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vibrated up through the soles of my shoes and into my bones. It was the sound of a tomb door grinding open after a thousand years.
I didn't scream. The sound was trapped in my throat, a choked, pathetic little gasp.
That was it. The spell of morbid curiosity was broken, shattered by a blast of pure, animal terror. I didn't think. I just reacted. I scrambled backwards, knocking over the armchair, my hands flailing in the dark. I crab-walked away from the sound, my only thought being OUT.
I found the door by touch, fumbled with the bolt, my fingers feeling useless. The scraping sound was louder now, a deep, resonant groan that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin.
The door flew open and I fell out onto the porch, gulping the cold night air. I didn't look back. I sprinted across the clearing to my car, my keys already in my hand, jabbing them at the lock. The scraping was a constant, grinding vibration in the ground now. I threw myself into the driver's seat, jammed the key in the ignition, and prayed.
The engine turned over on the first try. I have never been so grateful for the roar of an internal combustion engine in my entire life. I slammed the car into reverse, not caring about the trees, and spun the wheel, my tires spitting gravel. The headlights cut a frantic swathe through the darkness, illuminating the front of the cabin for a split second.
There was nothing there. Just the dark windows and the silent porch. But the ground in front of the steps... it looked wrong. It looked... raised. Like something was pushing up from below.
I didn't wait to see what it was. I stomped on the accelerator and fled down that winding dirt road, the car bucking and sliding, branches whipping against the windows. I didn't slow down until the dirt turned to asphalt, and I didn't stop driving until the sun started to rise and I saw the blessed, ugly, beautiful glow of a motel sign.
So here I am. Writing this. I left everything back there. my clothes, my father's memories. My grandfather's journal with its terrible notes.
I can never go back. I know that. The cabin, my family's legacy, is gone. It's a tomb, and I opened the door. All I know is that something is awake that should have slept forever.
@rnosleep
grabbed my phone. It had no service, but the battery was full. I had downloaded a bunch of stuff before I left, just in case of emergencies. Books, movies… and a survival guide app. I fumbled it open, my fingers slick with sweat. The app had a utilities section. Flashlight, compass, and… a Morse code chart.
My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat. I pulled the journal into my lap, turned to the first page of my transcription, and began to translate. My hands were shaking so badly it was hard to trace the lines.
The first few sequences were jumbled. Gibberish. I probably mis-heard them, wrote them down wrong. I felt a wave of relief. It was nothing. Just my overactive imagination. I was about to laugh at myself, to pour a stiff whiskey and call it a night.
But then I got to a sequence I was sure I’d recorded perfectly. It was long, and the rhythm had been incredibly clear.
..- -. -.. . .-.
I went letter by letter.
U. N. D. E. R.
Under.
My breath hitched. Okay. Coincidence. It had to be. I kept going, my eyes scanning the pages of dots and dashes, comparing them to the chart on my phone screen.
The next clear word I translated was:
.... ..- -. --. .-. -.--
H. U. N. G. R. Y.
Hungry.
The air in the cabin suddenly felt thin, cold. I stood up and paced the small room, the old floorboards groaning under my feet. Under. Hungry. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a message. But who was sending it? And how? The moth was just an insect. It couldn't think, it couldn't reason.
I spent the rest of the night translating. The generator sputtered and died around 2 AM, plunging the room into darkness and silence. The tapping stopped instantly. I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark, the words I’d translated burning in my mind.
SOON.
DEEP.
WAIT.
STONE.
ROOTS.
They were disjointed, single words. Fragments of a thought. It was like listening to someone talk in their sleep. But they painted a terrifying, impressionistic picture. Something was under, but under what? under the cabin? Something deep. Something made of stone and tangled in roots. And it was hungry, waiting. I felt that i maybe overreacting and my mind just completing a buzzle that doesn't exist.
The next day, I was a wreck. I didn’t hike. I didn’t chop wood. I barely ate. I searched the cabin, looking for… I don’t know what. A clue. An explanation. I tore through the drawers in my father's old desk, the bookshelf filled with dusty paperbacks. And then I found it, tucked in the back of the grandfather's journal I’d been using. A section at the very end, where the handwriting changed from my grandfather’s neat cursive to my great-grandfather’s spidery scrawl.
The entries were short, cryptic.
October 12, 1934. The generator is a blessing. But the light calls to it. Must be sparing.
May 3, 1938. Dug a new well. Hit stone at twenty feet. Smooth, black stone. Not slate. Filled it back in. Will draw from the creek.
September 21, 1945. It sleeps, but it listens. The Old Man knew. The silence is its cradle. The noise, its dream. Do not wake the dream.
July 16, 1952. Tell the boy to keep the lamps low. Never dig past the old oak. Some things are best left buried. Some hunger never dies.
My blood turned to ice. Some hunger never dies. My ancestors. Did they knew?
That night, I knew I had to listen. I was terrified, every primal instinct in my body screamed at me to get in my car and drive. But another part of me, a morbid, obsessive curiosity, had to know the rest of the story. I had to know what I was sitting on top of.
I fired up the generator. The moths came. The tapping started.
This time, the messages were different. They were longer, more coherent. It was as if, by listening, I had somehow strengthened the connection. The moth tapped, and I wrote, my hand flying across the page. It felt like I was taking dictation from beyond the grave.
I didn't wait to translate. I filled page after page of the journal, the dots and dashes becoming a blur. The moth was tapping faster now, more urgently. The air in the room grew thick, heavy
I've been staying at my family's remote cabin. For the last three nights, something has been knocking on my window.
Alright, I don't know where to start. I'm in a motel room that smells like stale cigarettes and bleach, about a hundred miles from where I was last night.
For context, I work a job that essentially melts your brain. You know the kind. Endless spreadsheets, back-to-back video calls where everyone talks over each other, a constant barrage of emails that are all marked "URGENT." After a particularly brutal six-month project, I was completely fried. A walking zombie. My boss, to his credit, saw it and basically ordered me to take two weeks off. "Go somewhere with no cell service," he said.
The first place that came to mind was my father’s old cabin.
It’s not really just my father's. It was his father’s before him, and his father’s before that. It’s been in the family for a century, maybe more. A small, sturdy log cabin deep in the woods, miles from the nearest town. It’s the literal definition of "off the grid." A well for water, a generator for a few hours of electricity a night, and a fireplace for heat. It was the perfect place to disconnect, to just sit in silence and let my brain unscramble itself.
My dad passed away a few years ago. We weren't estranged, but we weren't close. He was a quiet, solitary man, and the cabin was his sanctuary. I have a few hazy, happy memories of being there as a little kid, the smell of pine needles and woodsmoke, the feel of rough-hewn timber under my bare feet, him teaching me how to skip stones on the nearby creek. Going back felt like a way to honor him, I guess. A way to find some of that peace he always seemed to have when he was there.
The drive up was long, the last hour on a winding dirt road that was more pothole than path. When I finally pulled up, the place looked exactly as I remembered. The logs were a darker, more weathered grey. The porch sagged a little on one side. But it was solid.
The air was clean and cold, and the silence was so total it felt like a weight in my ears. No cars, no sirens, no people. Just the wind sighing through the massive pines that surrounded the property like ancient sentinels. I spent the first day just existing. I unpacked my meager supplies, books, non-perishable food, a couple of good bottles of whiskey. I swept the dust off the floors, started a fire in the hearth, and sat on the porch watching the sun go down, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. For the first time in months, the knot in my chest started to loosen.
That first night, I fired up the generator for a few hours to run the lights and read. The cabin has two main windows in the living area, big single panes of glass that look out into the impenetrable blackness of the forest. As soon as I flipped on the lamp beside my armchair, they came. The moths.
It’s normal, of course. A single point of light in an ocean of darkness. You’re going to attract every insect for miles. They fluttered and danced against the glass, dozens of them, their dusty wings like soft grey snow against the pane. I barely noticed them. It was a familiar, almost comforting sound of the wilderness. The soft, papery thump... thump-thump of their bodies hitting the window. I read for an hour, turned off the generator, and fell into the deepest, most dreamless sleep I’d had in years.
The second day was even better. I chopped some wood for the fire, went for a long hike, and felt the city stress sloughing off me with every step. I was reconnecting with something primal, something real. The world felt simple again.
That night, I did the same thing. Fired up the generator, poured myself a small whiskey, and settled in with my book. And again, the moths came.
At first, it was the same as the night before. A chaotic flurry of wings against the glass. But as the minutes stretched on, I started to notice something. A sound beneath the general chaos. A single, persistent tapping.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was distinct from the soft, fleshy thuds of the other moths. It was sharper, more deliberate.
landed on the fire escape hard enough to see stars, glass embedded in my jacket and hair. Below me, I heard them throwing themselves against the window frame, unable or unwilling to follow. I half-climbed, half-fell down the fire escape and ran to my truck.
I was a mile away before I stopped shaking enough to drive properly.
I didn't tell anyone. Who would believe me? I called the University and told them the building was structurally unsound, that we'd need to seal it before demolition could proceed. They said they'd handle it.
That was three weeks ago.
At first, I thought I was fine. Shaken, sure, but fine. I'd had a scare, I'd escaped, it was over.
Then I started getting hungry.
Not normal hunger. This was something else. I'd eat a full meal, a huge meal, more than I'd normally have, and an hour later, I'd be starving again. Not just peckish. Genuinely, painfully starving, like I hadn't eaten in days.
I went to a doctor. She ran tests. Everything came back normal, she said. My metabolism was fine. She suggested it might be psychological, gave me the number for a therapist.
But it's not psychological.
I know because I've lost fifteen pounds in three weeks, despite eating constantly. I know because when I look at my hands, my fingers look longer. Not much. Just a little. Just enough that I notice when I'm typing or holding a fork.
I know because my joints ache. My knees crack when I stand up, and they feel swollen, hot to the touch.
I know because last night, I looked in the mirror and my eyes seemed too large for my face.
I know because I can't stop thinking about food. Every thought circles back to it. I dream about eating, wake up with my jaw aching from grinding my teeth. I've started collecting recipes obsessively, printed them out and covered my apartment walls with them. When I eat, I catch myself licking my plate. Yesterday, I found myself calculating the caloric content of my neighbor's dog.
I know because the hunger isn't in my stomach anymore. It's in my bones, in my cells, in my DNA. It's rewriting me from the inside out.
I drove past the building yesterday. There were University maintenance vehicles outside, and workers installing heavy steel panels over all the windows and doors. A new sign read: CONDEMNED, NO ENTRY, DANGEROUS STRUCTURE.
They're sealing it. Sealing them in.
But it's too late for me.
I'm writing this as a warning. The Minnesota Starvation Experiment didn't end in 1945. It's still going. Those men volunteered to be starved for science, to help humanity, and something in that process changed them into something that shouldn't exist. Maybe it was the duration, starvation for so long that their bodies adapted in impossible ways. Maybe it was something else, something in that building, in that basement.
It doesn't matter now.
What matters is that I can feel it happening. The changes are accelerating. My fingers are definitely longer today. I had to resize my keyboard at work. My jaw clicks when I chew, like the bones are loosening, preparing to extend. I'm so hungry I can barely think, and eating doesn't help anymore. Nothing helps.
Last night, I felt the urge to go back. Back to that building, back to that basement. The hunger calls me there, whispers that relief is waiting in the dark with the others. That I belong there now. That I've always belonged there.
I'm trying to resist. I'm trying so hard to resist.
But I'm so hungry.
And my lease is up next month. I don't think I'm going to renew it.
If you're reading this, stay away from the old Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene on the University of Minnesota campus. Don't go near it. Don't try to investigate. They've sealed it now, but seals can be broken.
And whatever you do, if you're ever anywhere near Stadium Village and you hear scratching sounds coming from underground, if you smell that rendering plant smell mixed with vinegar and wrongness, run.
Because they are still hungry.
We are still hungry.
And I don't think I can hold out much longer.
My fingers are too long to type comfortably anymore. I'm ending
Do not go to the Minnesota starvation experiment site. They are still hungry.
I'm writing this from my apartment, and I need you to understand something before I explain what happened. I need you to know that the Minnesota Starvation Experiment was real.
In 1944, at the University of Minnesota, Dr. Ancel Keys conducted what would become one of the most disturbing psychological studies in American history. Thirty-six conscientious objectors, men who refused to fight in World War II, volunteered to be starved. For six months, they were fed approximately 1,800 calories per day while performing hard labor. Then, for three months of "rehabilitation," they were slowly refed.
The results were horrifying. The men became obsessed with food, collecting recipes, licking their plates, some even contemplating cannibalism. They experienced severe depression, self-mutilation, and personality changes so profound that several never fully recovered. One man, it's documented, cut off three of his own fingers with an axe, though he couldn't remember if it was deliberate or not.
The experiment was designed to help understand how to refeed starving populations in post-war Europe. It was conducted in the basement of the University of Minnesota's Stadium Village, in a nondescript building that still stands today.
I know all of this because I'm a demolition consultant. Was. Was a demolition consultant.
Three weeks ago, the University finally approved the teardown of the old Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene—the building where the experiment took place. Most of it had been abandoned since the 1980s, deemed too outdated and too expensive to renovate. My job was to survey the structure, identify any hazardous materials, and map out the safest way to bring it down.
I went in on a Tuesday morning, alone.
The building smelled wrong from the moment I entered. Not the usual mildew and rot you get in abandoned buildings. This was sharper, more organic. Like the rendering plant I'd surveyed outside Saint Paul, but with an undernote of something vinegary and sick.
The main floors were standard, with stripped offices, empty labs, and the accumulated dust of decades. My footsteps echoed too much. The architectural plans showed four stories, but when I checked the stairwells, I found markings for a sub-basement that wasn't on any of my documentation.
Professional curiosity is a liability in my line of work. I should have left it alone.
The stairs down were narrow, institutional concrete that had been painted gray years ago. My flashlight caught something on the walls as I descended—scratches. Deep ones, running parallel down the concrete in sets of five. Like someone had dragged their fingernails down the walls hard enough to gouge the stone.
The sub-basement was a long corridor lined with small rooms. Cells, really. Each had a narrow bed frame, a small desk, and a single bare bulb overhead. My documentation said this level had been used for "extended observation" during various studies. The rooms still had numbers stenciled on the doors: S1 through S36.
Thirty-six rooms.
Thirty-six subjects.
I felt cold despite my jacket.
The scratches were everywhere down here, on the door frames, the floors, even the ceilings. In one room, someone had carved words into the plaster: STILL HUNGRY STILL HUNGRY STILL HUNGRY, repeated in manic spirals that covered an entire wall. The handwriting degraded as it went, becoming less controlled, more jagged.
At the end of the corridor was a heavy steel door with multiple locks. A sign read: LONG TERM OBSERVATION. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — DR. KEYS.
The locks were already open.
I should have left. God, I should have left.
The room beyond was large, maybe forty by sixty feet, with a ceiling that disappeared into darkness above my flashlight's reach. The smell hit me like a fist: that rendering plant smell intensified a hundredfold. And underneath it, something else. Something that made my hindbrain scream.
There were beds arranged in neat rows. Thirty-six beds.
Twenty-three of them were occupied.
I need you
by one, we slipped through, and my haste earned a few cuts along my sweater.
For a mile, we pushed deeper in total silence - broken only by a clumsy step and a shiver in the wind. I caught glimpses of little 'X's' marked on some trees and rocks, as the path became rougher, revealing themselves when flashlight cones stroked over them.
I saw a 'W + S' carved into one maple tree, cuddled in a love heart.
Willow's voice nearly scared my skin off. "Listen."
Something changed - the voiding silence, gradually, warped into a series of coarse, pained echoing croaks originating from somewhere far, far ahead in the dark. The wind scratched and rattled its way through wounded, cracked bark as my ears strained and every instinct wailed at me to turn around and run.
My brother took my hand instead. And we continued.
"What is that?" I asked.
"No idea." Was all he could say.
Night fully settled over the woods, the moon and the stars obscured by dense trees. I couldn't tell how much further we walked or for how long.
I checked my phone.
Dead. Impossible.
Sean noticed. "Hope you messaged Arthur."
I hadn't. Shit.
Before I could think, we came upon a still, unmoving river stream - flashlights glimmering across the shallow, black water's surface. The three of them stopped. This must've been the edge of their familiarity.
Ben charged forward, producing a polaroid camera from a satchel. It was evident from the way he walked that his courage came from a bottle. I wondered briefly what kind of war waged in his head, as Willow went to follow him.
Sean stopped her. "We could leave him to it. He'll tell us anyway, whether we're with him or not."
Willow let out a tiny laugh. "You want what I want, right?" Then she looked at me. "Having fun yet?" She broke away from him and followed the bobbing head of red hair into the breach.
Sean sighed, hesitant to follow.
"I'm not scared." I blurted out.
"I know, but-"
I watched sense and reason come over him in a single moment. It hit me, too.
What the fuck were we doing?
It lasted only a second; this lucid cut into the adventure, telling us to go home. Then, just as quickly, gleeful shouts and exclamations pulled us effortlessly onwards.
Several meters beyond the river, one tree stood apart - a towering sentinel marred by something uncanny. A crimson mould covered its bark in thick, shulking veins, twisting and threading through its grooves like a cancer. The colour was impossibly rich, both disgusting and hypnotic, and the texture looked more like a synthetic glass.
Then it pulsed, dimly. A faint red glow breathed to life within the mould, slow and steady, synchronised... to the slow rhythm of a heartbeat.
Willow was beside herself as Ben snapped a picture of the growth. Then he touched it.
The mould trembled and released a cloud of faint, powdery spores into the air, which quickly scattered. A single red vein at the root of the tree flared to life, pulsating with more luscious light. It stretched along the ground - its visibility was a complete defiance of logic, as if the earth itself was translucent. The vein bent deeper into the woods.
Like sheep, we followed.
Every single tree was consumed in the same, lurid mass - shimmering in unusual palettes of red and garnet - some far more infected than others. Even the floor was terraformed by the stuff, puffing at our feet. The pulsing lights grew brighter as thick, euphoric fogs drifted among the trunks, sweet and dizzying and as the haze settled... the lights revealed a truth.
Silhouettes - human and animal both - curled, fetal and motionless, were encased and suspended within the bodies of the trees themselves.
"We should... probably leave," Sean said, dreary and sheepish. "Tell someone."
I cannot explain why Ben chose to rush one of the trees, tearing desperately at the mould in a panicked bid to save the person imprisoned within.
I can explain how the forest responded.
The ground convulsed and split open, revealing worming interconnected tunnels beneath us, and a gangling thing emerged out at horrifying speed. Its
adventure unfolded before us. I soaked myself in the thrills, each of my nerves shot with reckless curiosity, not once stopping to ask questions.
It spat us out into a large, sweltering room washed in a sickly, red glow. The stink of alcohol was more pungent down here, wafting through the stale air. Strings of thumbtacks and curling, ancient photographs lined the walls: a blurry picture of an old lake, a crowd at a festival, an evening shot of a rich, starry sky; figures vanishing behind trees, snapshots of a distant woods bathed in purple light, wide-eyed faces from decade-old yearbooks.
A lair adorned with the collections of a private investigator.
Dilapidated, torn pieces of archived newspaper were neatly lined on tables, screaming local tragedies, accompanied by police forms, council records and government files that had almost bled dry of ink - margins etched with hastily scribbled notes. A cold knot formed in the pit of my stomach as my eyes darted over them. Shut away relics of decades past leapt from the pages and clamped themselves to my chest. They should've just been old stories, forgotten pains, but arranged together, they became an accusation.
'Search For Missing Hiker Continues'
'Police Abandons Search For Missing Son - Family Left Without Answers'
'Search For Missing Girl Continues'
'History Repeats? Another Youth Vanishes Near Old Mines'
'Strange Lights Spotted By Shoreline!'
'Search Continues For Missing Dog'
Dozens of absent resolutions; the words began absorbing together.
'Search Continues...'
Fucking search continues, search continues, search continues!
No remains discovered, nothing discovered, nothing ever discovered, no one ever found, no bodies found.
Not even one.
I felt something rising in my throat I couldn't explain. The others had joined me around the table, reading the headlines we'd never known existed in silence, their faces tightening.
A myriad of unspeakable, unanswered losses mouldering for at least 50 years.
This was no adventure; this was a warning.
Did Mom and Dad know?
'Local Sheriff Disappears - Foul Play Suspected'
'Community Divided Over Nighttime Curfew'
'Who Is Enforcing The New Rules? Authorities Silent!'
Kate drifted away from the crowded table and let her attention settle on a map. "Autumn!" I ripped myself away, leaving Arthur and Barney to sift through more paper galore. The map was one of the woods (of course), riddled with illegible scrawls and red markings noting boundaries, but what had her focus was an old calendar taped to the corner - days crossed in black marker pen, others circled and annotated with different, tidier hands.
Willow's name was infrequent enough to spot.
And so was Sean's.
My fingers zipped over clustered markings, piecing together how specific dates lined with shaded areas on the map. They'd been charting, beyond the fences, but there was a threshold that even they hadn't dared cross.
That changed tonight.
The air pressed in, and I couldn't breathe. I steadied myself on the edge of a table - shaking, head spinning, heart pounding like a kick drum in my chest. I didn't know what I wanted to find here, but this was not it. Distant and muffled, their voices reached me and drew me back; a hand on the shoulder with some grounding words. Arthur said a joke, I think, Barney muttered something soft, and Kate held my hand - it wasn't grand, there was no fanfare, but it was enough.
When I could finally speak again, it came out in a croak. "What do we do?" The question hung heavy in the air. Too many options: go to the police (and tell them what?), go to my parents (and be put in solitary?)... or-
Arthur spoke as if reading my mind. "We could go to the woods."
"Not a chance!" Barney whined. "I've not even... been to the fences, none of us have; I'm not going there. And it's bear season-"
Kate couldn't believe what she heard. "Bears?" She gestured to the room we stood in. "That's your biggest worry?... Bears? Not the fact that we'll likely vanish into fucking-"
"Guys!" I shouted, for what felt like the first time in
eyes flicking over the bruising. He looked over his shoulder at my confused, relieved table of watching friends, offering them a wave and a reassuring smile.
Willow's laugh was a short, bitter burst. "Oh, please, he wishes he were that brave. No, I just... fell."
"Was it Ben? You overstepped?"
She paused and then nodded slowly.
"You've been seeing him without me?" Sean asked.
"You haven’t?"
"Who's Ben?" I chimed in.
The two looked at me, as if remembering I was there, and suddenly I felt like a little girl in my parents' kitchen again.
"Local press," Sean said. "Red hair, built like a stick-" he nodded grimly towards his damsel, "-and the one who encourages this diva to believe she's above tradition."
My stomach churned. "You've been out there?! What, at night?!" I tried not to sound desperate, but the words pathetically dribbled out.
A fowl grin stretched across her mouth. "I told you she'd be keen." She said to Sean.
I almost hissed at my brother. "You too?! After everything Mom and Dad-"
"I've not even left the house once, Autumn... I promise."
"Is that right?" Willow teased.
"Yes." He spat, pleads and warnings written all over his face. "And try as you might, nothing you or that alcoholic says will change my mind." He then ruffled my hair, pausing the racing curiosity that began to rush through my head. "Or yours, I hope."
Willow's gaze then met mine and held it. "Y'know, I've heard things out there. You can come listen too if you're not scared-"
Sean planted a firm, but hesitant hand on the table and stood with a huff. "Catch you later, Wills. Always a pleasure."
"Oh, come on." She pouted. "I won't take her past the fences; even I'm not that stupid... well, maybe just a few feet. We could all go together, the three of us!" Her voice was thin and cold, but beneath all the bravado, I could tell she was terrified.
The word left my mouth before I could stop it. "When?"
Sean was quick to usher me away from the table with nought a word, like my life depended on it. Willow watched us the whole time, smiling from ear to ear with the utmost joy.
"Back to your friends, kiddo. Now."
"I don't... why'd I-"
"Autumn. Now."
I nodded, slowly, and made my way back to my sanctuary as Sean reclaimed his seat in the lion's den. Whatever they said to each other was lost to me, but they remained a pair until the bell rang. His affection became more visible - tucking a hair behind her ear, cupping her hand, all while staring ditzy daggers into her.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. My friends hounded me, prying me with questions about what Willow wanted, what she'd said, what my brother had said, what the two of them 'were', and why in God's name I'd actually approached her. I deflected, lied, kept quiet - anything to keep them away. Yet their pestering was nothing compared to what the recesses of my own mind were doing to me.
I replayed every word of that conversation and, through it all, one name kept cycling around.
'Ben'
A man who could solve the unsolvable puzzle my parents had harmlessly planted in me.
By the final bell, I couldn't bear it any longer, and I folded. I confided in them everything I was thinking and feeling - another rant bubbling out of my mouth in disjointed sentences that, somehow, they could understand every word of.
Arthur proposed it first, stabbing a straw into his milkshake, after we'd escaped the spilling sea of student-filled halls - clambering their way outside to enjoy the rest of their afternoon - and sought refuge in a cafe booth.
"Why don't we pay him a visit?" He took a long gulp of some vanilla delight. The others looked at him like he'd killed someone.
"Visit the jittery reporter who punched Willow in the face?" Barney asked, digging into a slice of red velvet. "What could go wrong?"
"Well, either that or we break curfew ourselves and let this one," Kate began, poking me in the ribs, almost spilling my tea, "scratch her itch."
"It's not an... 'itch', Kate."
"Oh, sorry. Unresolved compulsion then?"
"Hey, back off." Arthur butted in, and I almost thanked
them or that the fate of their friend troubled them most nights, but they offered pieces - fostering a hunger in their children to fit them, maybe, one day, together.
But that hunger would starve.
When Sean became a young man, and I became a teenager, we were wise enough to sense what they were too careful to admit. This 'curiosity' would always be expecting, always listening, for answers that would never come - a puzzle left eternally unsolved - because... we still had a curfew to respect, we still had rules; a tradition to honour.
Be curious to your heart's content. Explore the parts of the woods where you are allowed during the day, before you reach the barbed fences. But there are borders - don't go too far out, don't go alone if it can be helped, and don't even think for a second about leaving the house at night, let alone going there. And like the good, well-raised children we were, as our curiosity grew bored - but never bored enough - we respected those borders.
Until the one night we didn't.
Until the one night I would tear my skin through bramble and feel dirt fester under my nails, warm blood on my face, and understand what it was that dwelled out there - nesting among crimson trees so foul... and so beautiful.
\-
The daytime brought its own rhythm, and outside our fortress, life moved with the familiar patterns of any town. College was an odd blend of comfort and absurdity. My crowd - a strange, but functional little crew - made such a blend bearable, and sometimes enjoyable.
There was Barney, with his bottomless backpack of books and anxious, bashful heart; always armed with some obscure pulp fiction wisdom or dusty trivia he'd dug up at 3 in the morning.
Kate, a brilliant, gothic dark cloud of sarcasm and wit, adorned in black lace and sharp eyeliner - drifting among us like a raven that had learned to tolerate pigeons. She liked to draw. A myriad of dreamlike monsters filled her sketchbook, asphyxiating me whenever I saw them, as did the wonder that could rarely leave her mouth.
Arthur, trouble on two legs, adored by every teacher he infuriated and the first to disrupt a lecture hall; a cocky shit who always found ways to get us into places we shouldn't be (excluding one obvious exception). Detentions were a weekly event with him, yet somehow, he was the charming glue that held us together in our worst moments.
And finally, me, a theatrical ginger dweeb of fluffy sweaters and radiating rambles.
A four-pointed lopsided constellation, bright in our own humble little orbit.
But then there was an occasional black hole that made its rounds, from a very, very different universe.
Willow.
She never drifted to our tables during lunch or lingered in the hallways with us. No, she floated above it all. Self-proclaimed queen bee of this backwater nowhere, daughter of the wealthiest family for miles, founder of a circle of vixens and jocks who were always on the edge of danger. If she raised an eyebrow, the room would shiver; if she snapped her fingers, doors opened.
Worse still, she was the white-haired devil whispering sweet nothings into Sean's ear, encouraging my brother to abandon all of his rules and barriers on half-baked promises.
She was not our friend. Being noticed by her was a curse, not a blessing. Her name was poison in our household, detested by our parents - many arguments spawned from the mention of her alone.
But on one afternoon, in the buzzing cafeteria of flickering lights, scraping trays and pockets of laughter, she strode in alone. I was halfway through listening to Arthur tease Barney about the disaster of a date he'd had when, for only a heartbeat, the room fell out of focus as the cafeteria door banged against the wall, damning us into silence, and in she marched - absent of her salivating little wolf pack, licking at her heels and beckoning to her every word.
Her runway-ready, head-turning miniskirts and white leather jackets were gone, replaced by baggy sweatpants and an obscenely large hoodie, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She looked and moved like... well, the
Where The Trees Turn Red
Some say it marched out of the sea under a bloody moon, here to expel our town of all hope - a monster to punish the naive prospectors of Maple Oaks who spent their gold on false witch hunts; an avenger of the young women burnt at the pyre, drowning the land for rebirth. Others say it was summoned within the forest, rendering a body of shimmering water an ancient gateway. Not a monster, but a deity from a far-off pantheon to be used as a tool for occult ambition. It brought unrivalled life and good fortune to the woods and its creatures, warping the trees into divine guardians.
I think it was just a man. An affluent founder who built our mines, our port, and, over time, fabricated fables around his locale, concocting utter, fictitious folklore bullshit with the natives that would live on through a local museum.
And his descendants would follow suit, using fiction to hide the truth.
For most of the history class of '85, such fiction ended there - ambitious nonsense about our home's origin, with awe-inspiring malarky attached.
But for Ebony.
Oh, sweet, perfect Ebony.
A switch had flipped in her mind, and an obsession with uncovering the town's secrets had taken hold. Some ancient remnant of this 'thing', whatever it was, must linger somewhere out there, in the woods or across the shore.
Legends need some grain of truth, right?
As the sheriff's daughter, Ebony had every resource and privilege any eager sixteen-year-old could need to hunt local myths.
But, for as keen as she was, her father still set borders. Go dig up the beach and explore the woods, that's fine. But don't go too far out, don't go at night; don't go alone if it can be helped. And, like any spoiled rotten teenager, Ebony ignored all parental guidelines.
This was her quest; she was invincible.
Under the guise of the moonlight, 2 days after she hadn't returned home, by the oldest lake, they allegedly found her slumping out of the ground from where she'd buried herself in a burrow. Her legs were clawed-up and gnarled, her clothes torn, her body broken; whether she had tried to dig herself to safety after being attacked by wolves, or they came upon her while she was unearthing the mystery that lay under the dirt, remained unknown.
For a time.
'Rules' began soon after the story broke, enforced by a grief-stricken sheriff. Beyond a threshold, the woods are forbidden. Period. Yet it didn't prevent whimsical boys and girls from investigating the tantalising, freshly rumoured legend whispered quickly through the halls: Ebony's ghost haunts the forest.
Go at night, go to the lake, and you'll see the distraught phantom of a girl literally killed by her curiosity - still trying to uncover her mystery.
So they instilled a curfew. As the sun dips behind those looming, timeless hills, notoriously unkind officers of the law patrol the streets to ensure no more wayward youths trek into the foliage. And for 30 years, for every family and every home, that same curfew has remained. For those same 30 years, Ebony's story has warped and demented itself beyond recognition as another generation learns of our nocturnal, ritualistic tradition; as another generation questions what she thought she'd found to warrant wandering that far into the wild, in the dead of night. Had she seen anything at all? Or, alone in the woods, had something found her, and if so... was it still out there?
I was a part of the latest generation, absorbed by the gospel of the potentially abducted, lured, murdered, raped, cult-recruited, tree-fucking, or whatever sort of stupid girl she was 3 decades ago that made nightly outings impossible.
I was a child when I first truly noticed the odd, sacred hush that descended over our home - my tyke brain finally acknowledging that our life wasn't typical.
"Inside Autumn. Light's getting low." Dad had called from the porch as the sun began its lazy bleed into the mountains.
I sat in the kitchen, swaying on a stool, as my usually chipper mother locked every door and drew every blind, offering an occasional peek into the
to be blood in a jar, I read through the new paper to see if there was any reason that he may have kept it. Pages didn't stay much, just local news and other activities happening around the area and such. One caught my eye, though, being it had been circled.
“Local 23-year-old Thomas Scott found to beat cancer without any medical procedures, the world may not be ready for what this local hero can do!”
Rolling my eyes, a con man using sickness to gain wealth or power, but why did my father care about this paper enough to keep it in his close possessions? Throwing the paper back into the box, I picked up the candle and gagged hard as soon as I smelt it. It had been the scent of what I could only think of as a mix of bio and sweets, a smell I found only too familiar. The number 23 had been curved into the side. Picking up the paper again to see some sort of pattern, I felt uneasy, for so you see, I'm 23 too. I didn't know if this was just a big joke my dad tried to pull on me for he gets a nice laugh in the afterlife, but he had never been a joking man, quite stern actually. It had honestly started to freak me out and make me uneasy, but it shouldn't have; it was just a newspaper and a candle, such a simple thing, yet I'm shaking still. After giving myself a moment to relax, I had gotten an idea and opened the book once more and turned the pages until I reached 23. Coughing as dust spewed out of the rapidly turned pages, a paper fell out and hit my lap as I reached 23.
“Dear son, this will be most likely the last thing I write for you, as my time has come to an end, and I only hope my life will be an extension of yours. Are family has a past that most don't know, even family members don't, but it's there, even if they don't look it will always be there. After you receive the cancer diagnosis, please read in this book if you wish to kill it. Do not question it, just do as the book says
From your Father”
Putting the note down, I did it nearly instinctively and read the book as well. It contained instructions on some sort of ritual or something of the like. My fears had vanished, and any form of spectusisume had gone to, and I just did as the book told. Lit the candle made the symbols, as well as other things I will leave out of this post. After I had finished everything, I broke out of the near trance-like state and backed up to the wall.
“What did I do? Why did I do it? Why couldn't i stop?” Heavy breathing came suit as I curled up into a ball and held my head in my legs, just a mess of confusion and worry.
The room had gotten colder, and the light had brightened. Windows were becoming a pale fog, as steam had been in the room. My head started pounding as my nose bled. My head spun as I lay now in the fetal position. My body grew weaker as pain started throbbing in it. I got up a filled a glass with water, and drank it fast, wiping my mouth afterwards. Looking up, I saw something that throbbed my head more. Unable to put into words, it stood there as it took up the whole room and then just the space in one chair as if it were sitting in it. I threw my glass at it but it did nothing. Weirdness part: the glass didn't break, but landed as if onto a pillow and not the wooden floor.
“What are you?!” I said loudly, trying to get a response, but none came.
“The book said you can get rid of the cancer, right?” Still nothing, but a sound can only be described as a slight laugh.
“Why won't you talk?!” pleading now
I had decided whatever it was, either it was to kill me, or worse, I decided to run to the door and get out, but my legs snapped like a branch of a small tree. I yelled in pain, pleading to not be harmed any further. Then it spoke, not in words, not in sound, but it spoke in something beyond that. Then I understood.
My cancer was guaranteed to kill me by the end of the year. A cell had grown to the size of a golf ball on a vital organ. I had been through many different treatments and they were draining my family. Now, as I lie waiting for my body to give out, I see it waiting for
Im alone with someone
I feel it presence now of it glaring over me, not wanting or letting me free. I'm unaware if it lets me write to humour me or let me suffer as my final act of desperation. I wish I could make it out, truly I do, but I've been sentenced to death already, and the being I brought with i made it only truly peppermint. The only option I have is to finally be at a level of selflessness and take whatever I brought with me back. As I hope for this to be enough to end any harm to others, i feel I have brough something no man can fight, something that I truly can't understand, no man can ever understand, but it understands us.
I lay awake in the bed I have now found comfortable. Turing over, yanking the tubes and other objects that are meant to delay the inevitable. Clarie walks over, undoing all forms of entrapment this place has on me for today. Even so, I know I'll be back next. The smell of disinfectant and bio fills my nostrils as I sit up. I know I'm lucky in comparison to the others, but I also know I am one who still has a good level of consciousness. That means I must know the inevitable and must face it head-on. Even if the chicken sees the axe being sharpened doesnt mean it can escape the coop.
“How are you feeling, dear?” As she sticks a probing object into my ear.
“Like I wanna die.” A small chuckle leaves my raspy breath.
“Don't worry, dear, it will come soon enough.” We both let out a soft laugh; dark humour was the way we bonded. Even from a young age me my mother and I always found the light at the end.
“Will you come over for Thanksgiving at least?” As she started, the grasping cusp as it inflated around my arm. Squeezing me tight, making me feel as if my arm was to turn purple.
“If I'm still kicking, you know I will.” The light droplets of water that dripped from her eyes made me so sad every day. No mother should outlive her child, but here we are.
“Your sister is gonna be downstairs in the main waiting room, she's gonna drive you home today.” As she rubbed my cheek gently, she felt the week's stubble that had grown. I have felt too weak to even do that now. Who knows what else I will be incapable of next?
“Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow.” As I leaned in for a hug, I grasped around her. Feeling the tight hold she kept around me as she let go, she left one kiss upon my forehead.
“Please think about moving home still, it really would be best.” The residue of tears was still left upon her face.
“I'm 21 years young, Mom, you know I'm partying all night long.” A slight smile formed on her face as I sat up in the bed I've grown too used to.
Sniffles came from her. “Fair enough, I don't wanna get in your way of pulling all the girls.” A small laugh from both of us came.
The hallway was gloomy due to the idea that no one here wished to be here. The smell of blown candles and pneumonia filled the rooms. This was a place of fake honour. A way someone has a last stand, no one truly has any chance, though. This was a battle no one could beat. Even if you live, the scars will never leave. My sister had been sitting there locked into her phone by this point. I gave a gentle wave to the front desk worker while I made my way to my sister, for I may leave here. Walking slowly to her, I crept up behind and gave a light flick to her back of her head.
“Who the hell?!” Lowered her voice as soon as she turned around. “Oh, JJ”, rubbing her back of her head.
“Hey, long time no see, made it all the way back for little old me, " giving her a weakened smile
“Yeah, it's good to see you”, she wasn't able to keep eye contact while talking to me. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah, sure thing.” I had tried to keep a cheerful attitude, but knew she was struggling. “You know I'm not gone yet, don't need to be so down”, her teeth gritting hard
“Don't say stuff like that, okay?” A line of tears rolled down her face. “You aren't gone, and you won't be going.” It seemed like her teeth would have snapped in half.
“Yeah, yeah, let's just head out.” Still trying to
to the theatre, and begged my boss to let me work off the frustration for awhile instead.
It wasn’t the best distraction in the world, but it helped — enough that by the end of my shift, as we were closing up, I’d actually come to my senses for the most part, and I started to think about going back to apologize, to try and tell him the truth, no matter how hard it was, or how much I worried about how it would effect him.
I suppose I can at least say I had good intentions.
The problem was, I was too late for it to matter anymore.
While I was walking in the direction of where he lived, I came across a shop with a window smashed in. I can’t even recall which one it was, I just remember seeing Clay’s umbrella laying on the ground nearby. I recognized the little symbol carved into the handle; I’m not sure what it’s of, but I‘d seen it once or twice, while I was assisting another employee at the coat check at my job.
I knew right away what had happened. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.
I climbed inside as fast as I could, but I don’t think I was even anywhere close to stopping him. By the time I found him, he was already just standing there, staring at the shopkeeper, just as stiff and still as he was.
I don’t really remember much after that for a little while — just the most basic details: that I tried getting him out of there, that I ended up dragging him out, that it somehow felt harder than it should’ve to do it, and that when I finally did get him out the window, he felt lighter again, and then he instantly just went limp.
At first, I almost thought he was dead. When I checked him, though, he was breathing, so I did the only thing I could: I grabbed the umbrella, and then I rushed him to the hotel, before I risked anyone finding us at the scene.
After that, he just laid there on my couch. He looked exactly like that woman did — eyes open, blinking, breathing, but saying nothing, not even watching me with his eyes if I moved. Just laying there. I can’t get the image out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I tried to snap him out of it every way I could, but nothing worked.
And then the exhaustion set in. I tried to fight it, to fight the reset, but it was useless just like always, and I woke up in my bed this morning, and when I went to look for him on the couch, he was gone. Of course.
I’m still in my room. I know where he is, or at least where he should be. I know where to find him. I’m just afraid of what he‘ll be like when I do. What if he’s just like those other people who saw too much? What if he’s lost his mind, or worse — what if he isn’t even in there anymore? What if he’s still in that state he was in when I last saw him, and he’s never coming back out of it?
What if I just killed the only real friend I had in this world?
I’ve feel like I’ve replayed the conversation we had in my head a million times — all the things I could’ve, should’ve, said, all the ways it could’ve gone different if I’d just been a little gentler, more honest, less stuck in my own head thinking about myself and my feelings. Less bitter about something that was my own fault.
It’s almost noon. I really shouldn’t be posting now, but I feel like I need to get this out there. One day I’ll just have to combine days of my writing again so I can get my allowed submission time a little earlier in the day.
I know this post isn’t like most of the others; it’s not as well written, it’s not as detailed, and it’s not as organized, and I’m sorry about that. I know a lot of people here probably look forward to that in my posts, but I can’t focus right now— not enough to do things the way I usually do. As it is, I’ve had to rewrite this at least four times just to try to make it more coherent. I’m worried. I’m scared, and even though I know what I need to do, I don’t know how I’ll live with myself if it turns out that he isn’t alright anymore — if I don’t get the chance to tell him I’m sorry.
@rnosleep
I'm lost in a strange city where people forget everything every few days. (Part 8)
My previous posts, for context:
\[First Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gvae2s/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Second Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gwb0pz/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Third Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gx2u7f/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Fourth Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gxwxkx/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Fifth Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gzhcq3/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Sixth Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h0cpp1/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
\[Seventh Post\](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h2ia3l/imlostinastrangecitywherepeopleforget/?utmsource=share&utmmedium=web3x&utmname=web3xcss&utmterm=1&utmcontent=sharebutton)
Well, I’m sure if the time stamps on my last posts are an indication of anything at all, and not just a glitch of Reddit or this device somehow that happens to be terrifying me out of my wits at the moment, you’re all very surprised to see me posting again, but I really hope that that’s wrong. I don’t think I can take more bad news right now, and seeing “1y ago” written at the top of my last post isn’t helping me shake this sick feeling that’s forming in the pit of my stomach.
Something went horribly wrong yesterday, and it’s all my fault. I don’t know if I can fix it.
And now I don’t even know if it really was yesterday. I think it was. It feels like it, but in a place like this, how can anyone really be sure of anything? What if it really has been a year somehow, and the resets have been taking my memory away this entire time? What if I’ve ended up like the others? That couldn’t have happened, could it? It seems impossible; my posts are right here, so I’d have them to remind me even if I did forget something, wouldn’t I? I’d still be making posts, writing down what happened as it happened. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s just Reddit being strange, having some sort of internal error.
At least until I can confirm anything else, that’s what I’m going to go with.
For now, for my own sanity, I suppose I should just try my best to calm down and focus on telling you about everything that I know has happened since my last post on Thursday. I’d already started writing up a draft yesterday, like usual, to do that, but in light of everything that happened, I think I should just start over at this point. Nothing I wrote about planning to do then even happened, anyway.
Maybe I’ll leave a few paragraphs from it in here, if I end up feeling like any of it’s important enough, but right now, I’m having trouble seeing it that way. I don’t think I’ll be doing any of that today. I don’t think I can.
Yesterday, I somehow managed to pull myself together enough by the early afternoon to have the rest of the day planned out; there were places I planned for us to go, leads I wanted to follow up on, questions I wanted to ask. I knew it could be a reset day, but I was hopeful that we could at least get a few of those things done before that happened — if it was going to happen at all.
I went to look for him at the Archive so I could tell him about the plans I’d made and see if he’d help, but he wasn’t there. I wasn’t really sure how long he’d taken off of work when we arranged to travel to
head, as if sniffing something in the air.
I couldn’t breathe from fear. When I finally gasped for air, what happened next would give me nightmares for years.
The creature slowly turned its head toward me, its mouth wide open. Its teeth were sharp like nails. It made a sound like a growl, and we stared at each other. Maybe it was only a few seconds, but it felt like hours.
I ran screaming. I expected the teenagers to be waiting for me at the forest entrance. But the bastards had left me. I kept running all the way home. When I arrived, my aunt was in the garden, grumbling while dealing with something hanging from a tree.
“What happened ?” I asked, trying to hide my shaky breathing.
“Those assholes lit something like a firecracker and hung something on the tree. I’m dealing with that. Go to bed.”
I glanced at the tree. Hanging from one branch was a dog collar—long, silky, red, with white bone patterns.
I ran straight to my bed. I couldn’t sleep for a long time. Finally, I convinced myself that one of the teenagers dressed up as Dog Man to scare me. That was the only way I could sleep.
When I woke up in the morning, something felt off. It was around noon. My aunt hadn’t woken me up. Normally she woke me at sunrise. Maybe she woke up late too. I got out of bed, and that’s when I smelled it. A faint smell—like meat. One of my nostrils was blocked, so I couldn’t smell it fully. I assumed my aunt cooked something like pastrami for breakfast. I washed my face and went to the kitchen, but… it was empty.
I searched the entire house, but she wasn’t there. I ran outside.
I wish I hadn’t.
What I saw made me break down crying.
My aunt’s body was hanging from a dog collar tied to the tree. One of her arms had been ripped off and was lying on the ground. The flesh of her leg was completely eaten—only the bone remained. Parts of her body had bite marks. Some chunks of flesh were missing. Her abdomen was torn open, some of her organs on the ground, some hanging out. Her body was covered in dark red blood.
My crying brought the neighbors. When they saw the scene, they called the police. I don’t remember what happened afterward. The polices kept the incident as a secret. After my aunt’s death, I was placed in an orphanage. I stayed there until I was 20. Then, with the money I earned from a cashier job, I found a house on the other side of the country.
I built a stable life, got married. My wife Mary gave birth to a daughter. I raised my child and enrolled her in school. Somehow, my mind managed to bury that memory.
Now, let me tell you why I told y'all this.
Yesterday, my daughter asked what the thing hanging from the tree in our backyard was. I went to the backyard, and what I saw took me back 30 years… an old, silky, red dog collar with bone patterns.
It’s 2 AM now, and I’m writing this in front of the window facing the backyard. This time I won’t let it take my family. I have my gun next to me. The backyard is dark—I can’t see anything. But in the silence of the night, I can hear something.
A raspy, huffing breath.
@rnosleep
with a strange, static energy. The light from the lamp seemed to dim, as if the very air was absorbing it.
Finally, after hours, the moth stopped. It fell from the window pane, a tiny, lifeless husk on the porch outside. The other moths swirled, confused, before dispersing into the night. Silence.
I sat there for a long moment, my chest tight with a suffocating dread. Then, with trembling hands, I picked up my phone and began to translate the last, long message.
The story it told was not of this world.
It spoke of a time before the trees, before the soil. It spoke of a vast, silent intelligence that fell from the stars and burrowed deep into the cooling earth to escape the harsh light of the sun. It described itself not as a creature of flesh and blood, but of patience and gravity and hunger.
It spoke of the first people, my ancestors, who found it. They didn't understand it, but they feared it. They felt its presence in the deep rock, a coldness that seeped up from the ground. They couldn't kill it, so they bound it. They performed rituals, laid down great stones, and buried it under layers of earth and prayer, entombing it in a silent, dreamless sleep.
The messages explained that it could not see or hear. Its only sense was a form of perception tied to energy. For millennia, its only sensations were the slow warmth of the sun deep in the earth, the crawling of roots, the shifting of rock. It slept.
But the coming of man brought new sensations. Fire. The vibrations of voices. And then, electricity. Artificial light. To its ancient, dormant consciousness, this light was a piercing scream in an eternity of silence. A sharp, painful needle pricking it awake.
It couldn't move. Not yet. The bindings of the "first men" were strong. But it could reach out. It could touch the tiny, simple nervous systems of the creatures drawn to the light. The insects. It could borrow their bodies, use their frantic energy to beat against the barrier of my window, to tap out its story, its plea, its warning, in the only language it could form from the binary chaos of their fluttering.
I felt sick. My family built a watchtower. A prison guard's shack. And for generations, they had kept the watch, living quietly, sparingly, so as not to disturb the prisoner in the dungeon below. My father, with his quiet solitude was a warden. And I, with my city stress and my desperate need for light and noise, had been shaking the bars of the cell door all week.
My eyes scanned the last few lines of my transcription. A new, frantic tapping had begun just before the moth died. It was short. Precise. I translated the last sequence of dots and dashes, my pencil scratching across the page.
.. - / .-- .- -.- . ... / .-- .... . -. / - .... . / .-.. .. --. .... - / --. --- . ... / --- ..- -
My heart stopped.
I read it again to be sure.
I. T. / W. A. K. E. S. / W. H. E. N. / T. H. E. / L. I. G. H. T. / G. O. E. S. / O. U. T.
As my mind processed the final, horrifying word, a sound came from the porch. A low, electrical buzz.
I looked up from the journal. The bare bulb above the porch door, the very light that had drawn the moths, was flickering. It buzzed, a dying insect sound, flared with a brilliant, painful intensity, and then went dark.
The lamp beside me flickered in sympathy, and then it too died as the generator outside coughed, sputtered, and fell silent.
Plunging me into absolute, total darkness.
The rhythmic tapping was gone. The world was utterly silent. Not the peaceful silence of the forest I had craved, but a dead, waiting, profound silence. The kind of silence that that listens. I didn't breathe. I couldn't move. My entire being was focused on listening.
And then I heard it.
It wasn't a sound from outside. It wasn't the wind, or a branch falling, or an animal.
It came from directly beneath my feet. From under the floorboards. From deep in the earth the cabin was built upon.
It was a slow, heavy, scraping sound.
The sound of something impossibly ancient and vast shifting its weight. The grating of stone against stone, a sound that
I looked up from my book, trying to pinpoint it. On the right-hand window, a large, pale moth, bigger than the others, almost the size of my thumb, was clinging to the glass. It wasn't fluttering. It was perfectly still, except for its wings. It would lift one wing and strike it against the pane.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was odd, but I shrugged it off. Insects are weird. I went back to my book, but I couldn't focus. The sound was impossible to ignore now that I’d isolated it. There was a rhythm to it.
Tap-tap-tap... tap... tap-tap-tap...
A pause. Then again.
Tap-tap-tap... tap... tap-tap-tap...
I closed my book and just watched. The big moth stayed in the same spot, its wings methodically striking the glass. It was bizarre. I’d never seen a moth do anything like it. It felt less like an insect attracted to light and more like something… knocking. Trying to get my attention.
I know it sounds crazy. I thought it was crazy then. I chalked it up to being alone, my mind playing tricks on me in the overwhelming silence. I shut off the generator early, and the tapping stopped the instant the light went out. The silence that rushed in to fill the void felt heavier than before.
The next day, the thought of the tapping moth followed me around. It was a splinter in my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had witnessed something deeply unnatural. The perfect solitude of the cabin now felt… watchful. The woods seemed to be holding their breath.
That evening, I was almost hesitant to turn on the generator. But the thought of sitting in complete darkness was worse. So I pulled the cord, the engine sputtered to life, and the lights flickered on. I didn't even pretend to read. I just sat in the armchair, whiskey in hand, and waited.
Within minutes, the cloud of moths was back. And sure enough, there it was. The same large, pale moth, in almost the exact same spot on the window. It was still for a moment, and then the tapping began.
Tap... tap-tap-tap...
A long pause.
Tap-tap... tap... tap-tap... tap-tap.
This time, I was ready. I grabbed a pen and an old, leather-bound journal I found in the desk drawer, my grandfather's, by the look of the faded initials on the cover. I didn’t know what I was doing, exactly. It just felt like something I had to do. A challenge. I decided to log the taps. I made a simple system: a dot for a short, quick tap, and a dash for a slightly longer, more resonant one. I noted the pauses between sequences.
For the next three hours, I sat there like some mad scientist, my eyes glued to the moth, my pen scratching across the yellowed paper of the journal. The world shrank to that single pane of glass and the rhythmic sound echoing in the small, warm room.
.-.. .. ... - . -.
..-. . . .-..
...- --- .. -.-. .
Page after page filled with my frantic scribbles of dots and dashes. The moth was tireless. It never seemed to stop, save for the deliberate pauses between its tapping. My hand started to cramp, my eyes burned from the strain, but I couldn't stop. I was compelled. There was a logic to it, a structure that was too consistent to be random.
And then, a memory surfaced. Something I’d read years ago online, one of those late-night internet rabbit holes. It was a pop-science article about animal intelligence. The article mentioned experiments where scientists had managed to teach bumblebees to associate symbols with rewards, a rudimentary form of communication. It even briefly mentioned the possibility of teaching them simple, binary signals. Like a very basic form of Morse code.
The pen fell from my hand and clattered onto the wooden floor.
Morse code.
It couldn't be. It was the most insane, ridiculous idea I had ever had. Moths can't tap out Morse code. It’s impossible. It’s a violation of every law of nature I understood.
But the patterns on the page… they looked so familiar. I remembered learning some of it as a kid in scouts. Three dots for S, three dashes for O.
Tap-tap-tap... tap-tap-tap... tap-tap-tap...
I looked at the window. The moth was tapping out S. O. S.
My blood went cold.
I
this here.
There are thirty-six beds down there. I think one of them was always mine.
@rnosleep
to understand—I've seen bodies before. Construction site accidents, a few suicides in buildings I've surveyed. I know what a corpse looks like. These weren't corpses.
They were moving.
Not much. Just the slow rise and fall of breathing. And they were... wrong. Even in the dim wash of my flashlight, I could see they were wrong. Skeletal didn't begin to describe it: these were bodies that had consumed themselves, burned through every ounce of fat and then started on the muscle, leaving nothing but skin stretched over bone and sinew. But they were too long. The proportions were off. Their fingers extended far past where fingers should end, tipped with nails that had grown thick and yellow and curved. Their joints bulged grotesquely, knees and elbows swollen to twice their normal size.
And their eyes.
When my light swept across the nearest bed, the eyes snapped open. They were huge, occupying nearly half the face, with pupils dilated so wide they looked black. They reflected my flashlight like an animal's.
The thing's mouth fell open, and I heard a sound I'll never forget: a wet, desperate clicking, like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of saliva. Its jaw distended too far, and I saw that its teeth had changed, become sharper, more numerous.
Then it moved.
I've never seen anything accelerate like that. One moment it was lying still; the next it was upright on the bed in a crouch, head cocked at an angle that would snap a normal person's neck. It didn't move smoothly—it twitched into position, like a video skipping frames.
Every single one of them was awake now. Twenty-three pairs of those massive, hungry eyes fixed on me.
I ran.
Behind me, I heard them coming, not footsteps, but a horrible skittering sound, like they were moving on all fours. Or more than four. I didn't look back. I hit the stairs and took them three at a time, my lungs burning, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst.
Something grabbed my ankle.
I fell hard, my chin cracking against the concrete steps. Dazed, I looked back.
One of them had caught me. Its hand, if you could call it that, wrapped completely around my leg, those elongated fingers meeting on the other side. Its face was inches from mine, and I could see every detail in the emergency lighting of the stairwell.
It had been a man once. I could see that in the bone structure, in the remnants of humanity still clinging to its features. But starvation had refined it into something else, something that evolution never intended. Its skin was translucent, blue veins visible beneath like a map. Its eyes were desperate, starving, insane.
Its mouth opened wider than should be possible, and I saw its throat convulsing, saliva running down its chin in streams. The smell of its breath was indescribable: rot and stomach acid and something chemical.
It spoke.
"Hungry," it whispered, voice like dried leaves. "So... hungry..."
I kicked it in the face with my free foot. Something crunched. It didn't let go, but it recoiled enough that I could wrench my leg free. I scrambled up the stairs on my hands and knees, then found my feet and ran.
I made it to the main floor. The exit was right there, daylight visible through the grimy windows. I was going to make it.
Then I saw them again.
They were in the hallway ahead, three of them, blocking the door. They must have known another way up. They moved in that horrible stop-motion way, twitching from spot to spot, their heads moving in sharp, bird-like jerks to track my movement.
The one in the middle was wearing the rotted remains of what might have once been a U of M volunteer badge. I could just make out the year: 1945.
Seventy-eight years. They'd been down there for seventy-eight years.
I looked around frantically and saw another stairwell leading up. I bolted for it, hearing that skittering behind me again. Up one flight, then another. I was on the third floor now, running down a corridor of empty offices. There—a window, and a fire escape outside.
I didn't slow down. I put my arms up and dove through the glass.
I
towering, sharp humanoid body was woven of the same pulsing red mould, and it moved with an unnatural, sinewy grace as it mercilessly lunged towards Ben.
It ripped him apart in seconds, splattering us as his flesh tore and bones snapped, his screams lost beneath the swelling, heart-throb of the woods.
The adventure was over. This was a nightmare.
In the chaos and horror, a jolt of raw clarity rushed through me - my vision sharpened, and the soft charm of the woods lifted as I held my breath. I became pitifully aware of the creature's sounds as it clicked and hissed, feeling and searching around its vicinity.
It had no face.
No ears, no eyes, no mouth.
It moved in tandem with the mould's pulse.
Sean came to the same conclusion I did as his hand found mine. He reached into the folds of his jacket and threw his notebook as far as his arm would allow. The creature spasmed and dove to where it landed, clawing and tearing into the ground, shredding the bundle of leather and paper.
Sean's other hand found Willow's, silent and stiff. And we ran.
It was a desperate flight back through the woods, Sean's grip fierce as the monster splintered and retched after us - each step we took triggered a poof of blood-red light to burst from the mould, guiding the thing to us. Every stumble, every cut and scrape, every gasp seemed to vibrate the air as it pursued, tracking our every pace, tireless and quick, but just far away enough.
Then we splashed over the river.
I spun back to see it halt amidst the thicket, shaking, uncertain, its senses dulled - the network of mould beneath it had almost broken. Then it gagged and yelped as the ground opened again, reclaiming its soldier.
The silent trudge back felt much shorter than the journey in.
As we reached the hole in the fence, a searing flash of purple light erupted around us, obliterating the dark. Out of the blur, stern men in dark suits swarmed forward, barking muted commands. They swept us up, herded us away from the woods - no explanation, just tight grips and hurried steps and lights drilled into my eyes.
It was numbing.
Everything passed like a shutter click: the lights, the door, the engine of a police car, the sirens, the walk up my porch. My parents, wild with terror, embraced Sean and me with questions spilling out of their mouths, but all I could do was collapse into their arms, unable to look them in the eye.
My bedroom has never felt this cold; this quiet.
There are slashes up my sleeves and across my hands, my knees are scraped, a gash is across my leg, and I think some of Ben's blood is stained in my eye.
No.
No, no pain pulses in my temples. Not mine; not entirely unpleasant.
I think my brother feels the same.
I see it when I close my eyes.
Not a monster from the sea, nor a God from the woods, nor a ghost girl by a lake.
Just mould. A beautiful, red mass, and a warm tree to rest my head.
Half of me is convinced to grab some kerosene and a match.
The other is a compulsion to go again.
I can go deeper, further. Much, much further.
Maybe I'll bring my friends.
Why can't it be their adventure, too?
@rnosleep
years. "Can we... not argue, please?" I then looked at Arthur. "Get a picture of that map."
Barney shrivelled up into himself. "No, we can't-"
Kate punched him in the shoulder. "We can, and we are."
Retracing our steps, we slipped back up the cracking staircase one by one. Behind the battered front door, afternoon had already begun its dwindling descent into dusk. I don't remember what we said to each other as we fumbled back out onto the street - making and questioning plans in the span of seconds - but I do remember who stood waiting for us.
Sean leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed, jaw tight. When our eyes met, he opened the passenger door and gave a single, sharp commanding nod to the seat.
No one spoke.
Kate kept looking between us; Arthur bristled; Barney gulped, fidgeting with his pack.
I eventually forced out a small, wavering smile as a revolting, impulsive thought overtook me. Perhaps it really was an adventure, a quest... but it wasn't theirs. "Maybe we just go home and sleep on it instead. Clear our heads."
"Not a chance." Arthur pressed quietly.
"Arthur, it's late and I'm tired. I'll text you when I'm home. Promise." I lied.
"Are you sure?" Kate asked slowly.
I nodded, and she, unsatisfied, painstakingly gathered the others to start their walks home.
But Arthur lingered. "See you tomorrow." He said, more like a demand than a farewell.
Even Barney showed some resistance, but they soon trailed off, leaving me on a darkening street.
I slid into the passenger seat beside my silent brother, and the car door shut with a heavy finality.
He watched my friends round a corner before he spoke. "Do you want to go home?"
His question slowed the whirling storm in my head. The idea of home - its warm, routine 'normalcy' - comforted me. But it did not scratch gnawing itches. I stared out the window, watching slivers of sunlight begin to hide behind the trees.
"No."
Sean felt his jacket and produced his little, rugged notebook - its edges worn by years of restless fingers. "Last chance."
"I'm sure."
He managed a comforting smile. "Okay."
He put the car in drive, and we took off down the street.
\-
He navigated us through tucked-away, less-travelled roads before the scouts began their patrol, until we reached the town's edge. The car rolled to a stop in an abandoned parking lot infested with pine needles, the depth of the woods just looming beyond a bygone footpath.
At a threshold, the tall, stark black shapes of thick, barbed metal fences, stretching for at least an acre and far higher than any man, tried to ward us away from the wild maw they quarantined.
Not tonight.
Two figures waited beneath a flickering, dying light: Willow, and Ben - red-haired, rail-thin, and staggering slightly on light feet.
Sean killed the engine. A bird called from the trees as he made his way out of the car and towards his crew. I followed tightly behind, not sure what to feel, as Willow offered a happy wave while Ben's rickety fingers twisted around a heavy, military flashlight.
"Who's this?" He nearly slurred out.
Willow answered before Sean could open his mouth. "His sister."
"Huh. Impeccable timing, kid."
An anxious energy came over Sean. "Hey, so, maybe we don't go as far-" he pointed down at me, the pathetic, nervous weight almost attached to his hip.
Ben laughed. "Don't be getting cold feet, Seany-boy, now you got a tag-along."
Willow laughed too, and I pretended not to spot the tremble in her lip.
Sean rested a firm grip on my shoulder. "We'll turn back if you find it too much, okay?"
"Heads up!" Ben warned, as a stream of red, blue and purple lights danced over a hill and made their way down towards the lot.
We were gone by the time they found Sean's car.
Crunching over brittle grass, we snaked through the woods until we reached the monolith. It seemed flimsy up close, a patchwork of tired metal smeared with rust and graffiti, and dead, segmented searchlights adorning the tops. They found the gap easily - a ragged hole crudely carved into the sheet metal, its rim twisted and sharp.
One
him, until I saw the look on his face. "It's not her fault she got hypnotised by that white-haired bitch."
They laughed at my expense; the stupidity, the absurdity of it all. And I did too.
Barney pushed his glasses up. "Have you considered another outlet? Like, read a book-"
"Or get laid."
"Or write music!" Kate seemed exceptionally excited about her own idea. "I can already picture your first single: 'I Was Found Dead In The Woods At 16'."
"You guys suck."
"No we don't."
Arthur clasped his hands together. "Anyway! Suggestion still stands: we visit this guy."
Barney groaned, "I don't know, man... Mom would always say-"
"Ugh, your Mom says anything, Barn. And it ain't up to you, right boss?"
The three of them looked at me: Arthur, eager and giddy; Kate, curious and cautious; Barney, frightened and shaking his head. Was I really going to drag them along to a far-off part of town to question a man I'd never met about local legends and parental bedtime stories, all storming from the unsettling words a girl (none of us liked) had given me?
Of course I was.
\-
The local press office was a rundown, narrow building wedged between a dead laundromat and a fading convenience store - its red brick hull stained dark by years of rain and grime. Dusty, crowded windows made it impossible to see inside, weeds poked through the cracked pavement, and the front door barely held itself together on worn hinges.
"Yeah, no thanks." Barney squeaked, turning on his heel and walking away before Arthur tugged him back by his ear.
Kate inspected the building, eyeing it up and down like a piece of abstract art. "Did your brother mention why he or Willow talked to this guy?"
"Nope."
"Marvellous."
I didn't bother with knocking; I strode right up to the door and stepped inside.
Beyond an unmanned reception, a few desks packed the room - piled high with yellowed notepads, sticky notes and old newspapers. The stink of old coffee, cheap booze, and burnt rubber attacked my nose as I ventured into the rioting clutter. My boots scuffed against the fading floor as a fly buzzed in circles over an empty mug.
"Hello?!" I called.
No answer.
Kate gagged as she and the others filtered in behind me. "Ew-fuck. It smells like someone died in here."
Arthur slapped a cracked counter, fluttering a bundle of papers into the air. "Perfect. I'm ready to see a ghost, how about y'all?"
"You're more likely to see rats, Arthur." She added, trailing a finger over a dusty desk, painting lines and shapes.
I found myself drawn to a wall of photographs - a timeline of the town's many faded celebrations and events, but nothing stood out. No mention of our town intertwined with a grand fate; no mention of a lost name.
Barney, at first, hung back - overwhelmed by the smell and disorder. But even he soon found himself drawn in, and he shuffled over to a cramped bookshelf, overflowing with almanacks and faded paperbacks. "Guys," he cried, peering down at the floor, "come take a look at this."
We gathered around, not knowing this would be the pivot point, as Barney stared at thin, dark streaks scarring along the floor, half-hidden under the shelf. Arthur's hands immediately flew to its sides, and, with a grunt, he tugged hard. The unit groaned but didn't move. I chose to feel along the edge instead, searching for - there. My fingers brushed a catch beneath the lowest shelf. A soft click sounded, and the whole unit lurched, swinging open on hinges to reveal a dark staircase - stretching down into the guts of the building.
"Oh, God no," Barney whispered, with a tiny hint of uncharacteristic thrill.
"You fucking found it, dork," Kate said. "What're you complaining about?"
"And oh, God, yes, you mean?" Arthur joked, eyes sparkling. "Ladies first." He then added, gesturing for me to take the first step.
I hesitated, only for a moment, before taking the first cautious step into the shadows with a shit-eating smile on my face.
So quick. So easy. Far, far too easy. No time to savour the anticipation; awe eclipsed every worry, every rational thought, as the
rest of us for once.
And her face - Jesus, her face. No canvas of pristine makeup could hide the ugly, angry, blossoming blotch of red and purple bruising that nested under her eye.
Every soul stared as their queen, out of place in her kingdom, made her way to an empty corner table with her head ducked and shoulders hunched. For those precious few minutes, she was just another girl - battered, tired and alone - threatening to vanish into smoke if someone so much as called her name.
And painfully, achingly slowly, the room soon returned to normalcy as its new corner-bound husk lurked at the edges of our vision - something to gossip about.
Barney kept sneaking nervous glances, bewildered at the sigh. "Snowflake's looking rough today, huh?" He whispered. "Who'd you think she annoyed?"
Kate arched a brow, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pretending not to look. "Maybe her cult of plastic witches turned on her. Looking like shit does suit her, though," she muttered with a flick of her pencil.
Arthur leaned in with a grin. "Or she finally ran her mouth at someone who doesn't care who her daddy is... and can throw a mean punch."
Surprisingly, I found myself just feeling sorry for her. "Everyone has a bad day," I said, not sure if I actually believed it or wished someone would say that about me if I ever sported a glistening shiner under my eye.
Arthur gave a low snort. "Yeah, you're absolutely right, Autumn. But not a cunt like her."
Kate then nudged my arm. "She's looking at you, by the way."
Those words sent a prickle across the back of my neck. I timidly looked over and, true to Kate's word, Willow was staring at me from her exiled corner, her hood suffocating her face. A silence choked our table and, for a moment, time itself seemed to slow. The cafeteria and its occupants fuzzed away, and all that existed was the space between us. Then she lifted her hand, and a single dior finger curled out from under her sleeve, demanding me to approach with a tiny, effortless motion - one that sent a shiver down my spine and threatened to drag me away from the safety net of my friends.
I shook my head, and the sounds of the room returned.
Arthur snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Hello? You still with us?"
His voice was peripheral, diluted. Their concerned faces were smudges as they shot bewitching glances over at Willow.
Willow?
Willow wanted me.
Barney reached for my arm as I pushed back my chair, mouth full of food. "Don't! Let her sit by herself."
Kate, never one to sugarcoat, muttered, "Yeah, sit down, Autumn. Don't be your brother," all while sketching a hollow-staring shade in the margins of her book.
Even Arthur dropped his usual act, scooting to try and block my path, smug grin gone. "Dude, are you good?"
I wanted to listen, really. I wanted to stay in our planted little pond and laugh at in-jokes. But her eyes dragged me - practically led me on a leash - and I understood then how she could've charmed my resilient brother. Fuck, even looking like crap, she was mystic, humming in my veins while my better judgment screamed to shut her out. I barely noticed my body moving as I weaved around disappointed hands and disgruntled groans and sighs. Logic was gone. Whatever she wanted, whatever grim story she had, I had to know.
And so I let myself hopelessly drift to her table, into her dark mercy.
She glanced at me as I reached her, her bruised face near-unreadable, and then gave her attention to the divided room of interested and uninterested onlookers alike. No one was close enough to eavesdrop.
"Autumn, right?" She beamed as I took a seat. "Sean's sister?"
"Who did that to you?"
She didn't answer right away, just shifted, hiding herself even deeper in the folds of her hoodie. I could almost see her weighing in her mind how much to say. Her eyes then snapped to a shape coming closer, dragging a chair in its wake. I didn't need to look to see who it was as an unstoppable surge of confidence came over me.
"Was it your dad?" Sean pressed, seemingly having manifested out of nowhere, knuckles twitching,
dark - her lips pressed and her eyes narrow as her stoic husband stared at the clock.
"Think they'll hit the street early again?" He asked her.
"Not likely."
Confused, I asked them both, "What're you talking about?"
My father looked at me, understanding that his little girl was now sentient enough to question what he found familiar, while Mom continued her routine checks.
"Come here, kiddo," he said, ushering me to join him by a window. "I'll show you."
Through the curtain, I saw porch lights flicker awake down the street. Neighbours called or forced their kids home with a frantic sharpness, and then, way off up the road towards town, the low growl of a car engine began - silent red and blue and purple headlights weaved between the trees, reflecting off closed windows where curious eyes met it.
"See that car? The lights?" Dad asked.
I nodded.
"A good, honest man drove one just like it... once. He kept people safe. Until one day, he lost someone very important to him."
"Did he find them?" I asked him, too young then to comprehend the cause of this rooted, collective script we recited.
A little lump formed in his throat. "He did, but-" He tossed the words around in his head. "They'd uh... gone to Heaven."
"Like Aunty?"
"Yeah-yeah, like... like Aunty. And soon after... he went to Heaven too. So now, that car and others like it, every night, carry on what he did."
"Keep us safe?"
"Exactly. They keep us all safe."
Mom muttered something profane to herself in the hallway; Dad, ignoring her, continued.
"But to do that, we gotta stay inside. They get grumpy if we get in their way. Understand?"
I nodded, slowly, as another voice spoke from the stairs.
"Do you see her?!" Sean, my delinquent older brother, who noticed, questioned, and listened far more than I did, asked our Mom.
"Sean." Mom hissed, finally satisfied that our home was secure. His eager eyes scanned the room until they met mine, and a wave of embarrassment washed over him.
"See who?" I asked quickly.
Dad moved to block my vision as Mom yanked Sean to one side and spat harsh, but heartfelt whispers into his face. Peeking round his frame, I could see the two enter a heated argument of both passion and resentment.
Dad moved my face to meet his, "You'll catch on when you're older, Autumn."
And older, I became.
I would come to learn that evenings belonged to the woods and whatever they held, but in our house, that created more wonder than dread. Sure, there was an unspoken caution, a yoke around our necks, but my parents never pushed panic or horror. Instead, their warnings glimmered with something closer to mischief - something my brother adopted far more than I did growing up.
As the routines were finalised, and I came of age, Mom would click the kettle, and Dad would lean back in his chair to recount stories he called 'old myths'. Stories of monsters from the sea and of Gods from the woods, and whatever other fables or fairytales he could remember.
Stories Ebony had told him, before she became one herself - a naive adventurer found half-buried in the earth.
Sometimes, I'd catch a glance between my parents - sharing knowledge, a private joke or insight once hovering beyond my reach.
They'd known her. They'd shared classes. They'd snuck out to go drinking in parks and smoke joints by the lighthouse long after dark.
They'd loved her.
And by God, they missed her - fascinated and frustrated and mortified by her decisions that night that shaped our town into what shaped us.
Sean started to keep a notebook, scribbling down half-remembered details, little theories of his own, the finales of stories that never felt quite finished. I thought it was silly, that he was becoming too obsessed like Mom and Dad's 'ghost friend', but I begged to hear more as much as he did. We'd crack Dad occasionally, and he'd spin a fresh version of some local, rumoured phenomenon or woodland oddity, and Mom would roll her eyes with a hesitant smile tugging at her mouth.
They never pretended to have all the answers, and they never pretended that it didn't frighten
me to finish. The flesh on my skin has sloughed off, leaving my face bare, and my bones boil. The body I had becomes near liquid as I write. I don't know how I'm still alive as I write, if it's a way of showing mercy to let me write my suicide note, but as I do, I know the inevitable has only made it harder on the people around me, and I wish no longer to be a burden on others and go on to mourn and live on.
It wasn't something I should have fought; it was something I should have embraced. I wished to be remembered as a person who was kind and good to be around, and not as one who was frail and needed assistance walking.
Good bye
@rnosleep
hold a smile, but even I had a hard time keeping it
Sniffles came from her, and it felt as if she was gonna let out a title wave of emotions, but all that came was “Yeah, good idea.” As she struggled to keep composed, it seemed.
The drive was not long by any means, only around 20 or so minutes long, but it might have been the river of Styx from how long it felt. The silent sniffles and cries of anguish that never truly left her throat. She had been out of state at the start, and I knew it had to be hard on her. I've accepted my fate, but I knew that even if I did, others around me would have to live with the life I left behind. Even if it hadn't been my choice, even though this was something way out of anybody's control, it didn't mean I hadn't still felt endless sorrow for my family and endless regret. I had started to feel somehow it was my fault, somehow my doing. The karma I left somehow made me at fault. I knew it wasn't true, but I just couldn't stop the feeling. The compact car had filled with noxious fumes as we took a left. Home sweet home I thought to myself.
“There is an open spot right up there,” my hand tumbled as I pointed to an open spot right in front of the apartment building's front door.
“Yeah, I saw.” She rubbed her eyes dry as she pulled up. “Want me to walk you in?”
“No, it's. It's okay,” giving an uncomfortable side hug within the car. “Hey, I'm sorry this is the first time we've seen each other in a while, I know not the best of circumstances.”
“No, it's okay, I was already planning on coming up for Thanksgiving anyway,” she said, giving a pitiful attempt at a smile. “I love you, I know I gave you shit in your younger years, you were my little brother and all, but really we all love you so much.”
“Thanks,” and I left without another word.
The cold air had hit me like a freight train, with the smell of weed to follow. Walking in, I passed one of my neighbours who was walking her dog and nearly tripped me with how fast she came out.
“Hey, Miss G, and hi Lucy,” looking over my shoulder now to see them both still moving on
‘Hello dear, so sorry for her, but we can't talk right now, we have a doctor's appointment we can't miss.”
“Yeah, of course, see you two tomorrow,” waving to them as they entered her truck. It had always been comical how this little old woman owned such a big car. Always made me laugh, but I just couldn't today. I had too much on my mind.
Reaching my door with shaking hands, I steadily tried to get into the keyhole but kept missing until I dropped them. Trying again, I kept shaking and couldn't get it. Until they fell once more. Slamming my hand into the door. I thought about how pathetic I must look, a grown man unable to open his door; it was humiliating, really. Even if no one saw it still felt as if a crowd was watching. I had finally gotten it on the 3 attempt, quickly entering my house, I closed and locked my door. Looking over, I saw the box of my father's things with a candle on top of it. He hadn't been the most open about the past, whether it be his family or himself. I knew near to nothing, and now I couldn't ever learn. Walking over slowly to the box, I saw a booklet squeezed in between an old newspaper and a roll of quarters. Opening the frail pages, to see near gibberish. Incomprehensible what I believe to be words. Pulled out my phone to see if the auto translator I have was able to translate it, but nothing came from it. Throwing the book back into the box, I made my way to the fridge and pulled a bottle of Schoch I kept on top.
I sat down with my drink, skimming through the box to see if I could find anything memorable or just something that would hold value for someone in my family. Very few were in it though, a few knick-knacks and other trinkets, as well as a candle with two matches, with some newspaper as well as an empty jar with a deep crimson layer of dried liquid on the bottom. I nearly gagged and threw it straight into the trash. Trying to forget about the hunting visal of someone ekeeping what seemed
We don’t talk to Mr Krämer anymore.
I’ve lived on McClain Drive for eight years. If you ever visit, you’ll notice there’s one house we don’t look at. Not because it’s haunted. Not because something supernatural happened.
It’s worse when the monster is real.
Our neighbor was an old European man everyone called Mr. Krämer. Polite, quiet, soft-spoken. He shoveled our sidewalk without being asked. He brought our kids candy on Halloween and Easter. We always thought he was just lonely.
One afternoon last July, I was outside tuning the carb on my truck when he wandered over and asked if I could look at his car. I’m a mechanic, so of course I said yeah. It was brutally hot, and when we got to his place he asked if I wanted a drink and told me to come inside.
I’ll never forget the feeling that hit me the moment I stepped into his hallway.
It was… still. Like the air was holding its breath.
I followed him toward the kitchen, and as I passed the living room, something caught my eye.
A jacket.
No — a tunic.
Mounted like a trophy.
It was old, gray-green, perfectly preserved. And the collar — God, those two black lightning bolts. I knew exactly what they meant before my brain even finished the thought.
Next to it was a glass case full of medals, pins, and a faded red armband folded like a sacred relic. On the wall behind it hung photographs—grainy, black-and-white. Soldiers lined up. Flags. Smiling men in uniforms I’d only seen in documentaries.
And one of them looked a hell of a lot like Mr. Krämer.
Same jaw. Same eyes. Younger, but unmistakable.
I felt my stomach drop.
I mumbled something about forgetting I had an appointment and practically stumbled backward out of his house.
I didn’t tell the kids why, but I told them they were never to go near his yard again. My wife didn’t argue. She’d always said there was something “off” about him but could never explain it.
We started ignoring him completely — no waves, no small talk, nothing. And at first, he tried to keep being friendly. He’d smile at us, raise a hand. Then the smile faded. After a few weeks, he just watched us.
That’s when things got worse.
Sometimes, when I’d leave for work early, he’d already be sitting on his porch in the dark.
Not doing anything. Just… waiting.
Staring at our house.
A few times I caught him watching my kids walk to the bus stop. Not waving. Not smiling. Just tracking them with those cold pale eyes like he was judging their every move.
One night around 2 a.m., I went into the kitchen for water and saw a shape standing at the edge of our yard.
It was him.
Just standing there, motionless, facing our house.
Like he was remembering something.
Like he was deciding something.
I didn’t go outside. I just locked every door and waited for sunrise.
We haven’t spoken to him since that day in his living room. And we never will.
He hasn’t done anything outright threatening. He hasn’t trespassed. He hasn’t said a word.
But every time I see him, I get the same feeling I got when I first stepped into his house — that suffocating stillness, that sense that the air itself is bracing for something.
And here’s the part I can’t shake:
On his mantle was a black-and-white photo of young Krämer.
There was a handwritten name above it.
Karl-Heinz Krämer – SS-Unterscharführer, 1944.
I looked it up.
There were only two men with that exact name in those records.
Both were listed as missing.
Both presumed dead.
My neighbor is eighty-something now. Frail. Quiet. Gentle-looking.
But some nights, when he watches us through the blinds, I swear he doesn’t blink.
And I don’t think he’s “missing.”
I think he’s waiting.
@rnosleep
Hortens, but I suppose that when I told him I was going to take the week off, he decided to do the same thing.
So, I went to his house. He was really quiet when I was sharing my plans, and he just seemed off, so I asked him what was wrong.
That was when he confronted me.
He said he knew I was the one who broke into that woman’s shop the other night, and he couldn’t believe that I was really trying to keep that from him — that I even risked myself like that without at least discussing it first, when I knew full well that I had no way of predicting what would happen when I went inside. He laid out all the ways he’d figured it out, said that I should’ve known better than to think I could just lie to him like that and get away with it, that I should have at least given him the option to go with me if he couldn’t talk me out of it, or to go in my place, that if something happened to me and he didn’t realize it before the next reset, we both could’ve been trapped here forever with no way out and no way to reach each other, even if my mind was still in tact.
And he was right. I know that now. Looking back, I can see how stupid I’d been, how I let my desire to protect him from losing his sanity blind me to the even worse risk I was putting both of us in. I don’t even know why I thought I could just keep it from him like that. Of course he’d figured it out. Like he said, I was acting so out of character the past few days; yes, that was mostly for a different reason — one that had nothing to do with any of this — but still, I should’ve realized that me splitting up with him that night after all of that and telling him to take my device that I refused to ever part with would’ve read as suspicious, even if I did come up with an excuse for not wanting it on me then. I should’ve thought about the fact that back when I showed him all of you and some of the things I’d written a few posts ago, he might‘ve run into the comments where I talked about possibly breaking in somewhere one night. He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, and I was treating him like an absolute idiot, on top of being one myself.
And the worst part is, I never even said I was sorry for doing it to him. I should’ve apologized, should’ve told him the truth, told him everything, but I was so overwhelmed by everything, and even though I understand now that I didn’t have the right to be, I was frustrated. Frustrated that my actions were being held against me, that it seemed like he was accusing me of not considering either of our well-being, when I’d only done it that way for his sake — frustrated that…he was right. And that I knew that he was.
I told him I didn’t want to talk about it with him, harsher than I should’ve, and I think I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. I should’ve told him I just needed time, because deep down, that’s what I meant. I never meant I wanted to shut him out forever. Or even at all. I just wasn’t prepared to tell him what I’d seen; it felt hard enough just trying to stay sane about it myself. I think all of you could tell that from my last post.
He didn’t know that, though. I don’t really want to talk about most of the things that were said after that; it‘s not that he yelled, or cussed, or even said anything particularly cruel or uncalled for. A lot of it was just hard to hear, in a variety of ways.
In the end, he asked me to leave. I tried to convince him to let me stay, but by then he wasn’t having anything I said; he told me he needed time to think on his own for the day, and, that if that night turned out to be a reset night, it wasn’t like he’d remember any of this anyway, so maybe I’d get lucky, and I could “use his memory loss to keep him in the dark this time”.
I wish I could say that those words spurred me into action to clear things up with him before he could shut the door in my face, but honestly, it only made me more angry at the time. I didn’t understand how he could ever assume that about me, that I’d manipulate him like that. I was upset, and I let that get the better of me.
So, I just went
Mauricio and the 11
### My classmate Mauricio got an 11/100 in orchestra class… and I don’t think it was just a bad grade.
Okay, so I know an 11/100 sounds funny. Trust me, we all laughed when our conductor Mr. Harlow read the scores aloud like it was some kind of public execution.
But Mauricio didn’t laugh.
He just stared at his music stand like he was waiting for something to crawl out of it.
---
### The First Weird Thing
See, Mauricio wasn’t bad at violin. Not good, but not “11%” bad. He could at least hold the bow the right way, which already puts him in the top 60% of freshman orchestra.
But after that grade, everything changed. He stopped talking, stopped tuning, stopped blinking sometimes.
Whenever we played, he’d draw his bow across the strings so slowly the hairs barely made a sound. It was like he was listening for something inside the violin, not the notes we were playing.
I asked him if he was okay.
He said:
> “I’m trying… to get the score back.”
I laughed. Then he clarified:
> “Not the grade. The score. The one I didn’t play right.”
I had no idea what that meant.
---
### The Second Weird Thing
Mr. Harlow handed back our sheet music for the winter concert: something boring, a watered-down arrangement of In the Hall of the Mountain King. Everyone got the same packet—same title, same notes, same corny clip-art of a troll at the bottom.
But Mauricio’s packet wasn’t the same.
His cover page wasn’t printed in black ink.
It was this sickly brownish red.
And the title wasn’t In the Hall of the Mountain King.
It said:
### “Requiem for the One Who Failed.”
I tried to grab it, thinking maybe he’d just spilled something on it, but he held it to his chest and whispered, “Don’t. It’s not for you.”
The weird part?
Every time I blinked, the title looked different, like the letters rearranged themselves the moment my eyes closed.
---
### Rehearsal #3
During rehearsal, Mauricio didn’t follow the class music. He followed his. His bow moved in impossible patterns, double-stops that weren’t humanly playable, harmonics that should’ve screeched but instead rang crystal-clear.
At one point, everything got cold.
Not “school AC” cold—like cellar-in-a-horror-movie cold.
Our whole section stopped playing.
But Mauricio didn’t.
He kept sawing away, faster and faster, until the strings started to fray. I swear I saw one snap, but it kept vibrating like it was still there.
His eyes rolled up into his skull.
His mouth hung open like he was screaming silently.
Mr. Harlow finally shouted his name.
Mauricio froze.
Then the lights went out.
When they flickered back on, Mauricio was sitting normally, violin tucked under his chin, staring at the conductor with this tiny, polite smile.
Like nothing had happened.
---
### The Day After
Mauricio didn’t come to school.
We figured he was suspended for freaking out. But during last period, the office announced a lockdown. Something about “a disturbance in the music wing.”
We all heard it, though:
A violin.
Playing alone.
Fast as hell.
Wrong as hell.
Notes that slid upward in ways no fingerboard allows.
Someone said it wasn’t one violin.
It was hundreds.
---
### Final Weird Thing (I hope)
Today, when I checked the grade portal, everyone’s orchestra grade looked normal… except mine.
Where it should’ve said 92/100, it now says:
### 11/100
And beneath it, in tiny red text:
### “Your performance has been selected.”
There’s a new file uploaded under “Sheet Music – Required.”
The file name is:
RequiemfortheSecondFailure.pdf
I haven’t opened it yet.
I don’t think I want to.
@rnosleep
The Dog Man
“Go to sleep right now, or Dog Man will take you,” my aunt said, trying to get me to sleep.
“What does Dog Man look like?” I asked in my thin, 9-year-old voice.
“He… is tall. Yes, very tall. His head is a dog’s, his body is human, and ummm… his ears are long. He can hear every sound.”
“What does Dog Man do to kids?”
“He… takes them. To the forest… He visits children who don’t listen their parents. He takes them away from their families and brings them to his forest.”
“Will he take me too?”
“If you behave, he won’t take you anywhere.”
That was enough to scare me. I kissed my aunt and ran straight to my room, jumped into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head.
Dog Man was a legend in our small village. Adults mostly used it to warn children.
Sorry for changing the subject. I lost my parents in a car accident when I was five. So I lived with my aunt in a small village. You don’t have to feel sorry for me; I had long gotten used to it.
My aunt’s house was at the very end of the village, and beyond it was a large forest. No one my age lived in the village. So I had two options for fun: either listen to the conversations of the teenagers who sat in the village playground every night or hang around in the forest behind our house. Because the forest was so big, I chose the first option and listened to the teenagers every night.
I barely understood most of what they talked about. Usually politics, football, some recent event, or sexual stuff. Because of my age, they bullied me. But instead of sitting at home bored, I preferred being bullied by a few teenagers.
One night, their topic was scary stories. One of them told some stupid, fake paranormal story his friend had experienced. Another talked about creepy noises he heard at night. These dumb stories were terrifying for a child like me. They must have noticed, because one of them turned to me and said, “Hey Jack. Are you scared? I don’t want you wetting yourself and stinking up the place.”
To look brave, I said I wasn’t scared. I wish, I had told the truth.
“Alright then, prove it. If you can prove you’re braver than us, we can take you to a hunt or something like that. What do you say?”
“Yes, definitely,” I said excitedly.
“Then come with us.”
They took me to the forest at the end of the village. The howling sounds coming from inside terrified me.
“If you want to pass the challenge, you have to stay in this forest for 10 minutes,” one of them said. His voice was serious, but the others were holding back their laughter.
“If you’re scared, you don’t have to do it. But if you don’t, never ever come near us again.”
“But I don’t want to! Dog Man will take me.”
“Alright then, guys, if you don’t want to watch a little brat whining, go back to the park.”
Everyone laughed, calling me a coward, and began to walk away.
“Wait!” I yelled. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said reluctantly. They immediately came back. One of them took out his phone and set a timer for 10 minutes. They said if anything happened, they’d be right here and help me. Then they sent me into the forest.
The forest was very dark. But the moonlight was enough for me. I walked for a few minutes; the only sounds were my footsteps and my breathing. Even though nothing happened, I was scared—terrified. I stopped and looked back. The teenagers were tiny dots in the distance. They couldn’t see me, so I decided to stay where I was. After waiting a bit, I planned to return, even if it wasn’t exactly 10 minutes.
But my plan was ruined by a sound. A rustling sound coming from a little farther away. I tried to calm myself; it was probably just a hedgehog or something. When I looked toward the sound and saw nothing, I felt relieved. But then… another sound made me freeze. A low growl.
I immediately turned to where it came from.
It was there—25 or 30 meters away, a figure.
A tall figure, with a head resembling a dog. I froze for a moment; what I was seeing didn’t feel real.
I think it hadn’t seen me yet; it was focused on something far away, standing completely still. Then it suddenly lifted its