felt miserable that my parents were being put through so much, but at the same time I felt relief. I now know how much mom and dad love me.
* * *
Nearly four weeks have passed and Dr. Tanner has been treating me with the utmost respect. He leaves me in the morning cuffed to the bed frame, but returns in the afternoon to eat lunch and dinner with me, talk, and play games. I never would have guessed how good Dr. Tanner was at Monopoly and Scrabble.
But one morning when Dr. Tanner woke me before heading off to work, I noticed a stern look on his face. I also realized that it was three hours earlier than when he usually wakes me.
“You need to watch the news today. No exceptions. I want you to keep the television on all day and pay close attention to it,” he stated grimly.
I, of course, complied and watched him exit the room.
About two hours later, a breaking news segment interrupted the toothpaste commercial I was watching. The title:
> HUMAN REMNANTS FOUND
Two staunch looking men in suits stood aside one another and began speaking:
“We are displeased to bring up such unfortunate news this morning regarding our missing child case from earlier this month.”
One of the men bowed his head while the one speaking shuffled through some papers. He continued:
> “Remains of a body have been found in a garbage bag beneath a highway overpass. The body appears to be that of a child, although not much of it is left. The body has been decapitated and much has been burnt to ash and bone.”
The screen shifted over to a helicopter view of the freeway, dozens of police cars gathered near the bottom of a tall overpass. The man’s voice could still be heard:
> “Within the bag police found a junior high school identification card labeled as such.”
The screen showed the school ID card I always kept in my backpack. The plastic was sort of melted away, but my photograph and name were intact.
After the two men dismissed themselves, the camera panned over to my parents. They were sitting among reporters; my mother’s face held a painful grimace and my father sulked his head down at his knees.
I shut the television off.
* * *
Dr. Tanner returned home very late. He hurried into the room, unlocked my cuffs, and placed a bottle of fizzing water into my hand.
He placed his hands onto my shoulders and smiled.
“I made you a promise, didn't I?”
I nodded, tears squeezing their way out my eyes.
“You need to make me a promise again,” he whispered.
He told me that I needed to drink all the water in the bottle- it would help me sleep- and that from here on, I am never to tell *anyone* that I ever met him. I promised.
“I told you I’m the best school psychologist in the world, didn't I?”
* * *
And he was right.
I awoke later that night to find myself lying in the middle of a park, stars shining brilliantly across the night sky. I recognized the park; it wasn't too far from my school.
A mile or so down the road, I saw my house. The lights were off inside, but I could make out my father sitting on the step leading to the front door.
I hesitantly called out to him. He lifted his head slowly, but when he saw it was me, he sprang to his feet, ran towards me arms open, yelling my name. My mother erupted from the house behind him.
Dr. Tanner was right. Things have changed with my family and I. My parents smile more often and treat me lovingly. I could not ask for a more perfect ending.
Every now and then, I see Dr. Tanner on campus- talking to and from his office. Rarely do we ever make eye contact, let alone speak to one another, but sometimes he’ll shoot me a wink and a smile.
I’ll always keep my promise to him and pretend I never met him, but there will always be one question forever floating in my mind: who did Dr. Tanner decapitate and throw off the overpass?
| 3,842 | World's Best School Psychologist |
I am the youngest of five girls. You'd think that living in a small house with five girls would be difficult, and you would very, very correct. Being the youngest, I missed out on a lot of sibling rivalry growing up. I was just born when three of the five of us were already in their early teens. Being the youngest also means I didn't really connect with any of them - none of them but the oldest, Anne.
Anne always liked to talk about how she practically raised me. She liked to tell me about how she would go get me while I was crying in my crib and watch cartoons with me. She says she was the only sister that was truly excited when Mom told them she was pregnant with me. It's true, the other four were more or less uncaring, or jealous.
Over the years, despite how close we were growing up, Anne started to change. She was laid off of the first good job she had when she was 23 and ever since it was like she was in a downward spiral. She was in an abusive relationship, but she argued that they loved each other. She stuck with him until one particularly bad incident and then moved back home.
When all of this was going on I was only about 9. At that age no one tells you stuff like that. No one said to me, "Anne just lost her job, and was depending on an alcoholic shit to provide for her while he beat her up." So instead, Mom made it seem like Anne coming home was a good thing. I was excited and it meant I got to spend more time with her.
Fast-forward to high school. I meet my future husband, and I've become a different person than I was when I was 9. Anne is working a shitty job and dating and breaking up with multiple guys. I don't talk to my sisters ever at this point. I'm shy, I'm different, and talking on the phone just isn't my thing.
A little after graduation Anne has nearly cut off ties with the family. She's with a divorced man who has three kids. She's taking care of these kids while he uses her car to get back and forth to work. And he beats her. She only calls us when she's drunk. Other than that, she doesn't answer her phone, and tries very hard to cover up any foul-play between the two of them.
When Anne calls me at one in the morning, I'm afraid to answer. She's always weepy and she talks on a loop. She says the same stuff over and over again about how much she loves me, how she was always there for me even when Mom wasn't... These calls lasted for hours. I would lock myself in the bathroom so that my now-husband wouldn't hear how unwell my sister was, but you can't hide four-hour long phone calls that early in the morning.
My sister was very ill. There were a lot of things no one could fix for her. We did the best we could, and even now I can't really come to grips with the idea of Anne not being here anymore. I'm convinced that there was no one in this world she loved more than me, which makes me feel accountable...
On July 7th this year Anne committed suicide. She didn't leave a note for someone to find because she knew her abusive boyfriend would find her first.
Our family quickly got everything ready for her funeral and set the date for that following Tuesday. We were in shock, but we knew there were things that needed to be done. Specifically, we needed to collect her things from their apartment. Mom got the four of us and Dad together for that Saturday to bring boxes and go through her stuff together.
That was when I found the letters she left me.
I'm not sure if this was our family's thing, or if other mothers and fathers do this, but any time we would go on a trip -like summer camp or a sleepover- Mom would buy us cheap cards from the store and write a date on the envelope. The date was when we were supposed to open it. Inside it would be a sweet little note saying "hope you're having fun! miss you!" or something along those lines. It helped with any homesickness and was kind of like a mini Christmas.
That was how Anne fashioned the letters. They had been stacked neatly together and bound with a piece of yellow yarn. The first one said *Open on Monday, July 8*. I guess she had assumed we'd go through her things the day after.
Tearfully, and with my parents and sisters with me, I opened the letter with shaky hands. I remember how my stomach felt like there were butterflies in it, and I thought I might throw up. I pulled the card out and smiled. It was one of those blank cards with no specific occasion, and it had a cat tangled up in a ball of yellow yarn on the front.
*I'm so sorry,* it read, *I hope you can forgive me. I was so sad, and so unhappy. I know that you're going to live a long and happy life. Love you forever, little girl. Anne.*
I was a wreck. Mom couldn't console me, my sisters were speechless, and I was wracked with guilt. I looked through the next few letters that were each dated for Mondays. All of the following Mondays had a letter. Each letter got happier, and more light-hearted than the one before it. It was as if Anne was conveying to me how her life had improved in death. It was strange, but comforting.
I had a letter for every Monday up to August 12th. The following week my letter was dated for that Wednesday. I'd gotten into such a routine that I almost opened it that Monday before my husband pointed it out. It was dated for August 21, our dad's birthday.
It was a birthday card for Dad. It was written and signed just like Anne would have done if she were alive, and it made our father cry.
The next card is where everything changes. The next card was dated for September 11th.
*So much death... their faces are so scarred. I've never seen anything like it. So much sadness and mourning. They weren't finished, little girl. They weren't ready.*
The card left me shaken and upset. It didn't make any sense. After the sweet and beautiful notes she'd written in all the others, where had this come from? What was she talking about? I had so many questions, but no one to answer them.
My next letter said to open on *Wednesday, September 27*. I didn't have the chance to open it that morning when I usually opened them because I got a phone call. For months I'd been unemployed and had been looking for a job to help my husband out. That morning our local vet's office called me for an interview. It was the best news I'd gotten in a long time, so I honestly forgot about Anne's letter until I was eating lunch after my interview. I'd gotten the job and was set to start the following Monday.
When I opened the envelope I pulled out a *Congratulations!* card. The inside was printed with a bunch of cheesy "You did it! Great job! Take a bow!"s and in the corner Anne had written, *I'm so proud of you. You'll do great!*
I felt elated. This was my first real job. I wasn't a waitress anymore and I was excited to celebrate. It wasn't until I was washing off my plate from lunch that I realized what that card said. There was no way. It didn't make any sense. How could Anne possibly have known?
Coincidence. There was no other explanation.
The most recent card was dated for Monday, October 7. This past Monday. I was relieved after the last two to be going back to the normal Monday's.
This Monday morning was hell. Both my husband and I woke up half an hour late. I was in a huge rush getting ready and shoved the letter into my purse along with a cereal bar. My husband drives a lot for work so instead of going into work his boss assigned him a place near home to drive over to quickly.
I was at the computer in the lobby about to open my letter when my cell phone rang. My husband *never* calls me during work, since I'm not allowed personal calls, so seeing his number made my heart drop.
It was the city hospital. They said he'd been rushed in from a bad wreck and that I was under his emergency contacts. I told them who I was and told them I would be there in less than fifteen minutes.
At the hospital the receptionist couldn't allow me back. My husband was undergoing intensive surgery after the damage from the wreck. She couldn't provide me with any more details of what had happened, except that there was some head trauma, and that he'd been "pinned in".
I was hysterical, but I managed to calm myself down and take a seat. I knew the doctor would come to me with any information as soon as possible. In the meantime, I needed to let my mother-in-law know, and my own mom.
I reached into my purse for my cell phone and felt Anne's letter. I pulled it out. I opened it.
It was a get-well soon card. There was a bunny with a bandage wrapped around its head. My hands were shaking as I opened the card.
*It's going to be fine, baby sister. Sometimes bad things happen in life that you aren't meant to understand. It will only hurt more if you try to make sense of these things. It's not his time yet. I've always taken care of you, and I always will. I promise you that when the time comes, I'll be there for you.*
I haven't shown my husband. I haven't mentioned any of this to my Mom, or my sisters. I'm not sure what she means by "when the time comes", but the letters stop on October 29th.
**Edit:** I know a lot of you read this and assumed, because of the abundance of multi-part stories on NoSleep, that I planned on updating. Unfortunately, due to the obscurity of my sister's letter, and the panic I felt when I thought that either my husband or I were in some sort of danger, I'd never truly intended on having an update. I've gotten a couple of messages asking about the last letter, but to put you all at ease, my husband and I are doing just fine.
The very last letter that Anne wrote to me is very personal and private, as all of them should have been. I think I may have exploited my sister's letters enough, though it means a lot to me that so many of you care. However, I don't regret writing about this phenomenal experience on this subreddit because I've shared a peek behind that veil that not all of us here at /r/NoSleep will get to experience in this lifetime.
All I can offer to you now, as far as closure goes, is that there is no closure. Anne's last letter was beautiful and heartbreaking. It was my last tie to her, but something like that can't go on. All I can interpret from the letter that referred to "my time" is that no matter where, or when it is, Anne will be there waiting to reunite with me. I don't know where that is, or if it continues forever, but I take comfort in those words.
So I apologize if this isn't the ending you had hoped for. As far as I can tell, there's no ending in sight. | 2,302 | October 29, 2013 |
Like most people these days, I had a fucked up childhood. Who doesn't, right? My father took off before I was born and my mother was left to care for me on her own, a skill she was sorely lacking. My mother slipped right back into the drug-addled, party lifestyle she’d enjoyed before I was born and had soon turned our two-bedroom apartment into an opium den.
For the first five years of my life, I walked around in a confused, terrifying mist. The smoky air would flood down the hallway from our living room and slip under my bedroom door. It always seemed to linger for days.
I know now that my mother wasn't a bad person, just a victim of her addictions. When she did have spare money, she would put food in the house or buy me clothes from Goodwill. The only pieces of furniture I had in my bedroom was a mattress set and a little blue and white toy chest. Not that I had a lot of toys to put in it, of course, just the three I had gotten for birthdays: one was an art kit, one was a red wagon, and the last, my pride and joy, was a doll named Betsy.
Betsy was my best friend. We would have imaginary tea parties together, sleep together, and even take baths together. Sometimes, I even remember her voice.
When I thought back on my conversations with the doll in adulthood, I realized that I was likely suffering from delusions, thanks to the always present butts of smoke that laid claim to the dingy hallways and drafty bedrooms of our small apartment.
Still, I remember the sound of her voice: a pleasant, tingling lilt that was almost always coupled with a raucous giggle. I also remember the things that she said to me and the things she wanted me to do. She asked me to steal, usual food or pens and pencils. She wanted me to bring her forks and knives and hit the bad man who slept on our couch. It was always something and I would always get in trouble. But she wouldn’t. When I told my mother who had put me up to these games she would scoff and shake her head. She never believed me. Adults never do.
Around my 6th birthday I asked my mother for a birthday party. I wanted to invite the mean girls from school and serve them cake and ice cream to make them like me. I remember standing in the kitchen that day with such hopes, having just asked the most important question of my entire life. The glass bottle of coca-cola I held was shaking in my nervous hands. I waited with bated breath as my mother continued putting groceries away, almost as if she hadn’t heard me. But I knew she had. Finally, just as I had failed a second time to muster the courage to repeat my question, she turned around and gave me a flippant shake of her head.
"A birthday party? Laura, that's ridiculous, I can't afford to feed 15 children that aren't even mine. Hell, I can barely afford to feed you! You eat like an elephant, especially for a girl your size. Or, I’m sorry, Betsy does. There's barely anything left for me to eat around here, much less a classroom of other people’s brats."
My face fell as she shook her head, mumbled something else under her breath and stumbled off into the living room. I heard the music go up then as more people walked in the door. Some left, some stayed; I never knew them either way.
It simply wasn't fair, my mother threw parties all the time. What about me? I was a kid! All my friends had birthday parties and now the mean girls at school would know I was too poor to have one and they would tease me even more.
I felt tears start to well in the corners of my eyes and I choked back a sob while I ran to my room and slammed the door behind me. Betsy was lying on the bed and smiling. She was always smiling. Usually it made me feel better but today it just made me angry. She just kept staring at me, smiling. She was going to tell me to do something bad, again. This was why mother wouldn't throw me a birthday party. It was because of all the trouble I got into because of her. This was her fault! Betsy didn't have to go to school and Betsy never got in trouble like I did. And in my young mind, I truly believed it was the doll, not my mother, who was to blame for everything.
I snapped then. I screamed in indignant rage and I threw the bottle as hard as I could at the bed. It hit Betsy on her forehead and she fell on the floor. Good. I picked up the bottle and I hit her again and again. I thought I heard her laugh and I hit her harder. Then I laughed. When my rage was spent, I dragged Betsy to my toy chest and threw her in. I slammed it shut and kicked the chest against the wall; I never wanted to see Betsy again - ever.
I never owned another doll after Betsy. About a week later the police came and two nice ladies took me to live in a new home in a new state, with food and toys and no drugs. The trunk went into storage and the wagon disappeared. I never saw my mother again. As I got older, my foster parents admitted she was in jail, doing 25 years. That was fine with me; I felt nothing for her anyway. I still had nightmares because of my life with that woman. But then slowly, I began to heal. I focused on doing well in school and I ignored my mother’s letters from prison. She reached out to me several times in my 20’s, as well, but I always declined her calls.
That is, until this morning. I’m 30 now, with my own children and a loving, honest husband. I have a beautiful house, two dogs and a career as a social worker trying to make a difference for kids who had it bad like me. I’m happy, I’m steady, and I’m content. So when I got a voicemail from my mother informing me she had been paroled and that she wished to speak, decided to let her say her piece.
Since the kids were home from school I went out into our shed in the backyard to return my mother's call. The shed was the children's domain and they used it to play in the summer. I sat on my old toy chest which was currently being used as tea party table and dialed the number she had left me.
Three rings.
"Hello? Laura?"
"Hello, mother. How are you?"
"Oh Laura, thank you for speaking to me. I know you have your own life now and a family. I would love to meet them someday! I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. For everything."
"Mother, you are not meeting my kids - ever. And since you called me, I am going to what I have needed to say for years. The opium, the heroin, they destroyed you. And the worst of it is that you almost took me down with you. I was five. That was no home for a child. Honestly, I’m surprised it took you so long to get caught."
“Laura, I know how it seems, but I honestly know nothing! Look, it hardly matters and I do understand why you would feel that way. Why you would hate me and not want me to meet your little ones. I learned a lot about forgiveness while I was away and just...oh Laura, I am so sorry about Betsy."
"Betsy?" I paused, confused. "Why would you care about her?"
“I know, Laura, believe me I do. It was all my fault, the drugs, the partying. And Betsy, oh God, if I had only paid attention, if I had only known. She's gone and it's because of me.”
As my mother began to cry, I tapped my fingers on the toy box, impatiently. The drugs had clearly fried her brain.
"Mother,” I sighed. “Why are you talking about Betsy? And why do you even care? I know where Betsy is." Right underneath me.
"What are you talking about, Laura? Oh God, where is she?!"
I shifted uncomfortably. "Well...Betsy's in the trunk, where she’s always been."
There was a beat of stunning silence.
"What do you mean your sister's in the trunk?"
"Sister? What the hell are you talking about? Back on drugs so soon?
That’s a record, even for you. Betsy is a goddamn doll. I locked her in my toy box a few days before you got arrested for possession."
"Laura.. oh God, no...no... Laura, what have you done? I wasn't arrested because of the drugs, Laura, I was arrested because of Betsy's disappearance! You always called her your little doll, but we thought you knew! Oh God. We thought you knew. Laura, no, what have you done to my baby?!"
My mind had gone blank and with no emotion I set the phone down next to me and stood up. I could hear the muffled sound of my mother's anguished cries and feel the dark clutch of possibility in my own chest. Memories were stirring in the back of my mind, threatening to flood forward into my consciousness. They pushed against a door in my mind that had been locked so tightly for so long that I had forgotten it was even there.
Was it even possible? Could the trauma and the opium have really led me to believe that a small child was actually doll? Begging for food and utensils to eat with, asking me to protect her from the bad man?
No...
I slowly turned around and brought my eyes down the makeshift tea party table. Surely, it was too small; you couldn't fit a person in there. You couldn't. But then, what about a very small, starving, emaciated child? What about her, would she fit? Would an investigator even bother looking for a person in this chest? I knew I wouldn’t. It was just too small. And I was sure we had opened the toy box at some point over the years, hadn’t we? Or had something swimming in the dark recesses of my memories always stopped me? I couldn’t remember ever seeing it open.
I knelt down to the ground and opened the clasps. It would be better to not look. After all that I had overcome, this new life that I had earned for myself. It could all be undone by opening this toy box. I shouldn't open it. I should throw it in a landfill and forget it ever existed. I should not look inside...
I opened the chest.
I never had a doll. My mother never could afford to buy me one. I never had a wagon either, for that matter. But I did have a toy box; a pretty, blue and white toy box. And when I was five, I beat my little sister to death and put her in it.
[C. W.](https://www.facebook.com/pages/C-K-Walker/1503387386575559)
| 2,335 | Betsy the Doll |
Everyone on this website always talks about finding people they know on /r/gonewild, or in a porno, or something. But I can tell you firsthand it's not always like what people say it is.
We were eleven the summer Kathy Ritter ran away, or was kidnapped, or whatever lies the newspapers were publishing that month. Between that and the Ritter family moving away after the trail ran cold, we never did find out. And eventually we forgot about her.
Years later, I saw her again. Not fleetingly in person, but online. In a pornographic video.
I was sixteen and the video looked recent. At least, it had been recently uploaded. I turned it off and shut off my computer immediately. I’m ashamed to admit that it was not out of concern for Kathy, but because I was afraid of what would happen to me if I were caught watching what was technically child pornography.
It was weeks before curiosity and a sense of stupid teenage heroism—I could be the one to finally figure out what happened to Kathy—overcame me and I returned to the same website. She was surprisingly easy to find—she was featured in a lot of videos under stage names like Katty Kathy, Kitty, and the like.
It was no use. All the videos took place in the same basement, on the same bed. The videos were all the same, more or less. Kathy wearing a costume. Kathy and another girl. Kathy and two men. There were some fringe interest videos starring her, too, really weird ones like Kathy getting banged by an amputee or by an actor dressed as a horse, but I didn’t bother watching them.
Kathy never actively roleplayed, though, even when she was in costume as a nurse or whatever. She never even really spoke in any of the videos. I realized that she barely made a sound in any of them—no moaning, or heavy breathing. Even when the other actors were inserting themselves and other things into her, there was no reaction from her save for the occasional grimace.
And every once in a very great while, she would look into the camera. It wasn’t a look of anger, or resentment, or pleading, as one might expect to see if she had been forced into porn. I finally identified it.
It was resignation.
I had to stop watching her videos after that. I was sure now that this was not of her own volition, that she had been kidnapped and forced into this life. But there was no way for me to prove that, or to find out where she was.
I reported the videos to the police, but it came to nothing. They said they had no way of definitively proving who the girl in the video was. I knew it was Kathy; they had just decided long ago she was dead and that the case was cold.
I tried pushing it, but they told me to back off. “Kid, just think of her parents. Doing porn? For a lot of folks, just believing their kid is dead is more comforting.”
I tried tracking down the Ritters. My mom told me their names had been Harry and Laura Ritter, and I a quick Google search told me they were now living in Oregon.
“Mrs. Ritter?” I said when a woman answered the phone number listed in the online Yellow Pages. “It’s Max Page.”
“Hello, Max,” she said cautiously. She didn’t remember me.
“We lived in the same neighborhood,” I explained. “I knew your daughter. I think I found her.”
The woman listened quietly while I told her what I had found and which website I had found it on. “I don’t mean to upset you. But your daughter’s alive. And I bet you could find her if you went to the police.”
Click. The woman hung up on me.
I thought the police officer had been right and gave up trying to bring attention to the videos. I stopped visiting the website and tried to put it out of my mind.
But then I got an email. It was from the website’s administrators, announcing a new feature to the website. Slightly revolted they still had my information, I quickly logged in to delete my account and unsubscribe from the site.
And that’s when I realized what the new feature was. It was gore porn.
Almost unaware of what I was doing and an icy sense of dread crawling over me, I clicked to confirm my fears. The first video featured Kathy.
I never wanted to watch it. But I knew I had to, because the title of the video had my name in it. “For Max.”
Kathy, quivering and crying, bent over the bed. A man straddling her, holding a knife.
“Say what I told you to say,” a woman commanded from off-screen.
“This is for you, Max Page,” Kathy said. And then an inhuman shriek as the man split her abdomen with the knife, spattering blood. He plunged his hand into the wound, drawing another scream from Kathy, and pulled until her intestines and at least one of her organs spilled onto the bed.
I threw up over the side of the bed before I managed to turn off the video. Kathy was dead because of me. No one had believed me when I said it was Kathy and now she was dead.
And the woman’s voice. I recognized it immediately. It was the same voice that had answered the phone, the voice that belonged to Mrs. Ritter. | 3,868 | I found a girl I know in a porno. |
How well do you know the Internet? Until two weeks ago, I thought I knew it pretty well. After all, I spend a good chunk of my day browsing Reddit and 4chan, and I’m always up-to-date with the latest memes and circle jerks. I’ve been a denizen of the internet since the early days of Fortune City pages and IRC channels, and a regular ever since.
Then, about a year ago, somebody introduced me to the “Shadow Web”—a sort of secret layer of the Internet that you will never find by Googling or looking up message boards. There are no “in links” from the surface web to the shadow web. And no, this isn’t the “deepnet”, in case you were thinking about that. Not some website with gore videos of freak accidents, I’ve seen those. I assure you this is something far more twisted.
I never asked what his name was. He was a regular who came to the gas station where I worked as an attendant last year. Every time he came in, he would buy $20 to $50 of UKASH vouchers, which I assumed were for porn subscriptions. I think it was a combination of his beige polo shirts and receding hairline that gave off the creepy vibe of a pervert.
One day, he asked for $300 of UKASH vouchers, and I made the mistake of raising the question: what for?
“Have you ever heard of the shadow web?” I remember him asking me casually as he counted $300 from a wad of twenty-dollar bills. I hadn’t, so I shook my head. Then he looked through his wallet and withdrew a little slip, one about the size of a credit card. “If you want to find out,” he whispered. He leaned towards me and slid the piece of paper into my chest pocket. I gave him his vouchers, he left, and I never saw him again.
Not long after, I left the job to return to school. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I came across the old, yellowy uniform with the piece of paper still in the front pocket. When I opened it up and read its content, I immediately recalled my encounter with the creepy customer.
The piece of paper had instructions on how to get to the “gateway” of the shadow web. There were a lot of steps, some more sophisticated than others. Unfortunately, I was both tech-savvy and curious enough to follow them.
The first thing you’ll want to know about this “shadow web” is that you do not want to go there. I’ve seen plenty of fucked up things on the web, but nothing comes remotely close to the things I saw on the SW. Thinking back, I should have noped the fuck out the instant I saw the front page. I don’t know why I hadn’t. Maybe something is wrong with me.
When I got to the “gateway page”, which resembles one of those welcome pages that pops up when you use the free Wi-fi at the airport or at the mall, the first thing I noticed was the word “Corpsefucking”. It was underneath a search field among thirty or so other words which I assumed were the most commonly looked-up things on the SW, things like skinning and mutilation. That should have been my cue to X out.
There were a lot of other things, too, other than sexual content and graphic gore footage. Things like instructions on how to make DIY roadside bombs. Things like a craigslist for cannibals and people who wanted to be eaten by cannibals. Things like a marketplace to buy and sell stolen identities, either individually or in bulk.
I spent almost an hour reading up on leaked war documents and diplomatic cables on a site called avenge.shweb. The website looked very retro, if you know what I mean. The layout had frames and each frame had its own scroll bar. When I found myself clicking on links without thinking twice, I realized I had become comfortable on the shadow web.
Don’t ask me how I came across this next website. Curiosity got the better part of me, and I clicked on things I shouldn’t have. I’ll spare you the actual name of site because I know some of you will make the same mistake that I did thinking it can’t be that bad. It can.
When I got there, I noticed the UKASH logo at the bottom of the page, indicating that paid services were available. It was in fact a live webcam show, but you only paid if you wanted to be the director. Viewing was free. Beneath the live feed of a webcam was the log-in page to a chat room. It prompted me for a screen name when I clicked on the join button, so I entered asdfasdfg like I always do when commenting on pornhub or xvideos.
As soon as I got pass the log-in, a torrent of messages flooded the screen. Most of the messages were in English, a few were in Japanese, and I think some were Arabic or Farsi. The number of participants in the chat room fluctuated between 150-200 people, but that’s only the number of people who bothered entering the chat. I suspect many more were watching anonymously. The majority of legible messages were “STARTTTTT” or “GOGOGO” or something to that effect.
After about a minute, a man with his face hidden behind a hockey mask appeared on the feed. I remember him having dark brown skin and being really skinny. Like, starving Ethiopian skinny. Shortly after that, everyone was set on mute—everyone except for one user by the name of italiangoat who I figured was the “director” of this show.
That’s when the screaming began.
She was blindfolded and tied to a wooden chair with her hands behind her back. A bigger, darker man dragged her by the hair until she sat dead center on my screen. I watched her try to struggle free from the ropes, but she was so tightly fastened that you could see the bruising. God knows how long she had been tied up like that.
Finally, the bigger man took the blindfold off, and she stopped screaming. When she looked into the camera, she seemed to realize what was about to happen. She started crying and begging the two men in what I think was Arabic. Then a message popped up on the chat.
Italiangoat: lay her sideways on the floor
The director issued his first command. The skinny man saw the message and relayed it to the bigger man in their own language.
Italiangoat: kick her in the stomach.
The skinny man continued with his translations.
Italiangoat: kick her in the face.
The screaming got louder and louder. What the fuck was I watching? That was it for me. I reached for my cell phone, ready to dial 911.
Italiangoat: stomp on her tits.
Italiangoat: tell your friend to kick harder, I paid good money for this.
I was in so much shock at this point that I couldn’t take my eyes off of the screen. The kicking went on for another ten, twenty, thirty seconds. It seemed as if it went on forever.
Italiangoat: now slit her throat.
When I read that last message, the churning feeling in my guts intensified. No, no, no, no, I kept thinking, somebody stop this. I tried to type into the chat, but the input field was greyed-out. The woman cried even louder when she heard the man relay the last request.
Italiangoat: wait, no, not yet.
The skinny man held one hand up to signal his partner to halt.
My breathing returned to normal for a second, thinking the woman was spared. At least for the time being. Then the director continued:
Italiangoat: take out her eyes first
The skinny man stared directly into the webcam. I couldn’t see the entirety of his face, just his eyes and the small patch of skin around each one. In his eyes I searched desperately for the slightest hint of hesitation. Please, put a stop to this, I prayed, but I kept the mouse cursor hovered above the Close button in case they did not.
And then, the skinny man began typing, and a second screen name popped up on the log:
Admin: another $500
My mind froze when I saw the number. $500. This woman was being tortured and possibly killed for a meagre sum of $500. I was making as much every other week at the gas station, and I was barely making minimum wage. If I could offer $1000 to stop this, I would. I would empty out my savings account if it meant saving her life. I would, I swear on my life. I’d pay anything to stop this madness.
Italiangoat: OK.
I quickly shut off the screen before I could see any more. I wish my common sense could have kicked in earlier. I ran out to the yard where I regurgitated about two meals’ worth of vomit. It had been a long time since I’ve felt this sick from watching something. When I was in junior high some friends showed me a clip from Rotten.com. It was the one where a man had his skull sliced in half by the rotor blades of a helicopter he was in the midst of repairing. And then, over the years, I’ve seen many more videos like that one—enough that I don’t get the urge to puke in my mouth anymore. But let me tell you this: seeing a live footage of a real person being tortured is stomach-turning on a whole different level.
When I was done spitting out the last bits of bile in my mouth, I heard screaming coming from my room. It was then I realized that in my haste to turn the monitor off, I had forgotten to turn the speakers off as well.
Her screams got worse and worse, until finally I was able to reach behind the desk and disconnect the speakers from the computer. The silence that followed was unbearable. It was as if by my own hands I had silenced her, killed her.
I felt remorse such as I have never felt before. I killed her, I thought to myself again and again. I KILLED her. The feeling was unreal.
I had to find out if she was alive. As I reached over to turn the screen back on, a voice inside my head begged me to stop. I do not want to see what I’m about to see.
But before I could stop myself, my hand had already acted. The image on the screen was an image I will never, ever forget.
The severed head of the woman sat there straight across from me, both eyes missing from their respective sockets. That face… that warped, misshapen face have haunted me ever since. Even now as I write this, I can feel her hollow eyes glaring at me from behind. I sleep with all the lights on, the TV on, but nothing helps.
Right before I shut down the browser and reconfigured the network settings to access the good ol’ regular internet, I remember seeing one last line on the chat line. It read:
Admin: Thank you for watching. The next show will be in 1 hour.
| 3,283 | A warning to those thinking about accessing the shadow web |
I got his private message early yesterday morning. He saw my comment on [his post]( http://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1wwioc/a_warning_to_those_thinking_about_accessing_the/) and came to me for some guidance. He seemed troubled by how his "warning" had somehow turned into an advertisement for the shadow web.
At first I thought him delusional. There are dozens of message boards out there dedicated to the deep web, even a couple of subreddits right here on reddit, and still this fellow is acting like he is solely responsible for leaking the deep web. I assured him that people were just playing along like they always do on /r/nosleep, and he need not worry about it.
Then he tried to correct me. He insisted that the shadow web is *not* the deep web. Nor is it the dark web. It's something far more sinister. "Way more fucked up" was what he said.
Later in the evening he gave me his phone number. He told me to send him a text if I wanted to be proven wrong, and with that our volley of private messages ended.
A quick reverse look-up showed that the area code was from a place called Valleyfield, Quebec. That's in Canada. It looked perfectly harmless, so I sent him a text. He replied in a couple of minutes.
What he sent back was a MMS with a picture of a piece of paper--the one that the "creepy customer" had supposedly given him.
The first thing I noticed about the slip was the font type. It looked as though it was printed directly from notepad. I'm guessing that this person who gave him the slip had been carrying it around so that he could access the shadow web from public computers or cyber cafes. He probably had the steps memorized at one point and no longer needed it.
The second thing I noticed was that the steps were, in fact, not for accessing the dark web. At least not the dark web I was familiar with.
It took me about forty five minutes to locate the specific build of Netscape Navigator curiously required for getting onto the sh.web gateway. I found a torrent for it on one of the deepweb forums where I frequently lurked. It came with a trojan horse, unsurprisingly, but I installed it anyway. Whoever tries to backdoor my machine would regret ever trying.
At last I was connected to the fabled "gateway", and to my surprise: I was wrong. This wasn't just the deep web/dark web after all, and he had every reason to be worrying.
Let me try to explain in layman's term. If the "deep web" was the bad neighborhood in your town, the "dark web" would be its haunted house--that abandoned mansion at the end of that one-way road with no street lamps.
The "shadow web", then, would be the windowless cellar at the end of a passage behind a hidden door in that very haunted house.
Before I go on, I wanted to clear something up. When I left the comment on the original post I mentioned that I frequently visited the dark web, and somebody left a comment calling me a monster. I'm not. I don't go there to look for scam victims or to distribute kiddy porn. I go there to find the people who do. My line of work prohibits me from elaborating, so I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
After stopping by a few of the sites (actually, spending the whole day) on the shadow web, I finally began to appreciate the gravity of this revelation. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say I have never been more convinced that crypto-currencies should be outlawed.
I came across one particular site called rumcake.sh.web, and from first glance it resembled the one described in keniluck's post. Then I saw that the site was merely one of dozens in a network of these torture-room broadcasts.
I called him back on the number he had messaged me on. I just wanted to tell him he was right about the shadow web. And that he did the right thing. And that the information which he had provided may end up saving lots of lives. But he didn’t pick up. It’s pretty late in Quebec, I suppose he could be sleeping.
The more I looked into it, the more I realized that this wasn't something I could tackle on my own. I needed to tell my superior about this. Since it was almost 3am, I hesitated to call her. Yet, I was too excited to let this wait until the morning, so I sent her an IM, telling her about the "big fish" that I needed her help with reeling up. She immediately responded:
"Call."
The conversation that ensued was rather shocking. In short, our agency *did* know about the existence of a shadow web, but no leads have ever turned up on how to actually get in. Until now, that is.
Keniluck's post here on nosleep had violated the shadow web's code of silence. On top of that, he was careless enough to use his regular reddit account. There are some people who are probably very upset by his exposé of the sh.web. From what I was told, his life is in danger.
Being somewhat of a rookie at the organization, I've been advised to stay out of this investigation. My boss warned I too might end up with a crosshair on my head if I didn’t take proper measures to conceal myself.
It’s 5am now and I still haven’t heard back from him. I hope he’s okay.
One last thing before I log off: For those of you who tried going to the dark web or shadow web after seeing yesterday's post, I strongly recommend that you disconnect your microphones and cover up your web cams. Don't even charge your cellphones with the USB port.
Most importantly, don't ever try connecting again.
| 2,907 | 1) The shadow web is real. 2) Stay the hell away from it. |
As a professional genealogist and local historian, I have come across some weird things in the forgotten pages of history. I first dove into genealogy because I wanted to know where I came from. Not as in, I wanted to know what countries my ancestors immigrated to America from. Rather, as in, I wanted to know where I as an individual came from. My memory begins fourteen years ago, when I was about eighteen years old. Prior to that point in time is complete amnesia.
I remember awakening in a hospital room that seemed too white. I studied my surroundings—the white walls, white drapes, white tile floor, white bed sheets—all the same shade of white, no less. I felt calm, as though all of this were normal. When a nurse came in and noticed I had woken up, she asked me what my name was, how old I was, and where I lived. I knew none of the answers. With a concerned expression, she asked me if I knew what year it was, or if I knew who the president was, or if I knew what state I was in. I continued to draw blanks.
I asked her why my body was so bandaged up. She explained to me that I was in a hospital in Ohio, and I had been struck by a vehicle in a hit-and-run. There had been no identification on my person. They had been waiting for me to come out of my coma for the last three days, hoping I could tell them who I was. I apologized for not being of any help, and then felt silly—as if I had any control over my lack of memory.
As the nurse turned to leave and fetch the doctor, I found myself blurting out, as if my mouth were controlled by another person: “Bramwell Lindemann!”
The nurse faced me. “Bramwell Lindemann? Is that your name?”
I paused. That didn’t feel right. “No, I am pretty sure that’s not my name. I don’t know why I said that.” I knew the name must have meant something to me before the accident, but I didn’t know what.
The doctor came in and examined me. I heard him say, “Caucasian male, approximately eighteen years of age”. After a litany of tests, the doctor contacted the police department to inform them that I was now conscious and speaking. Two officers came and took a very unhelpful statement from me regarding the accident. When they learned of my amnesia, they searched through countless missing person reports, but no matches were found. Though my story was mentioned two nights in a row on the local news, and the anchors asked anyone who recognized my photo to call the hospital and claim me, no one did.
After recuperating in the hospital for a few more days, the staff declared me fit to leave. I wandered out into the street, with no name, no wallet, no money, no home, and no knowledge of my surroundings. They called me John Doe in the hospital, so that is the name I have stuck with since the year 2000.
I lived on the streets for a couple of weeks, then moved into a shelter and secured part-time employment. I soon found a small apartment. I seemed to have an excellent grasp on math, reading, and science—indicating that I had already attended high school. However, with no identity to prove it, I had to start over. I earned my GED, and then found enough scholarships and student loans to put myself through college. A few years ago, I married the love of my life—Daphne. A true testament to her love for me, she insisted on taking my legal surname, Doe—even at the expense of having a name with goofy alliteration. In climbing the social ladder and building a normal and successful life, I had an advantage over many of the homeless friends I had made in my younger years, in that I didn’t seem to have any addictions or major health problems, other than lingering soreness from the hit-and-run.
While I managed well without knowing my true origins, the question always nagged me in the back of my mind. One day, I saw an Internet ad for Ancestry.com. The first name I searched for on that website was the name I had blurted out in the hospital room: “Bramwell Lindemann”. No exact hits. There were some results for individuals named “B. Lindemann,” but upon further investigation, each of them turned out to be a “Balthasar” or a “Bertha” or a “Bryant”. My heart leapt when I found a record for a “Bram Lindeman,” but I soon found that this individual’s full first name was “Abram”.
Once I started, I could not stop. I expanded my research to the offline world, and found myself at the library studying past issues of local newspapers for any clues as to my origins, and going to area schools and looking through nearby high school yearbooks for any photos that resembled me. I became adept at navigating old records, and friends began to ask me to research their family history for them. This turned into a full-time business for me, but I have never stopped searching for my own origins.
I have even taken DNA tests for Y-DNA, mitochondrial DNA, and ethnicity—these tests matched me up with a handful of other users and claim that, based on our DNA similarities, we are approximately sixth cousins or so (indicating that my 5xgreat grandparents, whoever they were, were probably also the ancestors of the other user). However, these DNA databases have never pinpointed a close cousin of mine. Considering that, barring any inbreeding, every person has one hundred twenty eight 5xgreat grandparents (because you have 2 parents, 4 grandparents, 8 great grandparents, 16 great great grandparents, and so on), determining which of these 128 ancestors is the one I share with each of these other users is impossible.
Every so often throughout the years, I have made a post on this or that Internet genealogy forum, asking that if anyone has ever come across a “Bramwell Lindemann” in their research, would they please get in touch with me. I had never gotten a response. In fits of discouragement, I would go back months later and delete these unnoticed posts of mine from the forums.
The humorous irony of someone who doesn’t know their own name, let alone their ancestry, becoming an expert on other people’s history, has never been lost on my wife, friends, and colleagues.
A month ago, I went out on a limb and made another post to a forum asking about any information on “Bramwell Lindemann”. The next morning, I received an email with the title, “Bramwell Lindemann”. Though I had just gotten out of bed and had not even had my coffee, every one of my senses became alert in an instant.
The body of the message read as follows: “Dear researcher, I saw on [forum name] that you had inquired about Bramwell Lindemann. In my late grandmother’s box of family history documents, there were several photographs with names written on the backs that I have never been able to place. On the back of one of these old photographs is written what seems to be the name ‘Bramwell Lindemann,’ although it is written sloppily. I have scanned the photograph and attached the image file to this email. Perhaps this can be of assistance to you, and perhaps you can tell me more about who this man was. My grandmother was born and raised in Vinton, Iowa, so the fellow in this photograph may have also lived there or nearby. Sincerely, [name redacted to protect his privacy]”
My fingers trembling, I clicked the attachment and loaded up the scanned image of the photograph. As the top rows of pixels loaded, I noticed the aged brownish-yellowness of the photo. By the coloring alone, it was probably a hundred years old. The rows of pixels continued to load downward. The man’s hair was neat and oiled. As his forehead, then his eyes, then his nose, and his chin came into view, my jaw lowered. It was me. Or rather, someone who looked identical to me. This man could be my great grandfather. The resemblance was mind-blowing.
I replied to the sender, lavishing thanks upon him for sending the photograph. Then, I put down everything and booked a flight to Des Moines for the next day. After arriving in Des Moines, I trekked straight to the Iowa State Historical Society Library and set to work looking for Mr. Lindemann. I first searched all the county death records in Benton County (where the town of Vinton is located) and all surrounding counties for Bramwell Lindemann. It seemed to be a common last name in that area, but no Bramwell Lindemann could be found having died in the area.
I then pulled out case after case of microfilm containing issues of newspapers from Vinton and the surrounding area. I spent hours rolling through issue after issue of microfilmed newspaper, and I began to lose hope. Not much time left until the library closed. That’s when I saw it. A small newspaper blurb, buried in a wall of text in a June 1900 edition. The name in the text caught my eye, and wouldn’t let go: “B. Lindemann Kills Wife and Child,” read the tiny headline.
The article stated: “Bramwell Lindemann, local farmer, 23 years of age, walked into the police station Monday to confess to the murder of his wife of 5 years, Catherine, and their 3-year-old son, Quentin. He stated to police that he revived from a daze to find himself covered in blood and digging through his wife’s and son’s entrails with a knife. He claimed not to remember what had happened, and no longer remembered his name or who he was, but said he knew he had done something wicked, and set out to find a police station to confess so that justice might be done. Mr. Lindemann was taken under arrest pending further investigation.”
Chills ran down my spine. This man from over a century ago, who bore a striking resemblance to me, also suffered from an inexplicable case of amnesia. Perhaps this man really is my ancestor. Perhaps there is some genetic trait I inherited from him that causes these strange bouts of amnesia. However, the fact that Bramwell awoke from his amnesia to find himself mutilating the corpses of his loved ones disturbed me.
I pressed onward through the newspaper editions, finding an article a month later stating that Bramwell had been sentenced to 7 years in the Anamosa State Prison. The judge explained the relatively lenient sentencing as being due to the fact that Bramwell seemed to have committed the act in a moment of temporary insanity and appeared genuinely penitent. I jumped ahead seven years in the old newspapers to 1907, when Bramwell would have been released. Sure enough, there was one miniscule mention of him in the “Local Gossip” section of the paper: “B. Lindemann, formerly of this town, was recently released from Anamosa. In order to try to forget his sordid past, he has opted to legally change his name to Lamar Smith and moved northwest to conduct his farming near the town of Mallard.”
I sat back in my chair, stunned for a moment. I had finally found Bramwell Lindemann, and furthermore, discovered what had become of him. I could not stop just yet. I found the town of Mallard in Palo Alto County and set to work researching that county’s records for Lamar Smith. I found him in the 1910 federal census records, his name slightly misspelled. He was a single farmer, and claimed to be only 20 years old. That didn’t seem right. He was said to have been about 23 years old when he was arrested in 1900, meaning he was born about 1877. That means he should be about 33 years old in this 1910 census. I went forward a decade and found Lamar Smith in the same area again in the 1920 census, still single, still a farmer. He still claimed to be 20 years old in this census. By now, he should have been 43—there is no way he could have passed for a mere 20. Why was he giving these reports to the census takers? I did not find Lamar Smith in the area in the 1930 federal census records, but there was no record of him dying and being buried in the region either. Again, I returned to the microfilmed newspapers.
Sure enough, I found an edition of an area newspaper from 1925, which read: “LOCAL FARMER’S FAMILY BRUTALLY MURDERED—Ed Anliker, farmer east of town, awoke to a gruesome sight in his home yesterday morning. His neighbor, Mr. Lamar Smith, had stabbed Mr. Anliker’s wife and four children to death in their sleep. When Mr. Smith was found, he was consuming the blood and innards of his victims. After being taken into custody by the sheriff, Mr. Smith had no explanation for his actions, and furthermore claimed to have forgotten who and where he was. Mr. Smith has no known relatives in the area. He began farming here nearly twenty years ago, and while neighbors say he is a peculiar man who kept to himself, he was always hailed as a kindly and youthful man, who seems as young today as he is remembered being two decades ago. His crimes bring extreme shock and sorrow to the community.”
Below the article was printed a grainy black and white photograph, with the caption, “L. Smith”. The man was definitely Bramwell Lindemann, and indeed, it appeared that he had not aged a day.
Pressing onward through the newspapers, I discovered Lamar Smith having been sentenced to 30 years, once again to be served in Anamosa. By now, the library was closing. I got a hotel room in Des Moines for the night, and the next day took a rental car to Anamosa to investigate their old records.
Lamar Smith, it seems, had been released on good behavior after only 25 years. After leaving prison in 1950, he disappeared from the records. I scoured Ancestry.com and NewspaperArchive.com and other research websites. Countless “Lamar Smiths” flooded my results, but one stood out. A 1950 newspaper from Spokane, Washington said that a young local man named Lamar Smith was seen wallowing in the blood of a homeless man he had murdered. When confronted by a passerby, Lamar took on a blank and confused facial expression and ran away. His whereabouts were not known.
At this point, the trail for Lamar Smith went dead cold. I could find no further reference to a Lamar Smith matching what I knew about this man. I took a flight home, feeling defeated. I spent days trying every research method I could think of in order to locate what had happened to Lamar Smith after fleeing the murder scene in Spokane, but I came up empty.
Earlier this week, inspiration struck. A different angle occurred to me. Using specific keywords, I searched newspapers on NewspaperArchive.com for articles about a man who “murdered” and then suffered “amnesia”. I found one. The article was from a 1975 edition of a Sacramento, California newspaper. The murderer, who gave no name for himself, was described as a transient hippie who had the appearance of being on some kind of drugs, but tested negative for all known drugs. The murderer had wandered into a campground on the outskirts of the city and slaughtered a family of four with his bare hands, then partially devoured some of the remains. He claimed to suffer from amnesia. Next to the newspaper article was a mugshot photograph of the man: bearded, long-haired, shirtless, shoulders draped in stereotypical beaded necklaces…but that face. I pressed my thumb over the beard, and focused on the forehead, eyes, and nose. There was no mistaking it. This man was a twin of Bramwell Lindemann, of Lamar Smith…and of me.
A subsequent issue of the newspaper stated that the hippie killer had been sentenced to 25 years in prison, and had been processed under the temporary name “John Doe,” until his true identity could be ascertained. I contacted the prison and inquired about this John Doe. The institution’s records indicated this man had been released from prison in June of 2000. I requested a copy of the man’s last mug shot, and after much jumping through hoops, finally received it in the mail. John Doe’s last prison mug shot, taken in June of 2000, showed the same man pictured in the 1975 newspaper. He was now clean shaven and had not aged a day. Without the facial hair, he looked even younger than before, if that was possible.
I stared at the photograph. I stared into the mirror. Then back to the photograph. I was looking at a picture not of some random criminal or some ancient ancestor of mine. I was looking at a picture of me, exactly as I looked 14 years ago, at the time of the accident. Exactly as I look right now.
Am I the Sacramento murderer? Am I Lamar Smith? Am I Bramwell Lindemann? If so, then just how goddamn old am I? I had always chalked up my lack of age marks to healthy diet and exercise. What if there is some other power at work? Why can’t I age? What happens to me every 25 years that causes me to commit brutal crimes and then wipe my memory clean? What really transpired before I lost my memory in the year 2000? If I have connected the dots correctly, then what will happen to me in the year 2025? Is my wife safe around me? Do I tell her what I have learned? Am I going crazy?
It seems too surreal to be true, but I have decided I must get to the bottom of this. I must find out where Bramwell Lindemann (where I?) originated. How far can this rabbit hole possibly go? I will keep you updated on what I discover. | 2,733 | Good god, just how old *am* I? |
Seeing the people you've killed is a really good way to ruin a good night's sleep. I just returned from Afghanistan not too long ago. Eight weeks to be exact.
Yes. Three.
You know what question I'm answering. Two men and a kid. In all honesty, it should have been four. When we were clearing a building I saw a pile of rags on the ground, I kicked it out of the way and with some meaty thuds the object rolled across the floor and began crying. The mother ran over and picked up her baby. The look in her eyes. I've seen the eyes of men who genuinely wanted to kill me. But her's, her's were ones that didn't want me to die. They wanted me to suffer.
Contact left, two males.
I hear yelling in two different languages. All I heard in English was "drop the knife."
All I heard in whatever language they speak were threats.
The knife was still in hand. Inhale. Two in the chest, one in the head. Exhale. Inhale. Two in the chest, one in the head. Exhale. We detain the mother. I walk over to examine the bodies. The man with the knife only had one in the chest. Where is the other round?
I look behind him. I see a kid. No more than twelve. Dead. Hole in his throat. I got the jugular. There was more blood than kid. In the kid's hand was a sandy .38 caliber revolver. I still haven't inhaled...
The night before was the last night I slept. Ever since that mission I had been under a lot of stressful investigations. People questioning if I saw the kid, jesus, if I AIMED for the kid.
Long story short, I'm clear. That's all that matters right? I get to go home and enjoy my fat, American restaurants. I get to see my family. My pregnant wife. I get to look into her eyes. I wish there was a way I could see her eyes without her seeing mine. I don't want her to see what I did. After eight weeks of no eye contact, there seems to be a strain on our relationship.
I glue my ass to the computer chair and let the room bathe in the blue computer light. My eyes hurt. I spend most of my time on Reddit, Youtube, Pornhub. I deleted my Facebook. Solitude and anonymity is the one thing I seek most now. After 89 hours of no sleep, my wife convinced me to go to the doctor.
A new drug. No-REM-No-Problem. I didn't know if it was the motto or the drug, but the doctor assured me it's a drug.
"Trust the name!" was the motto.
I started taking No-REM and this is where things start getting crazy. I pop two pills before dinner and I'm golden. I sleep like it was an olympic event. I constantly have the same dream and occasionally wake up in places I didn't fall asleep. It became a party joke.
"Sometimes I'll wake up and my husband will be asleep in the bathtub and sometimes he'll just be lounging around in the garden next to the tool shed!"
Everyone laughs. But if I told them the dream that preludes it. No one would laugh. No one laughs at the slaughter of a twelve-year-old boy. The only problem with this No-REM is I can't wake up. I HAVE to watch this dream. When it becomes too much, I wake up outside of my bed.
Eventually two pills stopped working. I had to upgrade to three. Then four. Then I started having the day dreams. I don't mean I stared off into space or anything like that. I mean I was seeing shit. Sometimes I would hear the baby I kicked in the distance. Sometimes I would see the eyes of the mother when it got real dark. The one place I could never look, though, was the mirror.
I would see a much happier version of myself, grinning ear-to-ear. At first I thought it was actually me. I thought I was actually happy. But then I him... me, pull out a box-cutter and slash at the arms. When I looked down, there would be nothing. Other times I would brand myself. Sometimes I would cut a little bit of skin off and flush it down the toilet. My other self always told me to wear long sleeves. That he didn't want anyone to see his scars. I listened to him.
For weeks I tried to stay out of a mirrors gaze until I saw my wife crying. She was looking at the mirror and she said he keeps cutting himself. I asked her who, but she didn't hear me. I screamed it, still, she just kept staring into the mirror. I looked in with her, maybe she saw what I saw.
It was the same dopple-ganger. But, This time he was not smiling. He had a cartoonish frown on his face. One you would have to REALLY try to make. Before I knew it he was cutting her throat open with the same box- cutter. As soon as I saw the blood pour out I woke up in the garden next to the shed again. This medication was getting too out of hand. I got in my car and floored it to the hospital, halfway their I noticed I was in the same clothes I wore yesterday, which was strange because I always woke up in pajamas.
After rushing to the hospital and being extremely rude to people I convinced the doctor to see me right away. I tell him everything and the next words he spoke made my heart so audible in my head I would have thought it was behind my ears.
"John, you're in the control group. No-REM should have had no effect on you because it's sugar..."
My mouth was dry, I couldn't even drizzle out a word. I looked down at my arms and instantly felt pain shooting up and down. I rolled up my sleeves and saw the brands. The cuts. The piece of skin I flushed away. I hear the doctor say something along the lines of "Oh, sweet Christ..."
I scramble for my phone and scroll down to my wife's name. I try calling it. No answer.
Yes. In the shed.
That's the answer to the question I know you want to ask. | 6,773 | If You're Reading This, I've Already Committed Suicide. |
http://i.imgur.com/ic9vjQP.jpg
The other two people in my group had gone off toward the stairs, and I wanted to take a quick peak out of the window to the west of us. We had been in the old mill for maybe an hour or so already and had seen some pretty amazing old equipment and machinery, and I had already gotten so pretty good shots. The others started to descend the stairs so I snapped a quick and shitty pic of the window, then turned around and headed back. I could hear their whispers off in the distance, far away from me now I stepped quickly and heavily across the glass of the shattered window.
As I hopped back out into the main factory floor, I could see the faint beams of their flashlights flickering at the bottom of the staircase some 30 yards away. For only a moment, I caught a glance to my right of a darkened tunnel with a circular arch above it, and red and orange pipes lining either side. It seemed so out of place in the factory floor, like it was new or barely used, maybe some long-forgotten passageway around the hustle and bustle of the Sugar Mill beyond it.
I moved toward the tunnel, readying my camera as I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. The cold was setting in, and I could not longer hear my party's voices in the distance. I coudln't hear anything but my quiet, careful footstep on a bolt or creaky metal panel. I stood in the entrance, just beneath the arch of the tunnel. It was dark in there, so I popped up my flash on my new camera and held down the trigger, not expecting anything. As I held it down for it to focus and I stared at the tiny, LCD screen I saw it. I saw that tall, dark figure staring straight back at me from the other side of the tunnel.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. My chest heavy, my heart frozen, I did what any idiot would do. I went down the tunnel after it and here's what I found: http://imgur.com/a/T9AC5
Then I had a good laugh.
| 3,036 | I was all alone. In pitch black. Then I took this picture. |
There’s this painting my wife loves, called [“Death and Life”](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gustav_Klimt_-_Death_and_Life_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg), by Klimt. I don’t know what she finds so fascinating about it. I made all the right noises when she showed me her beloved framed print when we were first dating, oohing and ahhing and making up some bullshit about warm and cold color schemes and the specific choice of angles and line. She was an artist, our first few dates involved long walks through museums, starting in Picasso’s blue period and ending in heavy petting and blue balls.
I took an art history course as an elective when I was finishing up my doctorate, I remembered enough of the lingo to charm my fantastically gorgeous future wife and lure her back to my stupidly filthy apartment. We’re talking me as the foul bachelor frog, sitting on a lillypad made of empty take out containers surrounded by pond of enough unwashed clothes to keep a laundromat in business for a cool 6 months.
I remember scrambling to find 2 of any sort of cup-like container for the bottle of wine we had brought back while she was in the bathroom. I rinsed out a couple of coffee mugs and ran into the bedroom to try to clean up the condom wrappers that had been sitting on my bedside table since 2003. On the bed, neatly laid out against the rest of the chaos, were my wife’s dress, bra and panties. She came out of the bathroom completely nude aside from a pair of high heels, took the wine from me and took a swig straight from the bottle. I fell totally, completely and irrevocably in love.
I have no head for artistic things- I work in finance, I get creative with numbers, not paint- but I fucking love her stuff. She’s made a name for herself over the past few years, critics call her the American Damien Hirst. One of her first exhibits was composed of a dozen oil paintings of rotting pastries, surrounding an actual cake filled with thousands of dead lady bugs being fed to a mummified tarantula dressed up as Little Miss Muffet. I have no idea what it meant but it was sick, successful and catered by Balthazar so I ate about 20 croissants. They did not have bugs in them. I checked.
She was amazing. She had the body of a Laker girl and the face of a Modigliani model, and still does. She’s charming, charismatic, deep- the kind of person people flock to, want to be around constantly. She fucked like she had something to prove, she had a twisted sense of humor. As soon as I hooked a job with enough figures to keep a girl like her satisfied the way she should be, I proposed, bought her a historical brownstone in the city with a garden full of roses and hardwood mahogany floors. And for the first few years, she seemed happy. We were the kind of couple you see in New York Magazine and scoff at because they’re just too damned lucky…
But we had a rough spot, like all married couples do. She was still the superficially the same woman I fell in love with- looked amazing, people always asked me when she was going to host the next dinner party, she still had an amazing eye for art. I knew, though- I knew she was miserable. I could see it- the misery- in the corners of her eyes and the curve of her mouth.
It happened gradually. First it was the shower curtain. She bought 3 or 4 from a small boutique downtown, brought them home so we could choose one out together. We decided on one, pale blue, made of material that was impractical and way too expensive for a drapery in a bathroom but we had the money and it made her happy so why the hell not. A few days later, I was shaving and realized she still hadn’t put the curtain up. It wasn’t until about a month after that I caught a glimpse of it hanging up in her studio, cut to shreds and dyed till it was almost unrecognizable.
I chose to ignore it because I had learned it’s usually not the best course of action to call an artist out on their creative license, unless you want to start an all-out war with no discernible end.
A year after that, though, I had no choice. She had been so on edge it was like she was standing on a razor. She usually had a show every 3, 4 months or so, and if anything she had too many ideas, the galleries always asked her to trim down her collections. When the year passed without so much as a single finished painting, I started to worry, both about her wellbeing and our bank account. We were extravagant spenders, and each of her shows would bring in a cool $20,000 that paid for a few months of European beaches and ski trips in Aspen.
The final straw, though, is when she burned down the roses. It turned out she had finished dozens of projects over the year, she had hated all of it and had either destroyed or painted over everything. While I was at the office, she flew off the handle, doused about 16 canvases in lighter fluid, and set the yard on fire. When I got the call from the fire department, I rushed home to find her sitting in the back of the ambulance, covered in ashes, blonde hair singed at the ends. She was smoking a cigarette. I looked over the burnt flowers, the skeletons of her paintings, the ruined limbs of broken sculptures, and asked her what happened and why. She took a drag of the cigarette and said:
“It was mine to burn.”
She took big, fancy pictures of the inferno. A family of bunnies suffocated in the smoke, she had them stuffed and mounted in size order on a baking soda volcano like the kind you see in middle school science fairs. She gathered up a few of the charred bits and pieces, wired it together, and made some warped, pained-looking kind of phoenix thing weighing in at 400 pounds and easily over eight feet high. She called the whole thing “From the Ashes”, and the reviews in the Times called it “…incendiary. Her first foray into becoming a true artist”. Someone bought the phoenix. I pity the person who wakes up every day and looks at that strange thing, suspended in constant agony.
We were both drunk, at a random, expensive, vaguely Dante’s Inferno-themed bar in San Francisco when I finally got a chance to ask her what was bothering her. We had been making dark jokes all night about the beautiful irony of her show and our current locale. At first she vehemently denied anything was wrong, angrily pointing out that we had made four times as much off of her last show as anything before it, that it had more than covered the damages, that it had paid for the vacation we were on. I stayed silent. She tossed her newly cropped hair, and looked like she was going to open up for a second. I saw her soft blue eyes fill with tears, then she took a shot of whiskey from a glass that had a bull’s head and smirked.
“Well, for starters,” she slurred, nonchalantly dangling the glass from the bull’s nose ring. “I’m fairly certain I’m pregnant.”
She let the glass drop from her finger and it shattered on the floor as she slid out of her seat and stumbled to the exit. I sat there for awhile and drank more, feeling furious, confused, and miserable. I remembered her face when she showed me that Klimt painting. I remembered how she wore glasses back then, and how she pushed them up the bridge of her nose when she smiled as I talked about the fucking warm and the fucking cold colors and the fucking angles and lines.
We converted her studio into a nursery. Rather, I did, while she stayed in San Francisco and did God knows what with her artist friends. I had a landscaper come in and replant the roses. I worked a lot of overtime, drank myself to sleep while I skimmed through parenting books. She came back when she was almost full term; I came home from work one night to find sonogram pictures posted all over the fridge of two healthy-looking twins, big baby girls. I walked into our bedroom and saw her dead asleep on top of the covers, belly swollen, smelling faintly like pot and paint thinner. She had a rainbow of dried paint on her fingertips. I loosened my tie and walked to the nursery.
She had been busy.
The canary yellow I had chosen was covered in a layer of translucent blue, and she had covered one wall in Klimt-esque patterns and curlicues. The creamy plush carpet was covered in paint splatters- she had worked furiously to finish. She had cut a swathe from one of the new rose bushes and made a giant bouquet, shoving them so tightly in the vase that some had escaped and made their way from their perch on the changing table to the floor. She had scattered them in the bassinet, on the windowsill. It was chaotic and beautiful.
The next few years were peaceful, for the most part. We bonded over raising the girls. Despite my wife’s less than careful prenatal preparation, they were wickedly smart and beautiful. They both looked like her, with long curly blonde ringlets and blue eyes. Sometimes, when I put them to bed, I wondered if any of my DNA was in them at all. They were like miniature versions of her.
My wife agreed to see a psychiatrist for a little bit. She took some medication for awhile, Xanax, some mood stabilizers. Eventually she and her doctor decided her crisis had been hormonal and temporary. We started having dinner parties again, soothed the gossip that had infected our social circles.
She stopped painting and took up teaching at a university. She seemed content again, even happier than she was before. Every once in a while I would catch a look in her eyes like repressed artillery fire, like she was ready to explode at any second, but it never lasted for longer than a few seconds before they went back to the soft cornflower blue I knew so well. And who doesn't get a little agitated every once in a while?
I rose through the ranks at work. I loved the feeling of power that came with promotions. I loved my girls. And by God, I loved her. My crazy, disgusting, beautiful, hateful and loving, extraordinary wife.
Then came today.
Today, I came home from work early.
Today, my wife took the day off to be a chaperone on a class trip to the MET. They were after her for months because of her expertise in the art world, they wanted the children to experience the culture in the most sophisticated way possible. I thought it was ridiculous, they were one to three year olds in a private daycare; they saw more beauty in Cheerios than in Monet’s water lilies. But they wore my wife down, and she was given a gaggle of toddlers and wide-eyed teachers to tour around the museum.
I came home for lunch because I had forgotten my iPad that had notes on it for a presentation I was giving that night. I walked through the rose garden and notice a tiny piece of sculpture left over from the Ashes exhibit from so long ago. It was half of a tiny bird- it had the kind of exquisite detail that my wife used to be so famous for. I was pretty sure it was an actual bird that she had cast in clay. I thought I could see a small piece of feather in one of the cracks. I idly wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before.
I went inside and poured myself a glass of orange juice. The fridge had pictures that my daughters’ drew- happy, crooked stick figures that looked nothing like the beautiful horrors their mother used to churn out. I was happy about that. I hoped they would fall in love with numbers like I did.
It was absolutely silent, and I sipped the sweet citrus and enjoyed the nothingness. Then I thought I caught a vague scent of fresh paint in the air.
Curious, I walked into the living room. And there was my wife, sitting on the leather couch with a bottle of wine, looking like an angel of death.
She was covered head to toe in blue-gray body paint, with a special concentration underneath her eyes. She was wearing a revealing patchwork blue dress, covered in crosses of various shapes and sizes. Not a dress, I realized, but the shredded shower curtain from so many years ago. I could see most of her still-perfect breasts, the curve of her waist. The bottle of wine was elongated and painted a strange shade of orange. The smell of paint was stronger in here, an overwhelming smell of lighter fluid, and something else I couldn’t place. She had shaven her head.
I stared at her for awhile- minutes? An hour maybe? Eventually she took a swig of wine from the bottle, swirling it around in her mouth. I noticed paint, deep blues and even deeper reds, around her fingers. I sat down in the arm chair across from her, unable to think of what exactly I wanted to ask her.
Maybe because I knew.
Maybe because I didn’t want to know.
I noticed a camera on the table between us, I went to pick it up and she rested her gray hand on mine before I could, softly, gently, with all the familiarity of years of marriage. She opened her mouth to speak, soft pink lips made pallid by the paint.
“They were mine.”
And I’ve been sitting here, knowing what’s behind the door to my daughters’ room, with the Klimt wall we never repainted. Knowing why my phone keeps ringing with calls from the school, from the NYPD. Knowing why I couldn’t find my sleeping pills last night. Knowing what that smell is. Seeing in my peripheral the red pooling and staining the carpet from underneath the door, the pile of clothes neatly folded next to my wife on the couch. I can picture that thick wire she used to fit all of her subjects where she wanted them, what a perfect, detailed recreation it must be.
Because she’s so perfect.
I see the phoenix in my mind’s eye.
I hope, when she flicks that cigarette she’s about to light, we both fucking burn.
[9](https://numbenine.wordpress.com/)
| 3,489 | The Artist |
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