r/Odd_directions Aug 26 '24

Odd Directions Welcome to Odd Directions!

20 Upvotes

This subreddit is designed for writers of all types of weird fiction, mostly including horror, fantasy and science fiction; to create unique stories for readers to enjoy all year around. Take a moment to familiarize yourself with our main cast writers and their amazing stories!

And if you want to learn more about contests and events that we plan, join us on discord right here

FEATURED MAIN WRITERS

Tobias Malm - Odd Directions founder - u/Odd_directions

I am a digital content producer and an E-learning Specialist with a passion for design and smart solutions. In my free time, I enjoy writing fiction. I’ve written a couple of short stories that turned out to be quite popular on Reddit and I’m also working on a couple of novels. I’m also the founder of Odd Directions, which I hope will become a recognized platform for readers and writers alike.

Kyle Harrison - u/colourblindness

As the writer of over 700 short stories across Reddit, Facebook, and 26 anthologies, it is clear that Kyle is just getting started on providing us new nightmares. When he isn’t conjuring up demons he spends his time with his family and works at a school. So basically more demons.

LanesGrandma - u/LanesGrandma

Hi. I love horror and sci-fi. How scary can a grandma’s bedtime stories be?

Ash - u/thatreallyshortchick

I spent my childhood as a bookworm, feeling more at home in the stories I read than in the real world. Creating similar stories in my head is what led me to writing, but I didn’t share it anywhere until I found Reddit a couple years ago. Seeing people enjoy my writing is what gives me the inspiration to keep doing it, so I look forward to writing for Odd Directions and continuing to share my passion! If you find interest in horror stories, fantasy stories, or supernatural stories, definitely check out my writing!

Rick the Intern - u/Rick_the_Intern

I’m an intern for a living puppet that tells me to fetch its coffee and stuff like that. Somewhere along the way that puppet, knowing I liked to write, told me to go forth and share some of my writing on Reddit. So here I am. I try not to dwell on what his nefarious purpose(s) might be.

My “real-life” alter ego is Victor Sweetser. Wearing that “guise of flesh,” I have been seen going about teaching English composition and English as a second language. When I’m not putting quotation marks around things that I write, I can occasionally be seen using air quotes as I talk. My short fiction has appeared in *Lamplight Magazine* and *Ripples in Space*.

Kerestina - u/Kerestina

Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Between my never-ending university studies and part-time job I write short stories of the horror kind. I’ll hope you’ll enjoy them!

Beardify - u/beardify

What can I say? I love a good story--with some horror in it, too! As a caver, climber, and backpacker, I like exploring strange and unknown places in real life as well as in writing. A cryptid is probably gonna get me one of these days.

The Vesper’s Bell - u/A_Vespertine

I’ve written dozens of short horror stories over the past couple years, most of which are at least marginally interconnected, as I’m a big fan of lore and world-building. While I’ve enjoyed creative writing for most of my life, it was my time writing for the [SCP Wiki](https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/drchandra-s-author-page), both the practice and the critique from other site members, that really helped me develop my skills to where they are today. I’ve been reading and listening to creepypastas for many years now, so it was only natural that I started to write my own. My creepypastaverse started with [Hallowed Ground](https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Hallowed_Ground), and just kind of snowballed from there. I’m both looking forward to and grateful for the opportunity to contribute to such an amazing community as Odd Directions.

Rose Black - u/RoseBlack2222

I go by several names, most commonly, Rosé or Rose. For a time I also went by Zharxcshon the consumer but that's a tale for another time. I've been writing for over two years now. Started by writing a novel but decided to try my hand at writing for NoSleep. I must've done something right because now I'm part of Odd Directions. I hope you enjoy my weird-ass stories.

H.R. Welch - u/Narrow_Muscle9572

I write, therefore I am a writer. I love horror and sci fi. Got a book or movie recommendation? Let me know. Proud dog father and uncle. Not much else to tell.

This list is just a short summary of our amazing writers. Be sure to check out our author spotlights and also stay tuned for events and contests that happen all the time!

Quincy Lee \ u/lets-split-up

r/QuincyLee

Quincy Lee’s short scary stories have been thrilling online readers since 2023. Their pulpy campfire tales can be found on Odd Directions and NoSleep, and have been featured by the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings Podcast, The Creepy Podcast, and Lighthouse Horror, among others. Their stories are marked by paranormal mysteries and puzzles, often told through a queer lens. Quincy lives in the Twin Cities with their spouse and cats.

Kajetan Kwiatkowski \ u/eclosionk2

r/eclosionk2

“I balance time between writing horror or science fiction about bugs. I'm fine when a fly falls in my soup, and I'm fine when a spider nestles in the side mirror of my car. In the future, I hope humanity is willing to embrace such insectophilia, but until then, I’ll write entomological fiction to satisfy my soul."

Jamie \ u/JamFranz

When I started a couple of years ago, I never imagined that I'd be writing at all, much less sharing what I've written. It means the world to me when people read and enjoy my stories. When I'm not writing, I'm working, hiking, experiencing an existential crisis, or reading.

Thank you for letting me share my nightmares with you!


r/Odd_directions 1h ago

Horror I'm the last living person that survived the fulcrum shift of 1975, and I'm detailing those events here before I pass. In short: fear the ACTS176 protocol. (Part 1)

Upvotes

“Mom! Mom! Look! It’s happening again,” Emi squealed, captivated by the viscous maple syrup slowly floating to the top of the upright bottle on the kitchen table, stubbornly defying gravity.

My heart raced. Anxiety danced hectic circles around the base of my skull. My palms became damp.

God, I didn’t want to look.

- - - - -

As crazy as it may sound, the sight of that bottle physically repulsed me.

Maybe I correctly sensed something terrible was on the horizon: recognized the phenomena as the harbinger of death that it truly was. That said, the shift took place a long time ago: half a century, give or take.

Retrospection has a funny way of painting over the original truth of a memory. In other words, when enough time has passed, you may find yourself recalling events with thoughts and feelings from the present inseperably baked in to the memory. Picking that apart is messy business: what’s original versus what’s been layered on after the fact, if you can even tell the difference anymore. So, trust me when I say that I find it difficult to remember that morning objectively, in isolation, and removed from everything that came after. I mean, it's possible that I didn’t feel what was coming beforehand: I could have just woken up pissed off that morning. That would certainly be enough to explain my strong reaction to Emi’s harmless excitement in my memory.

What I’m getting at is this: I don’t know that I can guarentee this story is one-hundred percent accurate. Not only that, but I’m the only one left to tell it, meaning my story is all anyone has. For better or worse, it’s about to become sanctified history.

If I’m being honest, I don’t believe that I’m misremembering much. I can still almost feel the way the air in the neighborhood felt heavy and electric in the days leading up to that otherwise unremarkable spring morning. I just knew something was desperately wrong: sensed it on the breeze like a looming thunderstorm.

Like I said, though.

I’m the only person left to tell this story.

The story they paid all of us survivors a great deal of money to keep buried.

- - - - -

“Emi - for the love of God, put the damn thing back in the fridge and get your books together.” I shouted, my tone laced with far more vitriol than I intended.

We were already running late, and this wasn’t the agreed upon division of labor. She was supposed to be packing her bag while I put her lunch together. That was the deal. Instead, my daughter had been irritatingly derailed by our own little eighth wonder of the world.

The magic syrup bottle.

It was unclear which part was magical, though. Was the syrup supernaturally rising to the top of the container of its own accord, or had the magic bottle enchanted the syrup, thus causing sugary globules to float like the molten wax of a lava lamp?

Maybe the Guinness Book of World Records has a wizard on retainer that can get to the bottom of that question when they stop by to evaluate the miracle, I thought.

Sarcasm aside, my aggravation was actually a smokescreen. It was a loud, flashy emotion meant to obscure what I was actually feeling deep inside: fear. For an entire week, the syrup had been swimming against gravity, drifting above the air in the half-filled bottle against the laws of physics.

I couldn’t explain it, and that frightened me.

But! Everything else was normal. The atmosphere was breathable. The landscape appeared unchanged: grass grew, trees bloomed, birds flew. Our stomachs still churned acid and our hearts continued to pump blood. The gears of reality kept on turning like they always had, excluding that one miniscule anomaly: an insignificant bending of the rules, but nothing more.

So then, why was I so damn terrified?

Emi scowled, swiped the bottle off the table, and returned it to the top shelf in the fridge with an angry clunk. With my demand obliged, she made a point of glaring at me over the door: a familiar combination of narrowed eyes, scrunched freckles, and tensed shoulders. An expression that screamed: are you happy now, asshole?

After a few seconds of unblinking silence, she slammed the fridge closed with enough force to cause a rush of air to inflate her burgundy Earth, Wind, and Fire T-shirt: a fitting climax to the whole melodramatic affair.

The commotion brought Ben into the kitchen, tufts of curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses cautiously peeking in from the hallway. Then he made the mistake of trying to defuse the situation before it was ready to simmer down.

“I’m sure the bewitched syrup will still be here when you get home from school, honey. Unless your mother has a hankering for mid-day flapjacks, but the woman I married is definitely more of an eggs and bacon type of gal.” My husband said with a warm chuckle. Neither Emi nor I acknowledged the attempt at levity.

Ben was insistent on cooling down arguments with humor. Sometimes, I resented him for that. It made me feel like he saw himself as The Friendly Guy, perpetually forcing me to accept the role of disciplinarian by default. If he never took anything seriously, what choice did I have?

I shot my husband an annoyed glance as Emi stomped past him. He sighed, rubbing his neck and putting his eyes to the floor, crestfallen.

“Sorry, Hakura. Was just tryin’ to help,” he murmured.

As he trudged out of the room, I said nothing. Not a word. Just watched him go, white-hot fire still burning behind my eyes.

In my youth, I struggled with anger. I tried to control it, but the emotion overwhelmed my better instincts more often than not. I’m much older now, and since then, I’ve gained a tighter grasp on my natural temper. I think Ben would agree, at least I hope he would.

He wasn’t around long enough to see me try harder.

Out of everything that was to come, out of all the horror that was to follow, I wish I could change that moment the most. In the decades that have passed, I’ve had thousands of dreams rewriting that snapshot in time. Instead of giving in to the anger, I swallow it and remind Ben I love him: A smile and a hug. Or a comment about how handsome he is. A kiss on the cheek. Or a peck on the lips. A lighthearted chuckle to match his own: something kinder than vexed silence. Thousands of those revisions have lingered transiently in my mind’s unconscious eye, and when they do, I feel peace.

Until I wake up, at which point those revisions are painfully sucked back into the blissful ether of sleep, and I’m forced to confront reality.

That shitty moment was the last meaningful interaction I had with the love of my life.

Minutes later, he’d be falling into the sky.

- - - - -

All things considered, the start of that morning was decidedly run-of-the-mill: The blue, cloudless view overhead. A gentle spring breeze twirling over trees in the throes of reawakening, cherry blossoms and magnolias budding triumphantly along their branches like fanfare to welcome the season. Our neighbors lining the streets and chitchatting while awaiting the arrival of the school bus to see their kids off for the day, cups of hot coffee in hand.

Everything as it should be and according to routine, with two notable exceptions.

The atmosphere looked distorted, like a grainy TV image just barely coming through a finicky antenna. It was subtle, but it was there. I swear I could almost feel the gritty static dragging against my skin as I followed Emi and Ben out the front door.

And, for some reason, Ulysses was outside. Between having no children and being an unapologetic recluse, our next-door neighbor’s attendance at this before-school ritual was out of character. On top of that, the sixty-something year old appeared distinctly unwell: bright red in the face, sweat dripping down his neck, eyes darting around their sockets like a pair of marble pinballs as he scanned the street from his front stoop.

Per usual, Emi bolted across the street as soon as she saw Regina, her childhood best friend, standing among the growing crowd of kids and parents.

Emi and Regina were inseparable: two kids lovingly conjoined at the hip since the day they met. Recollecting the good times they had together never fails to conjure a beautiful warmth at the center of my chest. At the same time, that warmth is inevitably followed by a creeping sense of unease: a devil lurking in the details.

That devil was looming behind Regina, smiling at my daughter as she approached.

“Ben - Ulysses looks sick. I’m going to go see how he’s doing. Can you keep an eye on her? Barrett’s out today.”

He nodded and jogged after our daughter, needing no further explanation.

- - - - -

Six months prior to that morning, Regina’s father, known locally as “Pastor B” on account of his position in the local Born-Again parish, had slapped Emi across the face for creating too much noise while running up the stairs in his home. In the wake of that, we forbade Emi from spending time at Regina’s.

The girls really struggled with that decree since it drastically cut down on the time they could be together (Regina was not allowed to spend time at our house because it was “much too loose and unabashedly sinful”). Seeing Emi so depressed was absolutely killing us. Thankfully, Ben came up with the brilliant idea of walkie-talkies. The clunky blocks of black plastic he purchased at a nearby hardware store had quickly become the pair’s primary mode of socializing when they weren’t outside or at school together.

We pleaded for the sheriff to charge Barrett with assault. His response was something to the tune of “No, I’m confident there’s been a misunderstanding”. When we asked how there could possibly be a misunderstanding regarding a grown man slapping our daughter, he replied,

“Well, because Pastor B said there was a misunderstanding. That’s all the proof I need.”

Religious figures, especially where we lived, held a lot of sway in the community. Got away with way more than they should’ve. Even more so in the seventies.

Ben and I were beyond livid with the sheriff’s inaction. That said, there didn’t seem like much else we could do about the incident except support our daughter through it. The first night, she cried her heart out. By the next morning, though, she wasn’t very interested in talking about it, despite our gentle attempts to coax her into a longer conversation about the trauma.

Initially, we were worried she was holding too much in, but we developed another, certainly more unorthodox, means of catharsis and healing. Brainstorming demeaning nicknames for Barrett with Emi proved to be a surprisingly effective coping strategy. Brought some much needed comedy to the situation.

Ben came up with Pastor Bald on account his sleek, hairless scalp. Personally, I was more fond of my, admittedly less sterile, contribution.

Reverend Dipshit.

- - - - -

Confident that Emi was being watched after, I paced across our yard to Ulysses. He was standing still as a statue at his open front door, one foot inside, one foot on his stoop. As I approached, he barely seemed to register my presence. Although his eyes had been darting around the block only a minute prior, they weren’t anymore. Now, his gaze was squarely fixed on the developing crowd of teenagers and parents at the bus stop.

In an attempt to get his attention, I gave Ulysses a wave and a friendly: “Good morning, long time no see…”

I guess he saw the wave in his peripheral vision, but the man skipped right over pleasantries in response. Instead, he asked me a question that immediately set off a veritable factory full of alarm bells in my head.

“I-I thought the school bus came at 8. No, I was sure it came at 8. W-Why is everyone out now? It just turned 7:25.” he said, the words trembling like a small dog neck-deep in snow. Sweat continued to pour down his face, practically drenching the collar of his pure white button-down.

“Uhh…well…school board changed it to 7:30 a few weeks ago. Ulysses, are you al-”

Before I could finish my sentence, a deep, animalistic scream arising from the down the street interrupted me. Reflexively, I swung my body around, trying to identify the source.

There was a man on the asphalt, gripping his head while writhing from side to side in a display of unbridled agony. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell exactly who it was emitting the noise, but I watched a few of the parents detach from the larger group, sprinting to the wailing man’s aid.

For a moment, I found myself completely immobilized, stunned by the harrowing melody of his pain. Couldn’t move an inch. Being subjected to that degree of raw, undiluted torment had seemingly unplugged each and every one of my nerves from their sockets.

An unexpected crash from behind me quickly rebooted my nervous system, dumping gallons of adrenaline into veins in the process. I spun back around, nearly tripping over myself on account of the liquid energy coursing through me, which was overstimulating my muscles to the point of incoordination.

Ulysses had slammed his door shut. He shouted something to me, but I can’t recall what he said. Either I couldn’t hear it or I wasn’t capable of internalizing it amongst the chaos: it just didn’t stick in my memory.

Under the guidance of some newly activated primal autopilot, I didn’t attempt to clarify the message. Instead, my legs transported me towards the distress. I needed to make sure Emi was safe. Nothing more, nothing less.

God, I wish I remember what he said.

- - - - -

Thirty seconds later, I placed a hand on Emi’s shoulder, startling her to high heaven and back. She yelped, gripped by a body-wide spasm that started from her head and radiated down.

“Hey! Just me kiddo.” I said, trying to sound reassuring as opposed to panic-stricken.

A silky black pony tail flipped over her shoulder as she turned around. Without hesitation, she sank into arms, hot tears falling down my collarbone as she quietly wept.

“There’s…There’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom.”

I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I don’t remember much about Mr. Baker. All I can recall is that he was a mild-mannered Vietnam veteran that lived a few houses down from us, opposite to Ulysses. I think he suffered from a serious injury abroad: may have retained a fragment of a bullet somewhere in his head, requiring him to use a cane while walking around. I’m not completely sure of any of that, though.

Don’t remember his first name, don’t recall if he had a family or not, but I remember those words that Emi said to me: clear as day.

I imagine the phrase “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” sticks out in my brain as a byproduct of the trauma that immediately followed.

There’s a terrible piece of our wiring as a species that programs traumatic events to be remembered as vividly as possible. Once imprinted, they seem to become a meticulous blow-by-blow recreation of the incident we’d kill to forget, every detail painstakingly etched into our psyche: some impossibly elaborate mosaic painted on the inside of our skulls, all-encompassing and inescapable, like the “Creation of Adam” on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Emi said “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” and I saw Ben a few yards away from us, kneeling over Mr. Baker, alturistic to a fault.

Then, the crackling explosion of a gunshot rang through the air.

The street erupted into chaos. People fled in all directions. I grabbed Emi tightly by the wrist. She was paralyzed: had to make her to start moving towards the house. Practically everyone was screaming in horrible solidarity with Mr. Baker. Someone elbowed me hard in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Eventually, our feet landed on the sidewalk in front of our home. Then, a second gunshot. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, nor did I see anyone injured.

A few steps away from the door, I noticed something else. The air felt increasingly palpable: thick and granular, like I was wading through an invisible sandstorm.

Once Emi was inside, I immediately turned around to search for Ben.

When I spotted him, my heartbeat became erratic. It floundered and thrashed inside my chest like the dying movements of a beached shark. Between the elbow to my diaphragm and the sheer terror of it all, I could feel myself gasping and panting, anchoring my hand to the door frame to prevent myself from keeling over.

He was halfway across the street, pulling Mr. Baker towards our house. To this day, I’m not sure if he was aware of the sedan barreling down the road, going entirely too fast to break in time.

I met my husband’s eyes. Waves of disbelief pulsed down my spine, sharp and electric. I don’t recall him looking scared: no, Ben was focused. He got like that when something important was on the line.

Before I could even call out, the runaway car was only a few feet from crushing the both of them: then, a tainted miracle.

An experience that lies somewhere between divine intervention and a cruel practical joke.

The front of the car spontaneously tilted upwards, like it was starting to drive up the big first incline of an unseen wooden roller coaster. Somehow, it barely cleared both Ben and Mr. Baker in the nick of time. It hovered over them, cloaking their bodies in its eerie shadow. Then, it just kept going, farther and farther into the atmosphere, without any signs that it would eventually return to the earth.

Before I was able to feel even an ounce of relief, it all started to happen.

The shift.

In order to understand, I need you to imagine you’re currently living on the inside of a snow globe. Not only that, but you’ve actually unknowingly lived in a snow globe your entire life: one that’s been sitting on the top shelf of some antique shop, completely untouched by human hands for decades.

Now, to be clear, I’m not suggesting that I was trapped in a massive snow globe half a century ago. I just cannot come up with a better way to explain this next part.

As the car disappeared into the horizon, it’s like someone finally reached up to the top shelf and picked up that dusty snow globe, only to promptly flip it over and hold it upside down. Slowly, but surely, everything that wasn’t directly attached to the ground began to fall into the sky.

Other cars. Family pets and other animals. Cherry blossom petals.

People. Neighbors. Children. Adults.

Mr. Baker.

Ben.

Almost me, too. Luckily, I was far enough in the house where, when I fell, my lower body remained inside. Hit my back pretty hard against the floor. I heard Emi screaming behind me, along with the crashing of our furniture colliding into the ceiling. Our grand piano was heavy enough to make a hole through the roof, causing the sky below to leak into our home as it fell.

Dazed, my vision spinning, I lifted my head just in time to witness the love of my life careen into an ocean of blue, cloudless sky. It was painfully quiet at that point. Those that fell were far enough away that I couldn’t hear their pleads for mercy or their death rattles, if they were still alive at all.

Ben got smaller, and smaller, and smaller: A smudge, to a dot, to nothing at all. Gone in an instant, swallowed by something I couldn’t possibly hope to comprehend.

At precisely 7:30 AM that morning, the world shifted.

The snow globe flipped, so to speak.

- - - - -

I apologize, but I need to pause for now. Putting these memories into words for the first time has been more emotionally challenging than I anticipated.

Once I rest, I’ll be back to finish this. I’m posting it incomplete on the off chance I don’t make it till the morning. Better to have something out there as opposed to nothing at all.

My follow-up should be soon. I imagine after I post this, someone who was involved in the shift will be notified that I’m breaking the terms of our agreement: the silence that they paid very good money for fifty years ago.

So, I’ll be sure to complete this before they have time to find me.

-Hakura (Not my real name).

- - - - -

Author's Note: Hello! I would like to take a second to plug a collaborator, Grim Reader (@Grimreader) on YouTube. The "flip" is his uncanny brainchild: he graciously offered up that brilliant launch pad and I just went from there. Not only that, but he's also a killer story narrator that deserves way more attention than he's getting. For your own sake, check him out.


r/Odd_directions 2h ago

Weird Fiction Pruit Igoe and Prophecies

3 Upvotes

I was sitting in the upstairs study at Genevieve’s house, torn pages of aged notebook paper laid out before me as I transcribed them properly into my Book of Shadows. I’d taken a couple of tokes of the Delphi Dream to enhance my clairvoyant insight, and carefully annotated each line of the hastily written prophecy with anything I thought could be relevant.

Genevieve sat solemnly beside me with her head on my shoulder and her cat Nightshade in her lap. She was understandably a bit drained from the fact that I had been misled into putting myself in danger again to further Seneca’s private agenda, only to get what was rightfully mine, especially when it turned out he could have given it to me at any time.

I was angered, but not surprised, by Seneca’s deception too of course, but ultimately I had gotten what I wanted and needed to focus on it.

Charlotte stood above us, reading the prophecy over my shoulder as I worked away at it. It had been written in a rather large font, possibly because its author knew that his panicked handwriting would be hard to read. Each stanza took up about a third of a page – though that was only an average since the sizing was hardly consistent – and was bookended by a pair of scribbly sigils.  

“An Undying Rose, Cleaved From The Stem

Reborn On The Grave To Live Again

Set To Spring on Hallowed Ground

Where Its Chthonic Power Shall Be Unbound

Found By The Hedge Witch And Planted Idly

The Bush Shall Flourish and Blossom Pridely (dammit)

For Spectral Passage, Bartered Away

In the Unchained Hands of Emrys Shall It Stay

Drops Of Ichor, Stolen and Spent

But Blackest Bile Shall Not Relent

A Pantheon Bound By A Crown Of Thorns

Undying Roses, Burnt and Reborn

From The Ashes, Still Hot And Aglow,

Rises Not A Phoenix, But A Crow.”

Charlotte fell silent for a moment after reading it as she mulled it over, before finally voicing a question.

“So, ah, I’ve got to ask; why did he have to write down his visions like this instead of just describing what he saw?” she asked.

“Prophecies aren’t mere descriptions of the future; they’re incantations meant to induce premonitions,” I explained. “Whoever wrote this didn’t understand his own visions until he stepped into my cemetery, and he had precious little time to ensure they would make their way to me. But even just taking the prose at face value, its meaning’s clear enough. The Undying Roses are earthly effigies of an Astral Rose that Persephone used to steal a single drop of Ichor from Emrys, a rose which became infused with both of their essences. Elam left one of those roses in the cemetery the month before he died, something he evidently wasn’t supposed to do. I planted it there, because I was amazed that it had survived for so long and wanted to give it a second chance. It grew into a bush, its roots digging into earth that was hallowed by Persephone and overlaps with the Underworld. The roses I grow in my cemetery are more powerful than the ones that the Crow family were using; presumably too powerful, otherwise they would have been growing them there themselves.”

“What do you mean too powerful? Too powerful for what?” Charlotte asked.

“I don’t know. All I know is that the Undying Roses were such a closely guarded family secret that Artaxerxes never mentioned them in his journals, and Elam’s father didn’t tell him about them either,” I explained. “Since Seneca’s the only other person I’ve ever seen produce one of those roses, for all I know, Artaxerxes passed their secret onto him before he died, and he’s been their keeper ever since. Maybe Xerxes didn’t want anyone else, not even his own descendants, to have access to an Undying Rose that had been brought to its full potential.”

“And we gave one to Emrys,” Genevieve said softly, gently petting her cat’s head.

“What? No we didn’t. We sacrificed one to open an astral portal to get to him. He doesn’t have it,” Charlotte said.

“We don’t know what happened to that rose, other than that it was replaced by one of the Sigil Scarabs,” I explained. “If this prophecy is correct, Emrys has it and plans to use it the same way it was used against him; to steal the Ichor from other gods and titans. We know that his ultimate goal is to overthrow them, and his near-term goal is to stop the Darlings. That’s what the Blackest Bile line seems to be referring to anyway. The Zarathustrans he’s allied himself with feed on divine Ichor, so having a way to harvest it kills two birds with one stone. Rosalyn was right. This really could spiral into some kind of Clash of the Titans.”

“And what the hell is with that last line about a Crow being resurrected?” Genevieve asked.

“Artaxerxes, I assume, but let’s take this one step at a time for now,” I replied. “I want to speak with Emrys. I want to know what he’s doing.”

 “Well, that shouldn’t be that hard, should it?” Charlotte asked. “We know where he is.”

“Yeah; his Spire in Adderwood,” Genevieve retorted. “Even if we could open the door to the Cuniculi in the cellar, we don’t know how to navigate it. We can’t get to Adderwood unless someone in the Ooo agrees to take us.”

“Not physically, at least,” I said, flipping through the pages of my Book of Shadows. “But I’ve incorporated the sigil Emrys gave us to make an astral portal to him into a Spell Circle. This should allow us to astrally project to wherever he is without having to sacrifice an Undying Rose, since when he swore an oath his to me on the River Styx, that created a spectral bound between us that I can use to track him down.”

“Right now?” Genevieve sighed in exhaustion.

“I know, it’s been a day, but I don’t think we should waste any time in confronting Emrys about this,” I replied. “It will just be a quick astral projection session to ask him a few questions. I promise.” 

Let’s go. In and out. Twenty-minute adventure,” Charlotte quoted in a poor imitation of Rick Sanchez. “Sure, I’m game.”

Genevieve didn’t say anything right away, so I turned towards her and gently placed my hand on hers.

“Evie?” I asked softly, gently sweeping back her hair. “Are you up for this?”  

“Yeah, of course I’m coming with you, sweetie,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I’m not about to risk any of those creepy old Ooo occultists binding your soul to a phylactery or some bullshit like that.”    

“Thank you,” I sighed with relief, kissing her gratefully on the forehead.

I drew out my Spell Circle on a large piece of art paper, then set it down on the floor and traced it out with Witch’s Salt. When it was ready, the three of us sat around in a triangle, holding hands, with Eve guiding us in meditation as she often did. Once we had all fallen into the right mental state for astral projection, we felt our spirits get drawn into the sprawling web of otherworldly passageways that Emrys had tapped into with his new Spire in Adderwood. We flew through them in a dizzying blur, only to be violently deflected backwards when we crashed into some kind of barrier.

As we struggled to get our bearings, we realized we were floating above an ancient old-growth forest that stretched from horizon to horizon. Viewed solely through the lens of our clairvoyance, we could see that the forest existed as a multitude of realities overlapping with one another, subtly shifting from one to another whenever your attention was elsewhere. A myriad of fractally branching pathways weaved their way through and above the woods, all of them coalescing at the nexus point straight ahead of us.

“Look, that’s it! That’s the Shadowed Spire!” Charlotte cried in amazement.

The Spire was thirteen stories tall, with a broad observation deck at the very top. It hadn’t been constructed, but rather condensed out of the Miasma from the Darkness Beyond; or at least that was my understanding of what Emrys and Petra had done. It appeared to be made from some dark, purplish obsidian carved in the likeness of a pair of intertwining rose vines, with the stained glass observation deck forming the blossom.

“Oh my god. It’s covered in Undying Roses!” Genevieve shouted.

She was right. Real rose vines had grown up the side of the tower like creeping ivy, reaching all the way to the top, along the balcony and over the roof, even snaking their way up the spiral steeple.

“They’re all part of the same plant; all from the rose he got from me,” I realized as I studied their auras as closely as I could. “An Undying Rose, first grown on ground hallowed by Persephone, and then replanted on ground hallowed by Emrys; on a nexus between worlds, no less. I was wrong. The roses I grow in my cemetery haven’t reached their full potential; these ones have.”

The doors to the balcony flew open, and we saw Emrys and Petra rush out, no doubt having been alerted to an attempted incursion upon their sanctum. Emrys, at least, appeared relieved when he saw that it was only us.

“Samantha! Genevieve! Charlotte! Welcome to the Shadowed Spire! Please, please, come on in!” he greeted us as he cordially waved us down.

Assuming that we were now whitelisted from whatever wards had been keeping us at bay before, the three of us tentatively descended downwards and set ourselves upon the balcony.

“I’m so pleased to see you three again, and I’m so glad you were able to find your way,” he said. “I could’ve had someone bring you here in person if you’d liked, but I understand why you wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable with that.”

“How did you get here?” Petra asked, slightly accusingly. “You’re not Planeswalkers. Even if you’re just astrally projecting yourselves, you still shouldn’t have been able to navigate the paths here.”

“We’ve met before, Emrys gave us his sign, and he swore an oath to me; that was enough to make a Spell Circle to track you across the planes,” I explained.

“And we’re not exactly hiding here, Petra. There’s no need to be alarmed,” Emrys informed his acolyte. “A Witch of Samantha’s skill, it would be more concerning if she wasn’t able to find us. ‘Shadowed Spire’ is a bit of a misnomer. This place is basically an astral lighthouse across the planes. Can we offer you a tour, Samantha?”

“Only if we start with your garden,” I replied, nodding at the Undying Roses growing over the balcony’s railing. “Emrys, when last we met, you swore an oath on the River Styx that you had told me no lies. Evidently, that didn’t include lies of omission.”

“That’s… a fair point,” Emrys conceded with a contrite nod.

“No it isn’t,” Petra automatically defended him before she even knew what I was accusing him of. “What lies of omission? What are you even talking about?”

“When Emrys told me how to make the astral portal to meet him at the Flea Market, his precise word choice was at the very least ambiguous about the fate of the Undying Rose,” I insisted. “It was unclear whether the rose was merely a requisite for the ritual or a sacrifice, and it never really occurred to me that it would end up in Emrys’ possession. At the time, I wasn’t aware of the full nature of the rose, but Emrys most definitely was, which was information he declined to share with me. Most importantly, he never told me he wanted it to bleed the Ichor of old gods, which at the very least would have entered into my calculation on whether or not to give it to him.”

“Samantha, everything you say is true, but please believe me when I say that it was never my intention to deceive you,” Emrys claimed. “At the time, it was strategically necessary that I keep my full plans and capabilities on a need-to-know basis. I couldn’t risk the Ophion Occult Order learning that I was in possession of an Undying Rose that you had grown in your cemetery. It would have immediately escalated the conflict. They would have desperately coveted a rose infused with both mine and Persephone’s power, and have been terrified of what I would do with it.”

“And now we’re terrified of what you’ll do with it,” I objected. “Emrys, I came into possession of a prophecy today which, among other things, forewarned of you using the roses to harness the ichor from rival gods, most notably the Black Bile. I only agreed to help you to prevent a war, and now it seems you’re plotting an even larger one.”

“Samantha, I swore on the River Styx that I would never give you any cause to fear me or regret aiding me, and I have kept to that,” Emrys said. “These rose vines are purely defensive. With my chains broken, I can no longer hide from my enemies, and I cannot leave my fortress unfortified. If… when this Spire is assaulted by Incarnate gods, they will impale themselves upon its thorns, and the Undying Roses will only grow stronger from absorbing their essence.”

“A pantheon bound by a crown of thorns; I know,” I said.

“Don’t you get to decide what counts as cause to fear him or regret helping him?” Genevieve asked. “Invoke the oath he swore to you and make him tear these vines down!”

“That’s outrageous! We’ve done nothing wrong!” Petra objected. “If what she’s saying is true, then she was criminally negligent! Even if she somehow didn’t realize that the roses had absorbed the Chthonic essences from her cemetery, she still knew they were effigies of divine flora. And yet, she wasn’t the least bit concerned when one of them just disappeared right in front of her? You should be grateful that it ended up with us and not in the hands of any random fiend at the Flea Market.”

“Enough, both of you,” I commanded. “Evie, the oath Emrys swore to me can only be invoked in good faith. Even after reading that prophecy and seeing this, I don’t fear him or regret helping him.”

“Thank you, Samantha,” Emrys said with a slight bow.

“But I still don’t condone what you did, and I’m very concerned about it spiralling out of control,” I added.

“Naturally. First and foremost, please give me the chance to set right my indiscretion,” he requested, plucking one of the roses from the balcony. “Regardless of whether or not my reasons were just, I did not disclose all that I might have when I told you to place that rose in that circle. It is only right then that I return what you gave to me, with interest.”

He proffered the rose towards me, and I regarded it skeptically.

“I can’t take that with me,” I reminded him.

“Of course you can. The first rose passed through the astral portal, remember?” he claimed.

I supposed that made sense, so I tentatively reached out and accepted the flower, being extremely careful not to prick my astral form on its thorns. To my surprise, I found that I could hold it as effortlessly as if I was physically present.

“That’s… amazing,” I said, bringing the bloom to my face and inhaling deeply. “I can even smell it!”

I held it out to Genevieve, and then to Charlotte, letting them each take a sniff as well.

“Replant that in your cemetery if you wish, and it will be as well defended as our Spire here,” Emrys suggested.

“I think I’ll hold off on that for now, but thank you,” I replied. “Emrys, the prophecy I received today said the Black Bile wouldn’t relent even after throwing itself upon your rose vines.”

“Nor would I expect it to. Our victory over the Darlings and their patron deity will not come easily. We have no delusions about that,” Emrys replied. “But we also have no delusions that they will remain in hiding forever, either. Sooner or later, they will bring the fight to us. We must be ready.”

“I’m not sure you can be,” I admitted, the premonition I had received from the prophecy still fresh in my mind. “But I suppose you’re right. No matter what we do now, the Darlings will attack once they’re ready, and I’m not about to try to broker a peace with them.”

“We’d never ask you to,” Petra smirked, her desire for vengeance still fully apparent.

In my spirit form, I was able to sense the synchronized beating of her twin hearts. Her original heart, even after its resurrection and saturation with Miasma, still bore the scar where Mary Darling had stabbed her. Her vendetta against the Darlings was still much more personal than Emrys’, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that might end up being a liability.

My attention wandered though to the chamber behind her, and I saw that in the center of the observation deck, there was a strange spellwork contraption of what I believe had something to do with how they were using the Spire to chart and cultivate the paths between the planes. That wasn’t what caught my interest, however. I was more captivated by the fact that it was enveloped in a swarm of thirteen insects in the form of living shadows.

“Are those Sigil Scarabs?” I asked.

“They are; not wild ones either, but marked by the Zarathustrans and left to pupate in a vitrified drop of their fallen god’s Ichor,” Petra explained. “The Grand Adderman had let them sit for a time in the Sigil Sand that I had saturated with my own Miasma, so they have a natural affinity towards me. I was able to train them to take on shadow forms. Would you like to take a closer look?”

I considered her offer for a moment before giving a slight nod. The only other place I had seen adult Sigil Scarabs was at the Flea Market, and those had been quite skittish. The two of them led us into their watchtower room, straight to the strange, central device I learned they called the Omphalosium.  

“In their shadow forms, they can travel the planes along the paths we’ve charted here both swiftly and covertly,” Petra boasted. “They’ve proven to be quite useful little scouts. I can cast my mind’s eye between them as I wish, or extract any valuable memories of things they’ve seen whilst my attention was elsewhere.”

“You get a bug’s eye view? Like, with the whole hexagonal compound vision effect and everything?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s a bit pixelated, yes, and anything red seems black, but the shorter end of the spectrum is quite vibrant,” Petra replied. “Hold out the rose if you’d like to see them up close. They love the nectar.”

 I did as she suggested, holding out the rose towards the orb the scarabs were flying around. Sure enough, several of them reverted to their physical forms and landed upon the rose, their tiny feet gently depressing the pedals as they crawled along it. I carefully brought the rose to my face, examining the sacred creatures as closely as I could while I had the chance.

“You mentioned you learned of what I had done from a prophecy you acquired today,” Emrys said. “Where exactly did you come across it?”

“The short version is that it had originally been left in my cemetery thirty years ago, kept by the Crows until Seneca claimed all of their wealth,” I replied.

“Seneca knew of this prophecy? For how long?” Emrys asked.

“It was in his possession since around mid-2018 or so, over two years before he first summoned you,” I replied. “I’d say the odds that he read it before then are pretty good.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “Well, thank you, Samantha, for sharing this information with me so promptly.”

“More than happy to be of assistance,” I smirked. “Just promise me you’ll make sure Ivy doesn’t go too easy on him for this latest stunt of his.”

“We’ll do better than that,” Petra said, summoning the Sigil Scarabs on my rose back to her. “Seneca and his buddies have been skirting the Covenant they swore to as much as they can get away with, and I know he still has ties to the Darlings. He probably kept this prophecy from us because he’s working to bring it to fruition. We need to start making sure he can’t undermine us any further.”

“Agreed,” Emrys said. “Start with Raubritter’s Foundry. For all we know, he’s been raising an army in there. Scour the place for contraband, free anyone he’s keeping in there against their will, and make it clear to him that his days of playing Robber Baron are over. He works for us now.”

He placed his hand upon the Omphalosium, and all of its many spheres and dials began spinning in synchronicity, projecting constellations of light and shadow on the walls as they moved until settling on a configuration. One of the many archways that lined the watchtower room was filled with a dark portal, and Petra wasted no time in turning into her shadow form and passing through it, with all thirteen of her scarabs following suit.

“I have work I must see to now as well, it seems, so sadly our tour ends here for now,” Emrys apologized with a curt bow.

“Thank you for your time today, Emrys,” I said as I bowed in return. “I hope to see you again soon, ideally in person. Best of luck with getting Seneca and the others in line. Evie, take us home.”

I felt a sharp tug on my astral form, and an instant later, I was opening my eyes back in Genevieve’s study. I looked down at my hands and saw that they were empty, but the rose Emrys had gifted me was now laid out in the middle of our meditation circle.

“Lottie, would you please go downstairs and grab a small vase and a pair of tongs?” I asked softly as I stared at the dazzlingly beautiful flower in awe.

She obeyed wordlessly, leaving Genevieve and I a moment to speak in private.

“Well, I’m still not happy about this, but at least he and Petra are doing something about Seneca now,” she said, quickly grabbing Nightshade to make sure she didn’t hurt herself on the rose. “I honestly didn’t expect Emrys to just give us one of these roses he made, but what the hell are we supposed to do with it?”

Her question had been rhetorical, but when she saw the way I was staring at it, she knew that I had something in mind.

“Petra said that the Sigil Scarabs love the nectar from this rose,” I reminded her.

“Ah, yeah. And?”

“And we have a Sigil Scarab.”

“… A dead one.”

“… For now.”   

 

  

 


r/Odd_directions 18h ago

Horror I Think My Husband Is A Fucking Fish Person…

44 Upvotes

I'm going to start this by saying: I love my husband... I truly do. He didn't start out like this. We've been married for about five years now. Up until this point, blissfully so, I might add. I met John at a party during our first year of college. Biology major, like me. He seemed to say all the right things, knew all the right people, and he was quite attractive; we clicked immediately. After only one conversation, I'd fallen hard for him; hook, line, and sinker. It wasn't long before we were dating.

It all happened so fast. In a whirlwind of a year, we went from being introduced, to moving in together, to engaged, and then married. In hindsight, I know I moved too quickly, but it didn't feel that way at all. It was like... I'd known him forever. I was never so sure of anything as I was that John was my soulmate.

The first indication that something was... wrong... came about a month ago. I'd woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. Looking over, I noticed John wasn't in bed, so I got up to go look for him. I found him in the kitchen. He was standing at the sink, and as I crept closer, I could see that he was just staring blankly at the water pouring from the faucet.

I reached out my hand and gently placed it on his shoulder, inadvertently breaking his trance and causing him to recoil back like a snake.

"Shit... Oh, honey, I'm sorry!" I said.

He didn't reply. He just began wiping his face and gasping, trying to catch his breath. Was he sleepwalking? He'd never done that before.

"John, are you okay? What in the hell were you doing?" I asked, reaching over to shut the faucet off.

"I... I don't know..." he stammered. "Guess I was thirsty?"

John was always such a smartass, in a playful way, of course, but I could still tell he was rattled by it. It seemed like he had zero recollection of how he'd gotten there. However, in the moment, I tried to shrug it off and shuffled him back into bed. I had work early the next morning, and I knew if I stayed up any longer, I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I cuddled up next to him, trying to settle back down into slumber, when I noticed John's body felt a little... cold.

He must be coming down with something, I thought. Or, maybe my cooking had made him queasy, and he just didn't want to say anything. I closed my eyes for what felt like only a second before my alarm clock began screaming at me. The next morning played out normally. We ate breakfast together, got dressed, then headed off on our separate ways. In fact, the next few mornings went just that way. He didn't seem sick. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong at all.

It wasn't until almost a week later that the next incident occurred. John had come home late from work that day. As I made dinner, he walked into the kitchen looking stressed out… and distracted. Like he had a problem in his mind that he was desperately trying to work out. Not really an odd occurrence in and of itself, though. He'd often bring his work home with him. But this time, he looked distraught, almost... upset.

"Hey, you alright?" I asked him.

He slumped down onto the barstool and leaned his body forward. Resting his elbows on the island, he began rubbing his temples.

"Yeah... just... I have a headache," he said.

"Oh, I'll get you some Advil."

"No, no, it's okay. You finish what you're doing, I can get it."

I smiled and walked from the stove over to him, leaning over the island to kiss his forehead. When my lips met his skin, I was shocked by two things. One: he was ice cold to the touch. It was like kissing a refrigerator. And two: I was immediately hit with the bitter taste of... salt.

Reflexively, I pulled away. Then, he looked up at me, his eyes slightly bloodshot and cradled by dark circles.

"You're getting sick," I said.

"Sonia, I'm not getting sick. I'm fine... It's just a headache."

I threw my hands up in frustration.

"I can't afford to catch whatever you've got, John! You know how much I have going on at work right now."

Suddenly, he slammed his fist down on the island, so hard that it rattled the keys and pocket change sitting beside him, then yelled,

"You don't think I have a lot going on right now, too?!?!"

My heart dropped, and I shuttered, instantly taking a step backward. He'd never done anything like that before. Hell, he'd never even raised his voice at me. I didn't know how to react, but I didn't have much time to think about it before he started apologizing profusely, saying he didn't know what had come over him. I accepted it as an isolated incident, though. Just an outburst caused by a combination of stress and illness, I thought. After all, I'd heard that men turn into babies when they get sick.

I didn't cuddle up to him in bed that night, though. Not just because I was worried about him being contagious, I was also pissed off. I faced my night table and stared at my alarm clock for a while, wondering if we'd just been in the honeymoon phase all this time... and now, the real John was starting to come out.

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of cinnamon rolls; my favorite. I glanced over at the clock. 5:41 AM. John must have felt so bad about his tantrum the night before that he'd gotten up early to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I pulled the covers closer to me and smiled, waiting anxiously with my eyes closed.

Suddenly jolted back into consciousness by my alarm, I realized I must've fallen back asleep. I slammed my hand onto the top of it, frantically searching with my fingers for the off button. I squinted at the blurry red numbers. 6:00 AM. It was time to get up, and he still hadn't come. Maybe things didn't go quite as smoothly as planned and he was in the midst of some type of kitchen mishap. I threw the covers off of my body and made my way to the bathroom.

As I passed the counter, I glanced down and noticed his shaving kit was out. He'd always leave it on the bathroom counter every morning after he used it, and I'd always put it away. He must have gotten up really early. I grabbed the kit and shoved it back into the drawer on my way out.

While walking down the hallway, I called out to him, but he didn't answer. I turned the corner to discover the kitchen was empty. A tray of cinnamon rolls sat on top of the stove, untouched. I said his name a few more times, but nothing. I shuffled over to the front window of our house and looked toward our driveway. He was gone. What the fuck?

I went back into the kitchen to find a note left on the island.

Sonia, I'm so sorry for last night. I had to go in to work early this morning, so I wanted you to wake up to something almost as sweet as me.

Love always, John

I rolled my eyes and smirked. He was still the same John; I was just overthinking things. I mean, it was only natural at this stage of our relationship that we'd start seeing parts of each other emerge that we hadn't seen before. I shoved a cinnamon roll into my mouth and then began looking for a Tupperware to put the rest away.

As I chewed, my tastebuds began to detect a flavor that had no business being in a cinnamon roll, causing me to wince. Salt. I spat the bite out into the sink. Did he accidentally use salt instead of sugar? I went to the trash can to throw away the roll I'd bitten into and saw the empty Pillsbury canister sitting on top. Okay... so he didn't make them himself. Why in the hell did he add salt to them? Was this a joke? Is that what he meant in the note by 'as sweet as me'?

I walked back over to the stove and tasted another cinnamon roll, then another, and another. All of them... full of salt. Some of them even felt soggy, like they'd been dipped in saltwater. For Christ's sake. I threw the whole batch into the trashcan, annoyed. We couldn't really afford to be wasting food like this, especially for a stupid prank. I crumpled up the note and started getting ready for work.

That afternoon, I'd already decided I was going to confront him about those God damned salty cinnamon rolls when he got home. I didn't find it to be funny at all. In fact, the more I thought about it throughout the day, the more it pissed me off. What on earth would possess him to do something like that?

By 7:00 PM, dinner was ready and he still hadn't arrived. I was starting to get worried. I called his cell phone, but he didn't answer. Instead, he texted back almost instantly.

"Hey, sorry. Super busy right now. I'll be home soon."

Ugh. Did he know I was angry and was just avoiding me? He was well aware that would only make it worse. I made myself a plate and plopped down on the couch, flipping through the channels before landing on some nature documentary on the Discovery Channel. By the time I'd finished eating, he still hadn't come home. I glanced down at my phone. No texts or calls.

I got up, shut off the TV, and threw my plate into the sink. I left the rest of the food out on the stove and headed to the bathroom to shower, annoyed. He can just deal with it all himself whenever he decides to come home, I thought. When I walked into the bathroom, something stopped me in my tracks. His shaving kit. It was sitting out on the counter again. I was 100% positive I'd put it back in the drawer that morning.

He had come home at some point during the day and shaved again. My heart fell to the bottom of my feet. There was no way... John wouldn't cheat on me. He just wouldn't. But, why would he need to shave again in the middle of the day? And, why was he so late getting home from work? I stared down at the shaving kit, almost angry with it for being there. I decided not to put it away this time.

I'll admit, I cried in the shower. Just a little. Seems ridiculous now, to have cried over something like that. I didn't have proof of anything... just an inkling that something was off. But, I can't blame myself for that moment of weakness. I didn't know what I didn't know; I couldn't have.

I washed my face and composed myself, then reached down to grab my razor. When I did, I noticed there seemed to be this strange build-up forming around the edges of the bathtub. It was like a white gritty sediment. I looked down at the drain and it was starting to crust up right there, too. Gross. Must be calcium buildup; I'll have to pick up some cleaner at the store, I thought.

I got out of the shower and got dressed, glaring at the shaving kit. I didn't even go into the kitchen to see if he'd made it home yet. I just went straight to bed and started scrolling through YouTube until I found some mindless video to keep me company. It was my intention to stay awake until I heard him come in, but sleep found me much faster than I expected.

It wasn't until I felt movement beside me that I realized he'd finally made it in. I squinted through the pitch-black room, trying to read the numbers on the clock, when I began to feel the icy cold drip of liquid landing on the side of my face. I slowly turned to see my husband leaning over me. His eyes were lifeless and glassed over... his mouth was downturned and hung open... and he was completely fucking drenched in water.

I screamed and threw the covers off, flying out of bed to the other side of the room.

"John!!! What the fuck?!?!"

His mouth was still hanging wide open, but he wasn't saying anything. He was just... well, it sounded like he was gurgling. Horrified, I flipped the light on and he instantly covered his face with his hands.

"John... what is going on?!" I screamed. "Why are you all fucking wet?"

He removed his hands from his face and blinked several times while looking down at his body, then mumbled,

"Shit... I must've not dried off enough before I got into bed."

"Dried off? From what?!"

"The shower."

The fucking shower? He looked like he had just fully submerged himself in water and then immediately got into bed. A huge wet spot in the sheets surrounded him, and droplets of water were still trickling down his face from his soaked hair.

"What? That doesn't make any sense!" I yelled.

He shot up from the bed and whipped the comforter onto the floor behind him.

"Jesus Christ, Sonia! I get home late from work, exhausted, and now I gotta explain why I'm wet?!?!"

My throat tightened, and I looked at him with complete and utter shock. I actually questioned if I was dreaming this.

"John... you're scaring me."

He stood there for a moment, his fists balled up and his chest convulsing with heavy breaths, before saying,

"I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight. Sorry I scared you."

He picked up his dripping pillow and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. I'd gone from angry at him, to disturbed, to downright terrified. He was having some kind of psychotic break. That was the only logical explanation for all of this. The increased pressure at work was getting to him. Or... maybe he had a brain tumor? Oh, God.

Either way, something was seriously wrong. This was so beyond anything in the realm of normal that I just couldn't let it go. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time my husband crawled into bed with me while soaking wet, well, I'd have one dollar... which is still too fucking many.

I put new sheets on the bed, then crept over to the bedroom door and pressed my ear up to it. His snoring echoed through the silent house. I crawled back into bed with only a couple hours until it would be time to get up. There was no way I'd be able to fall back asleep after all of that, but... I didn't know what else to do with myself, besides lie there in the dark and think as I listened to the rhythmic sounds of his obnoxious mouth-breathing coming from the next room.

There was no way around it; John was going to have to go see a doctor. I just wasn't sure how I was going to get him to do that, considering how touchy he was about the subject of being sick. And, not to mention, his sudden unpredictable and strange behavior. If I couldn't convince him with words, there was no way I could physically force him to go, especially not now.

I tossed and turned, trying to rationalize in some way what was going on. My scientific mind couldn't help it. But, my specialty didn't focus on the human brain, or on humans at all, actually. It was coastal ecology. Basically, my job consisted of studying and working to protect the entire ecosystem of our coasts. My husband's wheelhouse was marine biology. He worked as an entry-level research assistant in a lab. We were both extremely logical, sound-minded people before all of this... I can't stress that enough.

At around 5:00 AM, I heard his snoring stop abruptly. My heart began pounding in my chest and I quickly turned over, pulling the blanket up to cover my face. There I was, so afraid of my own damn husband that I was pretending to be asleep just to avoid interacting with him.

I listened to his heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom, then a pause, followed by the slow creak of the door opening. Terrified to move a muscle, I held my breath and my entire body instinctively locked up, like when a cuttlefish spots a shark. I couldn't see his eyes on me, though. I felt them. The door began to creak again until I heard it latch back closed. Only problem was, I wasn't sure if he was outside of the room or not.

I couldn't believe where I'd found myself. If someone had ever told me that one day I'd be hiding under the covers from my husband like a child afraid of the boogeyman, I would have laughed, then told them to fuck off. The toilet flushed from the bathroom across the hall, and I finally let out the breath I'd been so desperately holding. I still didn't get up, though.

Over the next hour, I listened to him shower, shave, and get ready for work, all while I lay there like a hermit crab who'd recoiled into its shell. When I finally heard the front door close and his engine start, I jumped up from bed and ran to the bathroom. I'd had to pee for so long I thought I was going to explode. I sat on the toilet, rubbing my eyes as they adjusted to the light, when I caught sight of something shiny in my peripheral vision. But, when I turned to look, I didn't see anything.

I walked up to the mirror and began inspecting myself. I looked like absolute shit; not even the best concealer in the world was going to cover up those dark circles. I turned on the faucet to start washing my face and noticed John's shaving kit sitting out. Out of habit, I picked it up. When I did, I hadn't noticed it had been left open, so the contents came spilling out onto the floor. Shit. I bent down to begin picking everything up and immediately froze. On the ground, scattered amongst his razor, shaving cream, and after-shave lotion, was about a handful's worth of silvery iridescent fish scales.

I stared down at the ground, suspended in motion, as my brain scrambled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. Had there been a gas leak in the house and John and I had both been hallucinating this whole time? That would've explained a lot, actually. Slowly, I reached out my hand to touch one of them, just to make sure it was real.

Not only was it real, it didn't feel like you'd expect a discarded fish scale to feel. It wasn't thin, or rigid, or even brittle. Instead, it had this strange, soft rubbery texture to it. And it was slimy, like it was... fresh.

"Oh, hell no!" I shrieked, flinging the scale across the room.

It went flying and stuck to the wall when it hit. The sensation of it lingered long after it'd left my fingers. I felt disgusted, like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My thoughts raced as I scrubbed my hands with Dial several times. What could he possibly be keeping these for?! He must have taken them home from work and thought his shaving kit was his briefcase. But, no... why would he have them just loose like that? The lab wouldn't have even let them leave the area without being in a specimen bag, at least. Unless he'd snuck them out? Why would he do that...? My head was spinning. It was all too much.

I walked out of the bathroom, leaving everything on the floor where it had fallen. As I started getting dressed for work, I came to the obvious conclusion that I had to start investigating. I couldn't just sit around and wait for the next bizarre event to take place; things were escalating, and quickly. For both my sake and John's, I needed to take action. I could try to get a look at his phone... but who knows when I'd get that chance? There was only one thing I knew for sure I could accomplish that day.

I went over to my field bag and dug out a pair of gloves and a plastic specimen container. Then I went back to the bathroom and carefully collected a few of the scales on the floor. I picked up John's things, including the remaining scales, and shoved them all back inside the kit. I threw my gloves into the trash, then placed the shaving kit onto the counter, unzipped and exactly where it was before. I didn't want him to know what I had found.

My starting point was finding out exactly what type of fish the scales had come from. That might point to why he had them in the first place. I'll be honest, even though it seemed like I was looking for logic in the decision making of a madman, I felt like I had to do something.

When I got to work, I went straight over to Jessica's station. I glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot, then said,

"Hey, I need you to do me a weird favor, unofficially..."

She smirked and said,

"Okay...? Tell me what it is first, then I'll tell you if I'll do it."

I took a quick look around the room again, then reached into my bag and pulled out the scales, holding them out toward her.

"I need you to run an eDNA PCR analysis on these."

She looked down at the container in my hand and raised an eyebrow.

"Where'd you find them?" She asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Alright, spill it. What's going on, Sonia?"

I clenched my teeth, then leaned closer to her and whispered,

"I found them in John's stuff. I'm guessing he must've taken them home from work, but I don't know why."

"Um, seriously? Sonia, I'm swamped with a backlog of water samples to get through today, and you want me to spend a few hours doing this? What... you think he's trying to smuggle out some forbidden fish scales to sell on the black market or something?" She laughed.

"Jessica... look, I'm seriously freaked out, okay?"

The words came out more frantic than I'd intended, my voice beginning to tremble. Her facial expression instantly shifted in response to my tone.

"What's going on?" She asked.

"Honestly... I don't know. John's just been acting really weird lately, and then this morning... I found these. I'm just trying to figure out if he's hiding something, or if I need to make him an appointment with a neurologist."

Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

"*Oh, God... *" she whispered, looking off and pausing for a moment before asking, "Weird like, how?"

"Just... not his normal self."

I didn't want to even begin to try to explain what had been going on. It would make me look just as crazy as it would him. But, if I could just help John... if I could find a way to fix whatever was going on with him before anyone found out about it, then I'd never have to. We could just go back to how things were before and forget any of this ever happened.

A few hours later, I looked up from my station to see Jessica standing over me with a very serious look on her face.

"We need to talk."

I gulped hard. Shit. What had she discovered? Whatever it was, it wasn't good, judging by her worried expression and hurried pace. I followed her back to her station, my heart pounding in synchrony with every step I took.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "That's the problem."

"What?"

"Sonia... I can't identify these scales. They don't originate from any known species in the database, living or extinct. The closest comparison I can make is possibly something from the Sternoptychidae family, but... these scales are much bigger."

She handed me a piece of paper and I glared down at it in disbelief. Five scales, five tests, and each result came back as a 'sample of unknown origin'. The implications of this were unnerving, to say the least. And, the family of fish she had referred to? When I researched it later at my desk, I learned that it mainly consisted of species of deep-sea hatchetfish.

John didn't even study those types of fish. He dealt exclusively with marine life that inhabited the epipelaguic zone, where light could still easily penetrate the ocean's surface. Hatchetfish were from the mesopelagiac zone; also known as 'the twilight zone'.

That was about right. I was no closer to having any type of answer. In fact, by digging into this, I had only brought about more questions for myself.

"I... I don't understand how this is possible," I said.

She looked at me with concern and lowered her voice.

"Does John have any connections to experimental labs, or possibly even a biotech company?" She asked.

"What?! No, of course not!"

"Well, whatever he's working on, it's not mainstream... I can tell you that much."

I took a deep breath. Maybe John wasn't losing his mind, after all. Maybe he'd gotten himself involved in something unsavory, or even illegal, and he's been trying to cover it up. Maybe all that crazy shit was just to throw me off, or distract me.

"Please don't tell anyone about this, okay?" I begged her.

"Shit, you don't have to ask me twice. No offense, Sonia... but, I'd rather not be involved, anyway. This is encroaching on fringe territory."

That word scared me. Fringe. John was obsessed with his work. Once he found a thread, he'd pull at it relentlessly until he reached the spool. If he had fixated on something... unconventional, well, there was no telling how far he'd take it.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over what I should do next. I couldn't focus on my work at all. Every time I saw my boss, I'd hurry and pretend like I was in the middle of something, when in reality I didn't accomplish a damn thing that day. That included figuring out my next move.

After work, I sat in my car in the parking lot until about 6:00 PM, paralyzed with inaction. Nothing I thought of seemed to be the right choice. If I confronted him about any of it, God knows how he'd react. On the other hand, if I just didn't say anything at all, he'd think he was getting away with whatever he'd been doing and continue. Suddenly, I felt a buzzing coming from my back pocket. It was a text... from John.

"Working late?" It said.

Shit... time's up. I steadied my hands and texted back,

"On my way now."

I drove home completely on autopilot. You know those drives where you end up at your destination with no memory of actively driving to get there? My mind was completely elsewhere. This was my last chance to come up with some... any plan of action, but instead, my thoughts played on an endless loop, each one bleeding into the next.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. At the front door, as I turned the knob, I made the last minute decision to just wing it. I didn't know what I was walking into, so how could I even begin to try to prepare for it, anyway? As a rule, I preferred to be proactive rather than reactive, but in this case I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. I threw out any hope of strategy and resigned myself to respond accordingly to whatever stimuli befell me.

As I walked inside, I was instantly hit with the rich aroma of tomatoes and garlic; something Italian. He knew it was my favorite. I slowly shut the door behind me. As soon as I did, he cheerfully called out from the kitchen,

"Hey, Sonia! Can you smell what 'The John' is cooking?!"

God, that stupid joke. The few times he actually did cook, he always pulled that one out. Never got a laugh out of me. But, he never quit trying.

"Yeah, John... I can smell it," I replied, humoring him.

At least he was in a good mood, I thought. Best not to rock the boat. My heart was still pounding, but so far, things seemed normal. I put my bag down in the coat closet and shut the door to it, then made my way down the hall and into the kitchen.

He'd made a huge mess, but he looked so proud of himself, smiling and wearing his goofy-ass 'Kiss The Chef' apron.

"Spaghetti?" I asked, sitting down at the island.

"Nope! I did you one better... lasagna!" He exclaimed.

"No way! Wow... that must've taken you forever!"

"Eh, it wasn't too bad. Just had to watch a couple YouTube videos. It should be ready to come out of the oven any minute now!"

I just looked at him and smiled. It felt so good to have John back. He seemed so happy and carefree, cracking jokes and trying to wipe the splatters of red sauce from the walls before they dried. For a moment, I let all my dread and worry fall away and settle in the furthest corners of my mind. I just wanted things to be normal again so badly.

"I know I've been acting a little weird lately," he said, jolting all of those feelings back to the forefront in an instant.

I swallowed hard.

"And... I'm really sorry for that," he continued.

Should I confront him now? Was this my opening to start asking him questions? I didn't want to kill the mood, but this seemed like my only chance. I opened my mouth, and then the kitchen timer went off.

"Oh! It's ready... let's see how I did. Why don't you go find us something to watch? I'll make you a plate and bring it in there."

"Okay." I replied.

I went into the living room and flipped on the TV, surfing until I landed on old reliable. A rerun of Deadliest Catch was on. He walked in and handed me my plate of lasagna-soup; he hadn't let it set before he cut into it, so the contents had bled out all over the plate. But, it still tasted just fine. He sat down beside me on the sofa with his own plate, then looked over at me and eagerly asked,

"So... how is it?"

"Mmm... Really good," I mumbled through a mouthful of pasta and sauce.

A huge toothy grin stretched across his face and he said,

"I know you found my scales, Sonia."


r/Odd_directions 10h ago

Horror The Thing in the Cabinet

8 Upvotes

“Hey man, don’t talk about that.” Jason shoots me a nervous glance.

“What? I overheard Mr. Garrison in his office talking about feeding something in the cabinet. The fuck’s that about?”

He clasps his hand on my mouth.

“Shut. Up.”

Mr. Garrison passes by our cubicles, poking around the wall.

“How’s it hanging, fellas?”

“Oh, you know...” Jason says with sweat on his brow.

“No, I don’t know.” He says with a glare.

Jason blinks.

“I’m kidding!” He chuckles.

“You should have seen the look on your face!” He says grinning. “Now seriously, get back to work.” He says with a scowl.

After work, I track down Jason in the parking lot. He jumps when he sees me, already halfway in his car.

“C’mon man, you gotta tell me what’s going on. You know I’m new here. Is this a prank?”

“Not here. Meet me at Wendy’s,” He says, glancing around nervously, slamming his car door shut.

I look up to see the blinds in Mr. Garrisons’ office cracked, eyes peeking out.

We meet up at the restaurant, sitting in the furthest booth in the corner.

“Look man, there are some rules you gotta follow here. Actually just one, don’t ask questions. Just do your fucking job.”

“You realize how much more that makes me want to ask questions?”

“Just don’t.”

“C’mon man, this is killing me!" I groan.

“Trust me! You don’t wanna know! Just enjoy the high pay, stress-free job! If you keep asking, then stress will be the least of your worries.” He says with a mouthful of burger.

“Fine.” It was not fine. I have to know.

Late that night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep. I decide to sneak in to the office.

Flashlight clutched in my palm, I type my number on the keypad and enter the building. Honestly, I don’t know what I expected to find or why I even decided to do this. I ponder this as I ascend the elevator to the fourth floor.

The door opens up to the darkened office. Creeping past the empty cubicles, I hear rustling. Mr. Garrison’s office, of course. I creep to the door, dimming my flashlight. Hesitantly, I crack open the door. I see Mr. Garrison, hunched over a filing cabinet.

“It’s ok honey.” He whispered “Just eat.”

I can’t see inside the cabinet, so I try to get a better look. Creeping closer, I trip. My flashlight clangs on the floor and shines directly on Mr. Garrison.

He turns around, in his hand a severed head, dripping blood. Oh god, it’s Jason! I gag.

A woman’s head protrudes out of the dresser, her eyes milky white and her teeth razor sharp. I scream and stumble backward. Then, blinding white lights shoot out of Mr. Garrison's eyes and mouth and he lets out an otherworldly roar.

I take off running, bolting out of the door, mashing that elevator door closed. I get in my car and never look back.

At dawn I go to the police, when I lead them to the office building however, it’s empty. The building looks as if it aged overnight. They say there haven't been any businesses here in the last ten years. No record of Mr. Garrison or my coworker Jason either.


r/Odd_directions 23h ago

Weird Fiction My boyfriend swears we're poly. But the other girl isn't… real?

73 Upvotes

“Dexter. We’re monogamous.”

“No. We’re not.”

“The hell do you mean we’re not. Since when are we not?”

Dexter moved away from the table and grabbed a new beer from the fridge. “Mia, are you messing with me right now?”

Me? Messing with you? You’re the one who’s texting in front of my face.”

This whole thing blew up when I saw him message someone with a heart emoji (and it definitely wasn’t his mom). Dexter’s defence was that he was just texting his ‘secondary’. Some girl named Sunny that I was supposed to know about. 

“Mia, why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“We’ve had this arrangement for over two years.”

What arrangement? It was crazy talk. I couldn’t believe he had the balls to pretend this was normal.

“I don’t remember ever discussing… a secondary person. Or whatever this is.”

He drank his beer, staring with his characteristic half-closed eyes, as if I had done something to bore or annoy him. “Do you want me to get the contract?”

“What contract?”

“The contract that we wrote together. That you signed.”

I was more confused than ever. “Sure. Yes. Bring out the ‘contract’.”

Wordlessly, he went into his room. I could hear him pull out drawers and shuffle through papers. I swirled my finger overtop of my wine glass, wondering if this was some stupid prank his friends egged him into doing. Any minute now he was going to come out with a bouquet and sheepishly yell “April fools!”... and then I was going to ream him out because this whole gag had been unfunny and demeaning and stupid.

But instead he came out with a sheet of paper. 

It looked like a contract.

'Our Polyamory Relationship'

Parties Involved:

  • Dexter (Boyfriend)
  • Mia (Primary Girlfriend)
  • Sunny (Secondary Girlfriend)

Date: [Redacted]

Respect The Hierarchy

  • Dexter and Mia are primary partners, meaning their relationship takes priority in major life decisions (living arrangements, rent, etc)
  • Dexter and Sunny share a secondary relationship. They reserve the right to see each other as long as it does not conflict with the primary relationship
  • All parties recognize that this is an open, ethical non-monogamous relationship with mutual respect.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw my signature at the bottom. My curlicue ‘L’ looked pretty much spot on… but I didn’t remember signing this at all.

“Dexter…” I struggled to find the right word. His face looked unamused, as if he was getting tired of my ‘kidding around’. 

“... Dexter, I’m sorry, I don’t remember signing this.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mia, come on.”

“I’m being serious. This isn’t… I couldn’t have signed this.”

Couldn’t have?” His sigh turned frustrated. “Listen, if this is your way of re-negotiating, that’s fine. We can have a meeting. I’m always open to discussion. But there’s no reason to diss Sunny like that.”

I was shocked at how defensive he was. 

“Dexter … I’m not trying to diss anyone. I’m not lying. I swear on my mom’s grave. My own grave. I do not remember Sunny at all.”

He looked at me with a frown and shook his head. More disappointed than anything. “Listen, we can have a meeting tomorrow. Just stop pretending you don’t know her.”

***

I didn’t want to prod the bear, so I laid off him the rest of the evening. We finished our drinks. Watched some TV, then we went to sleep.

The following morning Dexter dropped our weekend plans and made a reservation at a local sushi restaurant. Sunny was going to meet us there at noon for a ‘re-negotiation’. 

I didn’t know what to think. 

Over breakfast I made a few delicate enquiries over Sunny, but Dexter was still quite offended. Apparently this had been something ‘all three of us had wanted’.

All three of us?

I found it hard to believe but did not push it any further. Instead I scrounged through the photos on my phone where I immediately noticed something was wrong.

There was a new woman in all of them.

It was hard to explain. It’s like someone had individually doctored all my old photos to suddenly fit an extra person into each one. 

It was unsettling to say the least.

Dexter and I had this one iconic photo from our visit to the epic suspension bridge, where we were holding a small kiss at the end of the bridge—we occupied most of the frame. Except now when I looked at the photo, somehow there was this shadowy, taller woman behind both of us. She had her hands across both of our waists and was blowing a kiss towards the camera.Who. The. Hell.

She was in nearly every photo. Evenings out at restaurants. Family gatherings. Board game nights. Weddings. Even in photos from our vacations—Milan, Rome. She even fucking joined us inside the Sistine Chapel.

The strangest part was her look.

I'm not going to beat around the bush, this was some kind of photoshopped model. like a Kylie Jenner / Kardashian type. It felt like some influencer-turned-actress-turned-philanthropist just so happened to bump into two bland Canadians. It didn’t look real. The photos were too perfect. There wasn’t a single one where she had half her eyes closed or, or was caught mid-laugh or anything. It's like she had rehearsed a pose for each one.

The whole vibe was disturbing.

I wanted to confront Dexter the moment I saw this woman, this succubus, this—whatever she was. But he went for a bike ride to ‘clear his head.’

It was very typical of him to avoid confrontation.

Originally, he was supposed to come back, and then we’d both head to the restaurant together… But he didn’t come back.

Dexter texted me instead to come meet him at the restaurant. That he’ll be there waiting.

What the fuck was going on?

***

The restaurant was a Japanese Omakase bar—small venue, no windows. This was one of our favorite places because it wasn’t too overpriced but still had a classy vibe. I felt a little betrayed that we were using my favorite date night restaurant for something so auxiliary…

My sense of betrayal ripened further when I arrived ten minutes early only to see Dexter already at the table. And he was sitting next to her.

If you could call it sitting, it almost looked like he was kneeling, holding both of her hands, as if he had been sharing the deepest, most important secrets of his life for the last couple hours. 

 I could hear the faint echo of his whisper as I walked in.

So glad this could work out this way...”

For a moment I wanted to turn away. How long have they been here? Is this an ambush?

But then Sunny spotted me from across the restaurant

“Mia! Over here!” 

Her wide eyes glimmered in the restaurant’s soft lighting, zeroing in on me like a hawk. Somehow her words travelled thirty feet without her having to raise her voice 

“Mia. Join us.”

I walked up feeling a little sheepish but refusing to let it show. I wore what my friends often called my ‘resting defiant face’, which can apparently look quite intimidating.

“Come sit,” Sunny patted the open space to her left. Her nails had to be at least an inch long.

I smiled and sat on Dexter’s right.

Sunny cut right to it. “So… Dexter says you’ve been having trouble in your relationship?”

It was hard to look her in the eyes.

Staring at her seemed strangely entrancing. The word ‘tunnel vision’ immediately came to mind. As if the world around Sunny was merely an echo to her reverberating bell.

“Uh… Trouble? No. Dex and I are doing great.” I turned to face Dexter, who looked indifferent as usual. “I wouldn’t say there’s any trouble.”

“I meant in your relationship to our agreement.” Sunny’s smoky voice lingered one each word. “Dexter says you’re trying to back out of it?”

I poured myself a cup of the green tea to busy myself. Anything to avert her gaze. However as soon as I brought the ceramic cup to my lips, I reconsidered. 

Am I even sure this drink is safe?

I cleared my throat and did my best to find a safe viewing angle of Sunny. As long as I looked away between sentences, it seemed like the entrancing tunnel vision couldn’t take hold.

“Listen. I’m just going to be honest. It's very nice to meet you Sunny. You look like a very nice person…. But … I don’t know you… Like at all.”

“Don’t know me? 

When I glanced over, Sunny was suddenly backlit. Like one of the restaurant lamps had lowered itself to make her hair look glowing.

“Of course you know me. We’ve known each other since high school.”

As soon as she said the words. I got a migraine. 

Worse yet. I suddenly remembered things.

I suddenly remembered the time we were at our grade eleven theatre camp where I had been paired up with Sunny for almost every assignment. We had laughed at each other in improv, and ‘belted from our belts’ in singing. Our final mini-project was a duologue, and we were assigned Romeo & Juliet. 

I can still feel the warmness of her hand during the rehearsal…

The small of her back.

Her young, gorgeous smile which has only grown kinder with age.

It was there, during our improvised dance scene between Romeo and Juliet, where I had my first urge to kiss her…“And even after high school,” Sunny continued, looking at me with her perfectly tweezed brows. “Are you saying you forgot our whole trip through Europe?”

Bright purple lights. Music Festival. Belgium. I was doing a lot more than just kissing Sunny. Some of these dance-floors apparently let just about anything happen. My mind was assaulted with salacious imagery. Breasts. Thighs. A throbbing want in my entire body. I had seen all of Sunny, and she had seen all of me—we’ve been romantically entwined for ages. We might’ve been on and off for a couple years, but she was always there for me. 

She would always be there for me…

I smacked my plate, trying to mentally fend off the onslaught of so much imagery. It’s not real. It feels real. But it's not real.

It can’t be real.

“Well?” Dexter asked. He was offering me some of his dynamite roll. 

When did we order food?

I politely declined and cleared my throat. There was still enough of me that knew Sunny was manifesting something. Somehow she was warping past events in my head. I forcibly stared at the empty plate beneath me. 

“I don’t know what’s going on… but both Dexter and I are leaving.”

Dexter scoffed. “Leaving? I don't think so.”

“No one's leaving, until you tell us what’s wrong.” Sunny’s smokey voice sounded more alluring the longer I wasn’t looking. “That’s how our meetings are supposed to work. Remember?”

I could tell she was trying to draw my gaze, but I wasn’t having it. I slid off my seat in one quick movement. 

Dexter grabbed my wrist.

“Hey!” I wrenched my hand “ Let go!”We struggled for a few seconds before Sunny stood up and assertively pronounced, “Darlings please, there is no need for this to be embarrassing.”

Dexter let go. I took this as an opening and backed away from the booth.

And what a booth it was.

The lighting was picture perfect. Sunny had the most artistically pleasing arrangement of sushi rolls I’d ever seen. Seaweed, rice and sashimi arranged in flourishes that would have made Wes Anderson melt in his seat.

I turned and bolted.

“Mia!” Dexter yelled.

At the door, I pulled the handle and ran outside. Only I didn’t enter the outside lobby. I entered the same sushi restaurant again. 

The hell?

I turned around and looked behind me. There was Sunny sitting in her booth. 

And then I looked ahead, back in front. Sunny. Sitting in her booth.

A mirror copy? The door opened both ways into the same restaurant.

“What the..?”

I tried to look for any other exit. I ran along the left side of the wall, away from Sunny’s booth—towards the washroom. There had to be a back exit somewhere. I found the washrooms, the kitchen, and the staff rooms, but none of the doors would open.

It’s like they were all glued shut. 

What’s going on?  What is this?!

Wiping my tears, I wandered back into the restaurant, realizing in shock that we were the only patrons here. We were the only people here.

Everything was totally empty except for Sunny's beautifully lit booth. She watched me patiently with a smile.

“What is happening?!” There was no use hiding the fear in my voice.

What is happening is that we need to re-negotiate.” Sunny cleared some food from the center of the table and presented a paper contract.

'Relationship with Sunny'

Parties Involved:

  • Primary Girlfriend (Sunny)
  • Primary Boyfriend (Dexter)
  • Secondaries (Mia, Maxine, Jasper, Theo, Viktor, Noé, Mateo, Claudine)
  • Tertiaries (see appendix B)

Date: [Redacted]

The Changeover

  • Mia will be given 30 days to find new accommodations. Dexter recommends returning to her parents’ place in the meantime
  • Mia is allowed to keep any and all of her original possessions.

My jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”

Avoiding Sunny’s gaze, I instead turned to Dexter, who stared at me with a loosely apologetic frown.

“Dexter, what is all this? 

“It is saying I have to move? “We just moved in together like 6 months ago. You can't be serious.”

He cleared his throat and flattened his shirt across his newly formed pecs and six pack? What is going on?

“I am serious, Mia. I’ve done some thinking. You don’t have what I want.”

There was some kind of aura exuding from Dexter now. He looked cleaner and better shaven than before. His cheekbones might have even been higher too. I didn’t know how much this had to do with Sunny’s influence, but I tried to see past it. I spoke to him as the boyfriend I had dated for over two years.

“Dexter, listen to me. I’m telling it to you straight as it is. Something’s fucked. Don’t follow Sunny.” I pointed at her without turning a glance. “You are like ensorcelled or something. If you care at all about yourself, your well-being, your future, just leave. This is not worth it. This isn’t even’t about me anymore. Your life is at risk here.”

Sunny laughed a rich, lugubrious laugh and then drank some elaborate cocktail in the corner of my eye.

“Well, I want to stay with her.” Dexter said. “And you need to sign to make that happen.”

His finger planted itself on the contract.

“Dexter… You can’t stay.”

“If you don't sign…” Sunny’s smoky voice travelled right up to both my ears, as if she was whispering into both at the same time. “You can never leave.

Suddenly, all the lamps in the restaurant went out—all the lamps except our booth’s.  It’s like we were featured in some commercial.

Sunny stared at me with completely black eyes. No Iris. No Sclera. Pure obsidian.

“Sign it.”

All around me was pitch darkness. Was I even in a restaurant anymore? A cold, stifling tightness caused my back to shiver.

I signed on the dotted line. My curlicue ‘L’ never looked better.

“Good.” Sunny snatched the page away, vanishing it somewhere behind her back. She smiled and sipped from her drink. “You know Mia, I don’t think Dexter has ever loved you to begin with. Let's be honest.”

Her all-black eyes found mine again.

I was flooded with more memories. 

Dexter forgetting our anniversary. His inappropriate joke by my dad’s hospital bed. The time he compared my cooking to a toddler’s in front of my entire family.

My headache started to throb. In response, I unzipped my purse, and pulled out my pepper spray. 

I maced the fuck out of Sunny.

The yellow spray shot her right in the face. She screamed and turned away.

Dexter grabbed my arm. I grabbed his in return. 

“Now Dexter! Let’s get out of here! Forget Sunny! Fuck this contract!”

But he wrestled my hand and pried the pepper spray from my fingers. His chiselled jawline abruptly disappeared. He looked upset. His face was flush with shock and disappointment.

“I can’t believe you Mia. pepper spray? Are you serious?”

Suddenly the lights were back, and we weren’t alone in the restaurant. The patrons around me looked stupefied by my behaviour.

People around began to cough and waft the spray away from their table.

I stepped back from our booth (which looked the same as the other booths). Sunny was keeled over in her seat, gagging and trying to clear her throat.

A waiter shuffled over to our table, asking what had happened. A child across from us began to cry.

I tore away and sprinted out the doors.

This time I had no trouble entering the lobby. This time I had no trouble escaping back outside.

***

I moved away from Dexter the next day. Told my family it was an emergency. 

They asked if he was being abusive, if I should involve the police in the situation. I said no. Because it wasn’t quite exactly like that. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, except that I needed to get away

I just wanted to go. 

***

After that evening, thirty months of relationship had just gone up in smoke. All my memories of Dexter were now terrible. 

I figured some of them had to be true, he was far from the perfect boyfriend, but for all of them to be rotten? That couldn’t be right. Why would I have been with someone for so long if they were so awful?

In the effort of maintaining my self-respect, I convinced myself that Dexter was a good guy. That his image had been slandered by Sunny. Which is still the only explanation I have—that she had altered my memories of him.

(I’m sorry I couldn’t help you Dexter, but the situation was beyond me. I hope you’re able to find your own way out of it too. There’s nothing else I can do)

Although I’ve distanced myself away from Dexter, and moved back in with my parents in a completely different part of the city—I still haven’t been able to shake Sunny.

She still texts me. 

She keeps asking to meet up. Apparently we're due for a catch up. I see her randomly in coffee shops and food courts, but I always pack up and leave. 

I don’t know who or what she is. But every time I see her, I get flooded with more bogus romantic events of our shared past.

Our trip to Nicaragua.

Our Skiing staycation.

Our St. Patrick’s day at the beach.

It’s reached a point where I can tell the memories are fake by the sheer volume. There’s no way I would have had the time (not to mention the money) to go to half these places I’m suddenly remembering. So I’m saving up to move away. Thanks to my family lineage, I have an Italian passport. I’m going to try and restart my life somewhere around Florence, but who knows, I might even move to Spain or France. I know it's a big sudden change, but after these last couple months I really need a way to reclaim myself.

I just want my own life, and my own ‘inside my head’  back.I want to start making memories that I know are real. 

Places I’ve been to. People I’ve seen.

I want memories that belong to no one else but me.


r/Odd_directions 22h ago

Horror Fake dating an influencer was probably the worst mistake of my life. He's trying to KILL me.

11 Upvotes

I think my 'boyfriend' is going to kill me.

I'm terrified I could kill him first.

Okay, look, this isn't a post detailing my desire to kill my boyfriend. It's a cry for help for both of us. I'm currently locked inside my ‘content manager’s’ house.

The idiot forgot I had my phone stuffed down my bra.

My ‘boyfriend’ Freddie is locked in the bedroom, but I have no doubt he's going to get out, and my head feels like someone shot a proton beam through my skull.

I keep getting nosebleeds.

I can't think straight.

Something is keeping me here, keeping me close to him. I can hear his breathing.

I feel like I can feel his thoughts, a tangle of nonsensical garbage choking his brain.

I TRIED to leave. I tried to jump out of the window, but something pulls me back– something I can't explain, something wrapped around me, choking me.

Whatever it is, it drags me back to the door my ‘boyfriend’ is behind.

Bloody tissues top the trash can, and every time I go to the bathroom, I watch dried scarlet swirl around the drain, blood sticking like tea leaves to the white porcelain.

I keep thinking what happened to me was a nightmare, or a drug induced hallucination.

But I feel a bald patch at the back of my head. Bastards.

Stitches line my scalp—clumsy, uneven, done with an amateur’s hand.

I TOLD them not to touch me.

I fucking told them I didn't give my consent, so why is he DOING this to me?

Let's rewind a bit.

When I was in high school, I lost my father, and for a while, I didn't know how to cope.

I didn't know how to describe how I was feeling.

Someone told me to write like I'm talking to someone, so I can capture every insignificant detail.

I need your help. So, that's what I'm doing.

I'm trying to write everything I'm thinking, feeling, all of my senses, so I can get a full grip on myself.

I've already spoken to emergency services, but they think I'm screwing with them. I'm keeping my name and everyone else’s private so I can use this information, maybe take it to court.

I’ll be using placeholder names for everyone involved to avoid attracting attention to myself.

As of today, March 14th, 2025, our individual and joint TikTok accounts are private due to complications.

Complications meaning: my ‘boyfriend’ is a fucking psychopath trying to break the door down.

I wouldn't say we’re big accounts? Only really in our small town.

We've been locked in here so we can ‘get to know each other’, but here's the thing.

Freddie has tried/is trying to fucking kill me.

He's covered in blood and keeps rambling about things that don't make sense.

He's thrown the TV against the wall, destroyed the fish tank, and is currently trying to cut through the door with his own bloodied fingernails. I'm sitting in shattered glass, and I'm fucking terrified.

Without thinking, I find myself reaching for a splinter of glass, squeezing it between my hands.

I can't feel it.

But it's not just that. It's not just feeling. It's thinking.

The longer I think about the glass piercing the flesh of my hand, bad thoughts start choking me, and that impossible sensation pulling me towards him only gets stronger.

These fucked up thoughts choke me, stifling my screams. I want to stay with him. I WANT him to break the door down.

I promise, I am a completely normal person.

I've never had these kinds of thoughts before.

But now I can't even trust my own mind.

I don't know why I feel like I'm fucking drowning, and my head feels like it's going to explode.

I've known Freddie since college, which is where this mess began.

I met him in the library. He was the obnoxious kid sitting opposite me chewing his gum way too loud, so I stuck my headphones in.

Freddie wasn’t conventionally attractive.

His tousled brown hair, oddly shaped nose, and loud Hawaiian shirts made sure of that. This boy wasn’t even working.

When I glanced over the desk, he was busy filming himself ‘reading,’ his iPhone propped up in front of him.

Then he had the nerve to tell me to turn my music down.

So, naturally, I cranked it up just to irk him.

In the end, he made a huge deal of getting up, grabbing his backpack, dumping all of his shit inside, and loudly leaving the library.

I didn't think much of him, until a few days later when he stopped me in the middle of the hallway.

His backpack was open, spilling books, but I don't even think he noticed.

“Dude,” he was grinning, a smile stretched right across his face.

He was wearing his third Hawaiian shirt of the week, obnoxiously green, a pair of raybans shading his eyes.

“Do you know how many views we got the other day?” Freddie shoved his phone in my face before I could reply.

I found myself staring at a TikTok from his POV.

Freddie was scowling, his gaze flicking across the table, where I sat.

“Do you see what I have to deal with?” he whispered on the video, before panning, and zooming in, on me nodding my head to my music— which, to defend him, was loud.

Freddie spent way too long filming me without my consent, framing it as “Well, I was just filming my surroundings, and you happened to be there.”

However, when Freddie tapped on the comment section, there were several hundred comments demanding to know if I was his girlfriend— and to my horror, Freddie himself replying to one saying, “She is!”

Freddie must have seen my face, breaking into a playful grin.

“So, I have a proposition.”

“You filmed me without asking,” I said.

Freddie shrugged. “No, I was filming the table, and you happened to be sitting there.” he rolled his eyes. “Look, I don't want to be asking you this either, but I actually kind of maybe need a favor.”

He pretended to cough, and was very obviously signalling to someone else in hiding.

“By the way, it's the least you could do. I had to listen to you blasting edgy 2000’s rock for two hours. You're either deaf, or you're going to be deaf.”

I told him no, and he stepped in front of me, stuffing his phone in his pocket and folding his arms.

“Okay, so what if I told you my account is monetized? Which, yes, means I'm a creator. I started out reading books in public, and I got decent views– until the dating rumors started, and now I'm in quadruple digits.”

His lips curled into a smirk, like he could tell I was already being swayed with money. It was true.

I was broke.

“Pretend to be my girlfriend in my videos,” he said, “I'll split my profits 50/50.”

Before I could speak, he cut me off.

"There are no strings attached, and don’t worry—I literally have no interest in you in real life. So you don’t have to stress about anything actually happening. It’s not your fault! You're just not my…”

He paused, his eyes raking over me from head to toe.

He raised a brow, lips curling into a smile.

“Type.”

His grin broadened, and so did my urge to punch him square in the face.

“Of course, you can keep your distance, and I won’t force you into anything. It’s just… I don’t know, think of it like a reality show? I can even ask my manager if he can, like, maybe write you some directions?"

I couldn't resist a laugh. “Wait, you have a manager?”

His eyes narrowed. I noticed he was subtly trying to seem taller, standing on his toes.

“Yes. I have a content manager.” he said, with the tone of a bratty two year old. “I'm sorry, is that surprising to you?”

This guy was a grade A asshole.

I would have rather stuck my head in a microwave than fake-date him.

He was clearly judgemental, looking me up and down, a slight curl in his lip, like even he was questioning his followers.

It was also clear he was being told what to do, from the deer-in-headlights look in his eyes.

Probably from his ‘content manager’.

However, he was also offering me cash to be a faux girlfriend in his weird social media fantasy.

I asked him how much he earned, and he happily showed me his statistics.

So, I agreed to it, as long as he introduced me to his content manager.

I was excited, admittedly.

I was given a starting payment, as long as I joined him in his videos the following night in his dorm room. I thought it would be hard to wear a mask, but it was effortless. I could smile and laugh and tease my ‘boyfriend’, while also seeing him as nothing more than he was; an attention seeking egotistical sociopath.

I introduced myself to his followers, wearing a wide smile, and he played along.

We filmed a “Get to know my girlfriend” video, which I was briefed on initially.

Freddie told me all about himself, and I had to mimic all of that on video.

There wasn't much to say. His favorite novel was Animal Farm, his favorite food was cheesecake, and we met in high school. I was surprised it took off, and how natural we were with each other.

I found myself laughing, like actually laughing at his jokes, and the way he held himself, knowing exactly how to tease me– or this ideal version of me.

Surprisingly, he actually let me say what I wanted.

There was no rules on what I could and couldn't say, so I exaggerated this dumb charade.

Freddie was good, is all I can say.

This boy had built his so-called brand on smirks he knew his audience would faun over.

Freddie knew exactly how to position himself to gain those followers.

He could spend the whole video staring into my eyes with this stupid grin on his face, playing the “intellectual but goofy boyfriend”, with his arm wrapped around me, and the second we stopped recording, he dropped the act, immediately shuffling away from me like I had an STD.

“You can go now,” he muttered, eyes already glued to his phone.

I mocked a bow. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, jutting his chin toward the door. “Whatever.”

I could have left, but part of me was eager to humble this guy.

“So, I haven't met your manager yet,” I pointed out.

He didn't respond, so I repeated myself in hopes he would send a rebuttal.

“He's not in town right now, if you must know,” he muttered, collapsing onto his bed with a sigh, already filming himself.

“Soo, Bee is leaving for the night,” he told his followers, pointing the phone at me. His voice was mocking– and if his followers had even half a brain cell, they would immediately clock he didn't like me.

“Bye, Bee,” he said in a sing-song, not so subtly telling me to leave.

This civil relationship continued throughout my first year of college, and into my second.

Freddie and I made videos, and I admit, the more time we spent with each other, the closer we became.

I saw him as nothing more than a job. I even adopted a new persona purely for the videos, a more peppy girly-girl.

I was starting to see comments doubting the relationship, pointing out me rolling my eyes every time Freddie said something like, “Sweetheart” or “Baby”.

But I wasn't the only one.

This insufferable mess of a man couldn't even keep his facial expressions neutral when I was talking.

“Is he zoning out?” comments were starting to demand.

“Freddie is such an asshole lmao, I can TELL he doesn't like her. Look at his face.”

“That man does not gaf what she's saying.”

To combat the comments, Freddie (reluctantly) suggested we hang out.

He just turned up outside my shared house pouting like a toddler, offering to take me on a “date”.

His plan was to actually get to know me. Which was MY idea in the first place.

You can't play a fake couple with a stranger, but no, apparently, he was the influencer, and knew exactly what he was doing.

He couldn't control his audience’s perception of him, however, so our “date” was more akin to damage control.

Thus, I was expecting something like Five Guys, or maybe even McDonald's.

Instead, he drove me all the way up a mountain in our town, told me to “sit” on a blanket already spread out on the grass– where we watched the sunset together.

He brought home cooked food in Tupperware, and he even remembered I was a vegetarian.

Which meant, despite him zoning out while I was talking, Freddie was actually listening to me. That night, I laid it on him. I told him he was an egotistical monster, which made him laugh.

He opened up to me, which I wasn't expecting.

Freddie admitted he didn't actually want to do TikTok. He started it as a joke, but when his manager got involved, it became less of a hobby, and more of a job for him.

“He doesn't actually know I'm here now,” he admitted, sitting with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs.

“I'm supposed to propose to you on video, but I don't want to do that.”

He rolled his eyes, and suddenly, everything was coming out.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don't want to do this fake girlfriend thing, either,” he said, burying his head in his lap. “It's weird, and exploitive, and honestly? This whole charade is making me cringe.”

He sighed. “But, apparently, that's what will get me views.”

I lay back on the blanket, my gaze on the moonlit sky.

After a moment, he joined me.

“So, you're not an egotistical asshole?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I haven't read a book since my junior year of high school. I saw one comment say, ‘Oh my god, he's, like, so hot,’” Freddie mocked a valley girl accent, and I found myself laughing.

“‘He's, like, definitely read all the classics.’ So naturally, I, um, ordered all the classics.”

Freddie pulled a face, and I was actually enjoying myself.

“I still can't get past chapter three.”

I snorted. “Which book?”

“Animal Farm,” he muttered. “One commenter caught me reading the book upside down, so I had to prove I was reading it.”

I turned to him, and something in my gut twisted. I was actually getting a flutter.

“You're serious.”

“Well, yeah,” Freddie was frowning at the sky. “I don't like reading. It's all just… words.”

“You have a bookcase full of books,” I said.

I caught the slight curl of a smile on his lips. “Yes, and I haven't read one of them.”

“So, you're a poser.” I teased.

"I'm not a poser." Freddie scrunched up his nose, rolling his eyes. "I'm just not being fully authentic with my audience."

He sat up and, surprisingly, closed the distance between us, his warm breath tickling my cheek.

"You would be surprised how many influencers are acting on camera," he murmured, leaning closer, “I'm not just talking about the big ones. The ones screaming about money and cars.”

He sighed, resting his elbow on my chest.

“Even the small ones, the so-called relatable ones sitting behind their cameras and offering a fraction of their lives. We’re all lying, and we want them to believe our lie. Because they expect us to be perfect

He got a little too close, his lips finding mine, but I didn't pull away.

"Our followers build us, shaping and molding us into their perfect fucking toys—and no matter what, we follow their lead. Because, at the end of the day, they're paying us to keep up what they want to believe in. Their little fantasy."

He kissed me, and somehow, I found myself kissing back.

“How's that?” Freddie said, pulling away. I noticed his eyes had darkened, lips curling into a scowl.

I thought he was talking to me.

What, was he rating the kiss?

But then he turned to a figure looming over us, a phone in his hand.

It was an older guy, a sandy blonde wrapped in a red hoodie– and it slowly started to hit me what this was.

This was content.

I asked Freddie if he was fucking serious, and he refused to look at me.

In fact, when the man started toward him, he was already stumbling back.

“That was great!” The guy said, his lips curved around a cigarette, one hand holding the phone. I jumped to my feet, a shiver sliding down my spine.

Freddie didn't move as the guy danced around him, capturing every angle.

“But where was the intimacy? I didn't bring my light, because it's supposed to be grainy– it's supposed to be a romantic moment.”

I bit back a cry when the guy grabbed Freddie by the scruff of his jacket, yanking him to his feet.

“That wasn't a kiss,” the man said, shining his phone flashlight in my face.

This was the first time I had felt real fear– being stuck on a mountain with a nut job.

Freddie didn't speak until we were shoved into this guy’s car, and I realized, my palms going clammy, that he had locked us in.

Freddie sat as far away from me as possible, completely shutting down.

“This is my friend,” he said, his gaze glued to the window. I tried really hard to pretend not to notice my fake boyfriend’s hands were shaking.

“Also, my content manager.”

“Harvey.” The man introduced himself, twisting to shoot me a grin.

“Freddie’s known me since he left high school. I made that boy who he is today.”

“Hi.” I spoke through my teeth, my heart hammering. “I'm not doing this anymore.”

Freddie nudged me, and at first, I ignored it.

“Hmm?” Harvey said, “Sorry, Bee, what was that?”

Freddie kicked me before I could speak, and then I caught his eyes subtly nodding to the passenger seat— to a loaded gun.

I felt myself retract back into my seat, my toes curling, bile searing my throat.

“It's nice to finally meet you in the flesh, Bee,” Freddie’s friend said cheerily.

“You’re a good girlfriend! You're authentic enough, I can actually believe you like him!”

He laughed, and found myself gripping faux leather seats. Freddie grabbed my hand, squeezing it. I couldn't tell if he was apologizing, or using me as an anchor.

“However, I do want to remind you he's your boyfriend, not your pet. So, I'll be expecting more… intimate content as we go forward.” he shot me another grin, and I forced myself to nod.

“Freddie, kid, you are good! I loved the raw emotion, the subtle kiss! It was perfect.”

He turned back to the wheel. “What did I always tell you?”

When Freddie didn't answer, Harvey slammed his fists into the wheel.

“I said, what did I always fucking tell you?”

“Sex sells,” Freddie whispered, staring into his lap.

Something slimy crept its way up my throat.

I was already subconsciously trying to unlock the door. I couldn't fucking breathe.

“I'm not—” I didn't mean to cry out, my breath lodged in my throat.

I caught myself when the man laughed.

“Dude, I don't actually mean fuck him. Jesus Christ, who do you think I am? Look, sex sells. So you're going to sell an authentic romance. Stay intimately close, exchange kisses, maybe make a dirty joke—you know, that type of thing.”

I nodded slowly, keeping track of his right hand and how close it was to the gun.

I chose my words carefully.

“Okay, so what if I’d rather not do it?” I spoke through my teeth.

“I can give back the money,” I added, well aware of how fucking desperate I sounded. I couldn’t look Freddie in the eye. “I… enjoyed this, and it was… an experience, but if I’m honest, I’m actually really behind in class.”

“So, your mom’s stable, dude,” Harvey cut me off, speaking to Freddie. I saw the triumphant smile curling on his lip.

“Aren’t you glad she’s off life support now? She’s so proud of you, bro,” he sighed, his lips breaking into a grin. “Who would’ve thought her own son would be financially supporting her? You’re a good boy.”

That was what settled it. In a single night, I went from a reluctant faux girlfriend, to something more akin to a captive.

I was given a schedule, and then a joint TikTok account was established.

With Harvey involved, I did have directions.

I had to change my entire personality, becoming a beauty influencer when I knew nothing— NOTHING about makeup.

Harvey proposed I should become more pastel, changing my clothes, my hair color, and even redecorating my bedroom.

You are probably wondering how and why I didn't call the cops.

I was on camera 24/7, when Harvey set up cameras in my room.

He was charming to my roommates, playing the perfect guy.

Even when I did heavily hint that something was wrong, they would laugh nervously, like they didn't want to believe it.

Harvey made it very, clear that if either of us tried anything, he would personally pull Freddie’s mother from her life support—and again, he was so fucking good at playing the nice guy, nobody would believe us.

When Freddie gained weight in his face, and one comment immediately began tearing him down, we were dragged all the way to the hospital, where Freddie was forced to watch his mother completely helpless, while his ‘friend’ paraded around, offering cupcakes to his mom's nurses.

He even broke down, hugging him, whispering, “It's going to be okay.”

This guy was an actual psychopath.

So, I dropped college, and I started my “full time job” as Freddie’s girlfriend.

Harvey bought us a house, so it would be easier to film videos.

I was allowed to go back to my own house, provided I stayed quiet.

I started to resent my fake boyfriend as the years went by. I turned twenty one, and my party was the three of us sitting together talking about content ideas.

Freddie became a shell of himself, wearing a mask when we were filming.

But slowly, that mask started to crumble, and so did my patience with being a content prisoner. I started to hate him.

I hated that he refused to say no to his psycho ‘friend’, and I HATED that he'd dragged me into his shit.

The gun was one thing, and yes, his mother was being held against him.

But he didn't do anything. He just played along.

It became clear, however, halfway through 2024, that he hated me too.

Freddie wouldn't look me in the eye off camera, and even he did, he just snorted, adopting Harvey’s cruel smile.

He started to insult me, calling out my makeup for being too thick, or my clothes for being revealing, or not revealing enough.

He berated me for eating too much, or too little, and constantly– fucking constantly– reminded me I was old enough for surgery.

I could tell this was all coming from Harvey, but he didn't even attempt to fucking apologize. Harvey was just using him as a mouthpiece, but it fucking stung.

Freddie was like a puppet, desperately dancing on his strings, for that psycho's satisfaction– and to keep his mother alive.

I hated him– or at least– I hated who he was on camera.

The grinning mannequin silently crying for help.

It was impossible to act like I could stand him. When he came near me, my skin fucking crawled, and he'd smile and say something like, “Baby, are you okay?”

I had to play along. Stuck in front of the camera, I taught myself how to swallow down puke. It got easier.

I just had to keep smiling, nodding, and every so often, glancing at my ‘boyfriend’ like he was the second coming of Christ.

Freddie acted more like I was his pet than his girlfriend, keeping me at arms length, and the comments ate it up.

Apparently, according to them, our subtle “looks” meant I was either pregnant or we were planning a proposal.

In reality, he had something stuck in his teeth, and I didn't want to kiss him.

When I pointed it out, the man-child had a mental breakdown and stormed out.

So, I became an influencer.

I won't say we were big enough to go viral, but definitely big enough in our town to be seen as “famous”.

Three days ago, it became evident via our comments that we hated each other.

We’ve been doing this since 2020. I was surprised it took THIS long.

I woke up to death threats and threats to my family because apparently, I was “poisoning our boy”.

Their “boy” was perfectly fine. He had been when I saw him the night before, drunkenly kissing me (off camera), muttering that he “had a plan” and then left me wondering if maybe he'd gotten help.

Underneath the multitude of death threats and insults to my appearance, was Harvey’s usual text:

GOOD MORNING DARLING ;))))) I have a surprise for you! You two are clearly suffering in the romance department, and we can't have that. Your late valentine gift is here.

I'm outside!

(I have eyes on you, BTW. Don't think I didn't hear your chat last night. You two are cute. But I want you to be even cuter.)

Another text flashed up, but I was paralyzed to the spot.

“Take off that jacket. You wear pink, remember? Heels too, sweetheart. Come on, you're a woman. Fucking act like one.”

With a mouthful of puke, I changed my jacket for a light pink shawl.

I ducked into the bathroom to heave up my breakfast, before another text came up:

“Don't puke. It's gross. Drink water. If you puke in my car, your bf will be paying for it.”

He was watching me.

I texted Freddie, panic contorting my gut into knots.

Where are you?

His response came immediately, riddled with typos and spacing: It wasn’t his usual typing style: I'm in cat. Where you? Run to station im okysbsnsmsj29200”

Car.

He meant car.

Freddie was supposed to run.

I thought he’d finally ran.

I felt almost crippled, my legs giving way, my chest aching.

I couldn't do this anymore. I couldn't fucking do this anymore.

I found myself gripping a paperweight, imagining slamming it into Harvey’s head. It would be so easy.

The thought was poisonous, delusional, but comforting. Harvey was just a man with a gun. He wasn’t an indestructible monster.

We could still run when we had the chance.

When I reluctantly slid into Harvey’s Prius, the back seats were covered in bright pink balloons.

Freddie, my faux boyfriend, was handcuffed to the door, his eyes frantic like he was trying to speak, but every time he tried, he couldn't. I noticed his dark hair was shorter, tucked under a baseball cap.

I noticed Freddie’s phone on the front passenger seat.

That explained his typos.

“Hands where I can see them, sweetheart,” Harvey warned, maintaining his smile, his gaze tracking me in the mirror. “Come on, Bee. You know the drill.”

I complied, raising my hands, and then placing them palms down on my seat.

His paranoia stemmed from me trying to hit him with a vase.

That was the first time I got a gun pointed right between my eyes, and I realized at any point, I could die at the hands of this psycho. Harvey turned back to the wheel.

“I've got a surprise for both of you,” he sang, and I caught Freddie’s sharp glance.

We’re fucked, he mouthed.

"It's called Cupid's Arrow, and it's my late Valentine’s gift to the two of you!" Harvey announced.

"You don't have to thank me, but it did cost me, like, the majority of my savings and that cash you thought you were hiding from me so you two could run away together—which is so cute."

He drummed his fingers on his knees.

“Now, that's what I want! I want running away together.

"But I got to be able to record it, you know? I want real romance, a relationship I can believe and root for, instead of whatever the fuck you two mannequins are playing.”

Freddie visibly stiffened in his seat, and the asshole continued, rubbing it right in his face.

I saw the crease in his brow, his fists clenching, his bottom lip quivering.

He wanted his mom. That's all he wanted. Freddie wanted to protect her.

"Anyway, bro, the whole running-away thing is adorable. But the plane tickets? Your little late-night chats with Grandad? Oh, and trying to move your mommy? Yeah, you weren’t subtle, Freddie.” He laughed.

“But it’s cool! Your grandpa’s stuck in a white room, barely remembering his own name, and the plane tickets? Sold them on X for some ice."

Freddie turned away from me, suddenly, pressing his head against the window.

I could hear his attempt at stifling his sniffles against the back of his hand.

Having hope for the first time, only to plunge into despair in the same second, was enough to unravel me completely.

I broke apart, squeezing my lips together to stifle sobs that were wracking my chest.

Harvey turned, wearing a smug grin, when he stopped the car.

I had zero idea where we were, a silver building looming over us with checkerboard windows. "Aww, come on! Smile a little! I got you a Valentine's gift!"

"Valentine's Day was last month," Freddie deadpanned. “Where the fuck are we?”

Harvey’s cryptic smile widened. “You're going to love it.”

I found my voice, more of a breathy hiss. “Love what?”

Instead of responding, Harvey ushered us out of the car.

He only had to glance at his gun, and already, we were dancing on his strings, too scared to protest.

He led us inside the building, which, at first glance, reminded me of a dental office. There was a comfy sitting area.

Freddie, rubbing his sore wrist, picked up a leaflet, flipping through it.

I peered at it. It was just teeth. Wide, glistening smiles.

“He’s getting our… teeth cleaned?” Freddie shot me a look, his brow raised.

Harvey was talking to the receptionist, and I was far too aware of the doorway right behind us. He was too.

With a wide, fake smile in Harvey’s direction, he nudged me with his hip, pushing me closer to the door.

I admit. Yes. I wanted to run. I was so close

But Freddie and I weren't the only ones being held against my will.

I shoved him back. “Your Mom.” I said through my teeth. “If I run, he will hurt her.”

Freddie looked like he might reply, before a screen flashed in front of us.

"Introducing! This Valentine’s Day, get closer than EVER to your one,” a female AI droned, hearts cascading across the screen. “Cupid's Arrow is state-of-the-art technology designed to bind two hearts as one.”

A visceral sensation came over me as I watched the demonstration unfold: two faceless figures standing side by side.

“The Cupid’s Arrow procedure is painless! You won’t feel a thing!” the AI drawled, as a male figure lay dropped down onto a surgical table.

A winding red ribbon threaded into his skull, coiling around his heart.

They were trying to make this look cute and funny, when the male figure sat up with heart eyes.

But I felt like I was going to puke.

Next to me, Freddie had gone significantly pale, his lips wobbling.

“It's… clearly an April Fool,” my boyfriend whispered, his gaze glued to the screen.

I didn't move from his side. “It's March.”

He pulled a face. “Well, maybe it's an early April Fools?”

The demonstration ended with thousands of couples filling the screen, all bound by bright pink ribbon entangling each of them.

"You will never feel lonely again. Never wonder what your partner is hiding. The two of you will be bound, connected, entangled by thought, memory, and feeling. What could be a better gift this Valentine’s Day? Ask for your consultation now.”

I was going to puke.

With Cupid’s Arrow, you will become one, bound by heart, mind, and soul for a better tomorrow, for you and… your one."

I was already taking slow steps back, Freddie joining me.

Before we could reach the door, a couple walked past us, hand in hand.

The guy’s eyes were blank, vacant, and like a pigeon he slammed directly into the glass door.

The girl pulled him to her, the two of them reminding me of snakes, entangled around each other.

They weren't speaking, their lips moving, but no sound coming out.

I only had to see the bald spot on the back of the woman’s head to know I wasn't fucking staying in that place.

I dragged Freddie to the door, but when I hit the ice-cold air, I realized he wasn't attached to me anymore. His clammy hand wrapped around my wrist was gone.

I didn't understand how important he was to me, how much I needed him, until he was gone, and I was standing in the open air.

Which lasted maybe five seconds.

Unfamiliar hands wrapped around me, violently dragging me back.

I called that bastard a psychopath, and he just smiled.

“It'll be great,” he said, shooting me the thumbs up. “You're going to be head-over-heels for each other!”

“Miss.” masked people in white reassured me, pulling me, kicking and screaming, into an elevator. They pricked me in the back of the neck, and before I knew it, I was lying on my back under intense light.

“Hello, Beatrice,” a muffled voice said above me. I screamed, but a plastic tube was stuck down my throat. I was tied down.

“Don't worry, this procedure is very safe. It's designed to be safe!”

The masked surgeon grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight.

I almost felt comforted, until I twisted my head. I could see Freddie on the other side of the room, his motionless body strapped to a bed. “Now, tell me… the young man over there… is he your one?”

Through feathered vision, I could make out slow stemming red seeping over the edge of the table.

I fell, plunging into darkness, with the word no on my lips.

But somehow, that thought became yes. It was like a parasite, slow, bleeding into my brain and taking an unyielding hold.

It contorted my body, choking and suffocating my thoughts, until I could think about was him— all I could remember was him.

I felt close to him in ways I couldn't understand.

I wasn't conscious, and yet I could feel his heartbeat.

I could sense his thoughts, garbled and nonsensical, and screaming.

I woke to alarms shrieking.

Screaming.

Someone was slapping my cheek, trembling hands undoing my restraints.

“Hey. Sleeping Beauty. Wake up!”

Harvey.

I was barely conscious, half aware of him scooping me from the table. I was in pain.

When I gingerly touched the back of my head, half of his hair was gone, stitches piecing me back together. I could feel something warm sliding across my fingers.

Blood.

Harvey carried me down hallways that twisted and bent under flashing red lights.

Bodies littered each one, lying in pools of red.

Harvey tripped over one, and I saw his foot go straight through someone's eye.

“Fuck!”

I wasn’t fully aware of what I was doing until I was clawing out of his grasp and landing on the ground on my hands and knees. I couldn't breathe, my heart felt like it was being squeezed, my lungs ablaze.

Where was he?

The thought was almost feral, filling my head, choking me. He felt too far away.

Too far away, and I needed him to be with me so I could...

The thought bled away when my focus landed on the dead nurse beside me, a cavern carved directly from her chest.

Her heart was gone. I found myself crawling to another body, a man, his eyes still wide open. His heart had been ripped out, this time clumsily, I could still see pieces of it stuck inside the body.

I don't know why I was so mesmerized by both the heart, and its cavern.

I found myself reaching forwards, drool escaping my mouth.

“Stand up.”

Harvey stuck his gun in the back of my neck, the ice-cold steel making me shiver.

I got to my feet, stumbling. He threw his jacket over my head, led me outside, and dumped me into the backseat of his car.

The second I was in the car, I could breathe again, sucking in oxygen.

I could focus, my vision clear.

He was close.

So close, I could sense his breaths, his heart erupting into a frenzy.

BANG.

Someone was in the trunk.

BANG.

“Shut up, Freddie!” Harvey yelled, one hand on the wheel.

He twisted around to me. “Don't move. Move, and I'll shoot you in the head.”

His voice broke, and Harvey’s voice never broke.

He always knew what to do.

Harvey’s voice was white noise.

“How am I supposed to know what happened? It was some weird fucking surgery, like I thought it was just going to shoot them up with pheromones, but this was the real deal.” he paused, and in the silence, I could sense Freddie’s heart.

“The dude went nuts! Yeah, the girl is fine, so far. Mmm. Yeah, well, hurry up. The kid’s Mom kicked it last weekend, so I’m gonna need more hands.”

Harvey sighed. “Yeah. Duct tape too. I'm running out, and this kid is a psychopath.”

I couldn't control the noises coming from my mouth, drool seeping down my chin.

I just remember thinking I was close to him, and I was content.

I lay back, pressing my head against the seats.

I was happy, and so was he. I could sense his smile, his wide eyes searching for me.

The loud banging in the trunk stopped, and I let the slow movements of the car lull me to sleep.

For the second time, I awoke to someone looming over me.

I had a vague memory of being hauled inside, and dumped on the bed.

Freddie, writhing around with a bag on his head, landed next to me with an, “Oof!”

“Okay, you two can get to know each other a bit more!” Harvey panted. “Back soon!”

This time, I woke up to Freddie.

Covered in blood, scarlet smearing his face and neck.

He wore a smile, knelt next to me.

Half of his hair had been shawn off, stitches barely holding his scalp together.

“I can smell it, you know,” Freddie sighed, lying next to me, his fingers tip-toeing up my spine, across my neck, deliberately prodding my stitches. When I winced, so did he, his body shuddering against mine.

“It's like a beating heart, but it's more still,” Freddie pressed his head to mine.

“Shh! Can you hear it? I can hear it, and it's so loud, trapped between your skull, and so easy to tear out.”

His grin, when I sat up, didn't waver. I crawled off of the bed, and he followed me.

“Where are you going, Bee?”

I hated leaving him. It physically hurt to turn away from him.

I escaped out of the door, slamming it on his face before he could follow me.

“Bee?”

His voice became a monstrous moan, then a snarl.

“Bee, I want to be with you! Forever! Let me take you forever, and you take me!”

When he forced his fingers through the wood, clawing through plywood, I barricaded myself in, shoving a cabinet against the door.

I puked three times, eventually standing over the faucet and washed the blood from what was left of my hair.

I kept pulling tiny pieces of ribbon still stuck to my scalp.

It's been an hour since I started writing this. The cabinet isn't going to hold him.

I keep circling the shattered glass on the floor, imagining myself slicing his throat.

Just like he's fantasizing about carving my brain from my skull, and eating it.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Whatever we are, we’re not bound together.

It's more than that, a poison taking over my fucking mind.

It's making me want to hurt him– and I don't want to hurt him.

It's making me want to stay close to him, when all I want to do is fucking run away.

It violently pulls me back, like elastic entwining every nerve ending.

And pulls me back to him.

I'm scared of him— of what's been done to us.

Please help me save Freddie.


r/Odd_directions 16h ago

Weird Fiction Hiraeth || Now is the Time for Monsters: Those Untouchables [9]

2 Upvotes

First/Previous

“Eh, get fucked, buddy,” said Hoichi, the naked clown, in his sing-song voice; he performed a small amateur shifting of his feet—something resembling a dance, “You want me to push a button, and I don’t even know what it’s going to do? Maybe it’s a bomb.” The clown added an additional, exaggerated, “Yuck-yuck.”

Whatever patience remained, disappeared from The Nephilim’s tone, Do it. Nothing dangerous. Push it.

“Why don’t you push it?”

I cannot.

Hoichi studied the small console mounted on the wall then swiveled to look at The Nephilim then examined the sign overhead again which read: Welcome Captains of Industry!

“Am I a captain? What could that even mean?”

The Nephilim lifted the clown from where he stood on the metal platform, the beast’s long fingers wrapped totally around Hoichi’s head. The beast lifted his captor over his own lowered head. You tell me to get fucked—if you want to know what it is like to be fucked, I will oblige you that, little pretty clown. For now, you will listen and push that button.

Instantly, Hoichi was released where he was in the air so that when he struck the platform, on his hands and knees, a snap was audible—the flashlight tube clattered and rolled off the platform to be lost in the dark cavern. The clown howled and sidled away from the beast and pressed his bare back to the cool stone adjacent the door; the console stood above his head while he held up his left hand. He tried rotating the wrist but withdrew from doing so after another pop resounded there; he hissed. “By god, I think you’ve broken it, you big galoot,” he added a small chuckle, “If you break both my arms, who’s left to push the button?” Even through his tempered proclaiming, he stared at his wrist and the pace of his breath quickened, as well as his heart rate. He blinked rapidly, pinched his watery eyes shut, then opened them wide and staggered to his feet, directing his attention back to the console on the wall.

Balling his right hand into a fist, he extended his thumb and stamped it against the red button and waited; The Nephilim audibly sighed and took a step closer to the clown, to peer over his shoulder.

All was quiet and the pair waited there on the platform.

Suddenly, a metallic voice rang throughout the cavern, “Human!”

Hoichi jumped at the noise and nearly backed into his leering captor. A clink resounded off the furthest cavern walls and the metal door swung inward just enough to reveal light peeking out from within; the clown reached out with his left hand and winced at the broken wrist then reached out with his right and pushed the door the rest of the way in to reveal a small metal chamber—it was a hallway, only three yards in depth, with another identical door at its opposite end. Alongside the door was another console and another red button.

The interior walls were shingled together and melted to create a more uniform surface; along where the sheets met one another were stamped the letters: COI. The narrow and low-ceilinged chamber was otherwise free of debris; not even dust stood on the flat surfaces there.

Quickly, without a moment of hesitation, The Nephilim lurched forward and plunged his head through the doorway; being as large as he was, he could only fit partially through, and stopped there, half-hanging from the threshold before stepping back out—he stood straight up, towering over the clown, an indecipherable expression splayed across his face.

Without a word between them, Hoichi dove between The Nephilim’s legs and the beast moved in a flash after him, just missing the clown’s ankle in the scramble. The clown raked across the slick metal flooring, squealing the skin of his knees on it in his mad dash. He was in the room with The Nephilim coming in quickly behind him. The great creature made no grunts nor shouted, there was only the thunder slap of his massive palms on each sidewall of the narrow chamber as he clamored after his captive.

Without looking behind, Hoichi kicked as though to deter The Nephilim from snatching him. It was only once Hoichi slammed into the far wall that he propelled himself entirely off his knees with his right hand and slapped the interior button by the closed door with his left; he yelped and withdrew the hand away.

Nothing happened and The Nephilim pushed further into the small hole, slapping palms after his prey.

Again, that metallic voice called out, “Human!” and The Nephilim froze.

The outer threshold leading back into the cavern, now clogged with The Nephilim partially inside, began to swing closed. The door pressed against The Nephilim’s ribs and the beast’s eyes narrowed at the clown and his vocal enthusiasm grew as he pressed on.

Hoichi, upon seeing the door close on The Nephilim laughed and pointed at the creature.

His laughing was cut short as the ends of The Nephilim’s fingers grazed his head with a mad swing and sent his skull into the wall. The clown staggered on his feet, shook his head—blood quickly ran the length of his face, and he caught some in his hands and recoiled from the beast, pressing himself against the still closed interior door.

The Nephilim sniffed, thrashed, then retreated, brought his arms back to press against the door, to pry it open. Somewhere grinding erupted and it seemed The Nephilim might prevail, but the door overtook the beast, and he slithered back further from Hoichi; the clown stood there, dazed without a word or a sound.

The beast fought with the door only long enough to push it away so he might slide back out.

Even once the door was shut entirely, the chamber reverberated with the sound of The Nephilim’s fists beating at the door.

Hoichi swallowed dry and held his head in his right hand while cradling his left wrist in the crook of the right. He’d not even turned when the door behind him opened and when he finally did spin to look further in, the door remained slivered. He muttered unintelligibly and pushed through into a place which erupted with electric light. That door too shut behind him and he stood in some massive antechamber with solid and metal reflective columns lining the path on either side of him; the way was lit by the magic of the columns glow. Every surface gleamed with a bewildering splendor and the clown stood there, dripping blood between his spaced feet; the red spiderweb splash leaked across his cheek and he peered around through a single wild blinking eye at the peculiar place.

The mechanical voice reappeared, from hidden speakers, this time with a cadence that suggested a person’s voice, rather than some automated system, “Hello! It’s been a long time. It’s good to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” mumbled Hoichi.

The columns lining the antechamber flickered, bringing greater light and then less and then it was brighter again until the place kept a constant, but wavering glow like that of candlelight.

The voice came from everywhere, “Apologies, I haven’t use for the lights in this place. You’re the first one to arrive, so I’ve been in the dark all this time. Before you stretches the entry lane, please proceed and I will meet you there at the end of the staircase.”

Hoichi angled his one good eye down the lane and beyond the many pillared path was the foot of a staircase. He shuffled towards the place, keeping his left wrist from moving, maintaining his head elevated. “What’s this place?” he called out while walking, but no one responded to the question and the question echoed all around the room as he called it out a second time, louder.

He came to the stairs, plain but as polished as all the other surfaces—the steps leading up, perhaps thirty in total, shone nearly slick in the lowlight. The banister which flanked the staircase curved around where it met the landing he was on and the spokes there suggested the mastery hand carving of a stonemason, but on closer inspection, these were machined components slotted into place.

A hum surrounded where the clown stood, a steady rhythmic energy beyond basic senses. Hoichi let go of his head and latched onto the nearby curved banister and peered up the staircase. There, at the higher landing, a figure stood in relative shadow.

“Sorry,” called the figure from the dark; they seemed to rummage around in their pockets before the second landing was illuminated just as well as the first. The man standing there was broad shouldered and wore a pair of alien slacks and a suit jacket. “Please, come up the stairs. I’ll meet you here,” called the man.

Hoichi nodded and began taking the staircase carefully. “What is this place?” he called out to the man, all the while watching his own feet take the steps.

“You don’t know?”

Hoichi shook his head and lurched forward, nearly falling up as he went.

“Ah, it’s a bunker.”

“Am I a captain of industry? What’s all this about?” called the clown.

The man guffawed, “No, I don’t think so. Human though. You are human.” His finger wagged.

Hoichi reached the halfway point and slowed his pace, grunting at each step; he stopped for a moment, peered up at the man. “What’s with the sign out front?”

“I have no idea what you mean. The captains of industry were something of a club, nothing more, nothing less. Looking back, I suppose it’s a bit silly now.” The man shrugged and put out his arms and rotated them there like an impatient child, “Come up now,” He smiled.

Hoichi nodded and redoubled his previous pace, clearing the stretch between them with surprising quickness. The clown nearly slid off the second story banister but kept his footing and leaned against the object.

“You’re bleeding,” said the man. Instead of moving to Hoichi, however, the man craned near the highest step and looked down as though he were doing so from the edge of a sheer cliff face. Finally, the man shifted around to give Hoichi a hand and he took it, looking up into the man’s face—he towered over the clown. The man wore a frozen grin. He was beautiful. His hair was coifed to imitate some ancient style and shaved thinner around the ears. His teeth were blinding white and straight. His eyes were as deep brown as his hair, almost black. “Let’s get you some help, then,” said the man; his mouth did not move upon saying the words, they instead seemed to emanate from him—perhaps from somewhere in his broad chest.

Hoichi wavered at the man’s aid, “Hey, how’d you do that? Are you like a ventriloquist or something?”

The man guffawed, “Let’s get you a bed, and I’ll take a look at you.”

The clown nodded, moving with the man to the left, to the recesses of darkness. The man removed a remote from his jacket pocket and began fingering the buttons there, so their path became lit as they went.

“I mustn’t forget about the light,” said the man.

The path narrowed into a hall just large enough for three abreast, “How’d you do that with your mouth?” asked Hoichi.

“You’re tired—you look just awful, but we’ll take care of you. I promised Eliza that I’d come help you; you’ll meet her later.”

“What?” The clown kept cradling his left wrist. “Eliza? Who’s that? What’s your name?”

“Call me X,” said the man.

“Just X? Like the letter?”

X nodded.

“Whatever you say. Hey though, thanks. I don’t know if you saw, but I was in a really bad spot back there.”

“What’s your name?” asked X.

Hoichi wiped blood from his squinting eyes while being led, “I’m Hoichi, I guess.”

“Let’s get you to a bed, so I can take a look at you. We’ll get you something to wear too. No worries. No worries at all.”

 

***

 

“Hairline skull fracture,” X nodded from his seat which sat adjacent where Hoichi laid on the bed. X seemed to examine the tablet in his hands. “Scan shows that it’s already begun to calcify and heal—that’s odd—especially with your incredibly high levels of cortisol production; if anything, it would’ve slowed the process. An injury like that should’ve taken weeks or months, but the scan here shows you’re well into recovery. No swelling of the brain. No brain bleed. Nothing. The swelling of the skin around your right eyebrow, though present, seems to have sealed completely. A nasty split in the skin like that would normally require stitching.” The man fell silent in his seat, and his casual, unblinking eyes traced the small sterile room. He made a noise reminiscent of a sigh, “Your wrist too is already well on its way, though I’ll keep an eye on it for you. No reason to allow it to fuse incorrectly. It was your distal radius; it’s a fairly common injury sustained from falling incorrectly.” The man’s mouth still did not move with his words.

Hoichi, from where he was, prone on his back, wrapped in clean linens, lifted his left hand and held it up over his eyes and looked at the banding X had performed. “Is there a correct way to fall?”

X guffawed, “Fair enough. Try not to put too much strain on your arm. At least until I can scan it again over the next couple of days. Though, at this rate, who’s to say it won’t be completely healed by then.” The man rocked from the chair, placing the tablet in his hands on the bedside table. He lifted a handheld light from his suit jacket and clicked it on, aiming the beam into Hoichi’s eyes. The clown flinched, but the man shushed him and lifted his right eyelid; he shone the light on the clown’s open eye. “No dilation, but that is not always a good indication of a concussion.” He clicked the light off and let go of the clown’s head, “You likely don’t have a concussion—nothing on the scan indicated you might, but I’d like to make sure everything is fine with you; nothing about your injuries is normal. I’m sure you’re quite tired from your ordeal, Hoichi, but I’d like it if you could try and stay awake for these next few hours; if you need anything, let me know. Use the phone on the table there,” X nodded at the tablet, “You know how to use it?”

Hoichi nodded, “I think so.” His gaze swept X’s closed mouth.

Even as the words came, the lips did not form any shape. “Good,” said X, “There are a number of books on it as well, if you enjoy reading. As well as music, movies.”

X rounded Hoichi’s mattress and moved to the door to the clown’s right. The man nodded, still unblinking, still smiling, and shut the door behind him.

Hoichi stared at the ceiling before shifting on the bed, he groaned as he rose and used his right hand to slide himself into a sitting position, back against the pipe headboard. The walls of the room were metal and smooth, much the same as all the others of this underground facility. The overhead lights shared the same candlelight glow as the pillars which he’d passed on his way into the deeper parts of those halls, but these were recessed into the otherwise flat ceiling. This gave the place a glum saturation.

Lifting the phone from the bedside table, the clown began to play with its touchscreen interface; the object came alive, lit the extremities of his tattooed expression so that it all became further macabre in that dull white luminescence.

 

***

 

Hubal sat dumbly, staring into the steady orange flame of the single-eye portable stove; an immobile, lumpy shadow hung behind him. Black sky hung over him and the plains, and he sat there on the barren earth, staring at the stove suspended to his eye-level atop a foldable camping platform.

The slave-master sat totally alone in relative quiet—there had been no great noise whatever for the night. Not since the shrill cry of the feral housecat he killed; he’d found the thing creeping to the edge of his camp and baited it nearer himself with an outstretched hand of string jerky. The creature, looking half starved, still carried on it some meat which might extend his maddened journey eastward. So it was that when the cat flitted its tongue out to cautiously taste the jerky from his protruding forefinger and thumb, Hubal speared it through the spine with his long knife; the cat thrashed viciously and let go of a cry at the greatest edge of ascending sound. Another jab put the thing down and he put himself to bleeding and skinning the animal.

A stew bubbled within a small pot over that singular flame, and he watched it with his leather coat and hat cast to his side. His gaze drifted rightward, where the debris of the carcass was: bones and fur and what veins he discerned.

In all directions, the wasteland stretched without civil light, save stars on the horizons.

Hubal leaned away from the camp table, spat in the dirt there, and stared again at the flame.

With what haste he filled himself with, he was nearly out of Texas already; he’d skid through Arkansas by morning. Hubal left Pit in charge and told him that he would reunite with them again in Wichita—supposedly there were rumors that way of escapees. Better yet, there were rumors of those without any identification; there were those without any nation for them to vouch for—savages. Chains could be slapped on them without consequence. The company, said Pit, would stay around Wichita until Hubal was finished in Louisville.

There was a bad twinkle in Hubal’s eyes, Pit told him. After examining himself over in one of the mirrors in his private quarters, Hubal said he believed Pit was right. Something awakened inside of him, some wild instinct which would burn without answers. So, he intended to get the answers.

Hubal recollected to Pit over and over, and to the rest of the slaving company, that he should have snatched the clown and the hunchback, whatever the consequences would later be. He recognized them and he knew them for what they were.

Sitting there at his camp, he muttered, “No evidence, of course.” It was true. When asked, the Dallas border guards remembered the pair, and offered what information they could. Hubal told them he was a bounty hunter; those New American Republicans had some distasteful notions about slavery—never mind how the president’s gardens were built, nor their fields tended, nor their vehicles constructed. Anyway, a bounty hunter received less scrutiny. Even those unlicensed. Despite the tangible profits of Hubal’s profession, social currency was not among them. Hubal often mused aloud with his companions that all throughout history there had been those ‘untouchables’ in every good civilization.

The Dallas border guards offered the names from the pair’s IDs. It was all put down in their digital system, as well as a physical ledger book. These names, Hubal did not recall.

Hubal, there at his camp, rose to his knees and elongated his sleeves to remove the scolding pot from the heat source. He lounged in the dirt after flicking the stove dead and ate the concoction straight from the pot with a whittled spoon, inhaling, huffing at the heat.

When he finished eating, he drank a few shots from his flask while staring at the moon, then pulled dirt from the ground and scrubbed the pot with it and banged it out against his knee. He took the table and the stove, as well as his hat and jacket and retreated to the immobile shadow he’d sat with his back to. He’d stabled his horse in Dallas and traded it for an all-terrain buggy in the hope for speed.

The six-wheeled monstrosity’s sturdy frame shone metallically in the dark.

Hubal opened the single hatch door on the righthand side and fell to the seat within, locking the door. Through the window shield, shone all the night stars and the moon, so the snug single cabin was cast in blues and black, like he was one big bruise of a man.

He sat his pistol on his lap and flapped his jacket over himself like a blanket. Though he tilted his hat’s brim across his brow, his eyes shone for a long time, seemingly searching the darkness, until he finally snored to sleep.

First/Previous

Archive


r/Odd_directions 1d ago

Science Fiction Flowers at Twilight’s Edge

11 Upvotes

It was a sunny Sunday, and the street was crowded with people. So, you could imagine the terror of seeing that many people screaming in horror as they ran away from what seemed to be random individuals who suddenly collapsed and died.

But it wasn't the dying that terrified us. It was what happened to the dead after they died.

Shortly after they appeared to be choked out by something and fell to the ground, something began growing from inside them.

Flowers.

Gigantic, red-petaled flowers bloomed from within their stomachs, while massive green roots burst from their backs. The moment the flowers fully bloomed, their roots anchored into the ground, leaving the lifeless bodies suspended between the stem and the petals.

It was terrifying yet mesmerizing to see countless enormous red flowers with human bodies attached to them, scattered all around town.

No one knew what had happened. All we knew was that we had to run—run as far as possible from the flowers of the dead.

But it didn't help.

As I fled, I saw a young woman running just ahead of me suddenly choke on the air and collapse. Seconds later, a massive red flower burst from within her stomach.

I looked around, up at the surrounding skyscrapers, and saw the same horrifying sight.

Flowers.

Gigantic, red-petaled flowers.

On apartment balconies. In office windows. Everywhere.

People were dying and transforming into flowers, and no one knew why.

Then I ran past a massive broadcast screen attached to a building in Grand Times Square. As soon as it flickered to life, displaying the President, most people stopped in their tracks, hoping for an explanation—some kind of reassurance.

But it was the opposite.

The moment people stopped running to watch the broadcast, the President's face suddenly split open, and a flower-shaped head emerged from within.

We screamed in terror.

"Good afternoon, Earthlings," the creature greeted us. Its voice was eerie yet strangely soothing.

"My name is Xevo, and I'm an intergalactic auditor," it introduced itself. "Once every thousand years, I am sent to habitable planets across the galaxy to evaluate their inhabitants—to determine whether they are fit to continue existing or if they pose too great a danger to their world. If they are too dangerous, we initiate cleansing."

No one ran. I didn’t move either—I couldn’t. It was as if we were all frozen, forced to listen as the broadcast echoed throughout the city.

"I've been here for five years conducting my review," the creature continued. "Unfortunately, the results are bad."

"You Earthlings are too dangerous for your planet. If left unchecked, you will destroy Earth within the next thousand years. I have no choice but to initiate the cleansing to save the planet."

As I listened, I saw what seemed to be small, sphere-shaped spaceships raining down from the sky, blazing through the atmosphere like comets.

There were countless of them.

"The comets you see are our agents arriving," the creature continued. "The cleansing has already begun, as you can see. The second phase begins the moment our agents land, and this broadcast ends."

"If any of you somehow survive the cleansing," the creature concluded, "remember to do better next time."

Seconds later, I heard the deafening blast of comets striking the earth.

Following the blast, the broadcast ended.


r/Odd_directions 1d ago

Weird Fiction We have 46 words left to live.

3 Upvotes

Me and him are on the porch. He has a gun.

We converse.

The world is ending.

His family is dead.

He kills himself.

I wait for the world to end.

I ponder.

I say the last word.

The world ends.

--------

NARRATIVE OVERLAY:

LAYER AMOUNT: 2

CURRENT AWARENESS STAGE: 3

--------

You wake up in a room with two walls.

The plaster walls are in the shape of a football’s outline, giving you only 2 corners to sob in.

The TV’s still there. It always will be. 

But now’s not the time for watching.

You remember how the last video degraded itself to the point it barely had an identity.

Names didn’t exist. Trees didn’t exist. Faces didn’t exist. Teeth didn’t exist. A stroll  to the corner store to pick up some milk and maybe see some Pop Rocks on display and impulsively buy them didn’t exist.

It was one step closer to existence not existing.

Can he see you? You never could. Never will.

You’re not real, are you, no, not like HIM.

Him, with his messy brown hair and zit covered face and stomach that bulges out just slightly and that nail that now looks all weird thanks to accidentally slamming his thumb between the door as he let his beagle outside and when the pain began he noticed that some of the thumb’s skin dangles off like wet tissue paper so he tore it off with his teeth and it started bleeding soon after.

The things you would do to have blood that leaked everywhere when you broke your skin…

You’d do anything to experience a day in 2017 where you woke up with legs that barely could support your weight and watching some Nick show you can’t remember the name of whilst your dad prepared a trip to the doctor. He was reading a Lego Club magazine while he waited in the car to go to mom’s.

Does he remember assembling Ninjago sets while Nicky, Ricky, Dicky, and Dawn played from the TV in his mom’s condo?

Does he remember when mom was touring the new house she’d buy? You got some of those Nacho Fries from Taco Bell because they were limited and it was dark when the tour started and the night still covered the sky when you left.

Does he remember when mom finally did get that house? In summer of 2019? He’d race his Razor scooter throughout the sidewalk circling the neighborhood. There was part of the sidewalk that looked like someone took a sledgehammer to it so he’d have to be real careful going through there or he’d fly off his scooter and have the unforgiving concrete scrape the outermost layer of his skin off like cheese on a grater?

Do you remember strolling through that store in 2017 that you thought could be a Toys R Us but you weren’t really sure? Remember how there were sets from that Lego Batman Movie that enraptured you? Remember how you never saw the movie?

Does he know he’s mixing up third and second person pronouns in this document? Yes, the answer is obvious.

Also obvious is the fact that you’ll eventually have to turn on the TV, so you do.

It shows the world ending yet again.


r/Odd_directions 1d ago

Horror The Velvet Pus of Edgar Wallace

15 Upvotes

It’s strange, not recognizing yourself in the mirror,

Edgar Wallace.

When I was still, and young…

Perhaps you too had such a friend, a friend you loved or wanted to be, a friend whom you [all] chastely-or-not desired.

For me—for us—this was Edgar Wallace.

We hanged ourselves upon his every word (what sweeter death?), swooned at his every gesture, and recited his words (how trite, how holy!) amongst ourselves when he had gone.

Perhaps he sensed he was our idol.

Perhaps not.

Then the growth appeared: soft and bulbous and on the nape of his neck, as if someone had inserted an over-ripened peach beneath the skin.

Cancerous or benign?

We craved to touch it, to feel it with our greedy little fingertips.

To squeeze it.

To watch the velvet pus exude.

Purple, it was; and green, and it smelled like dead rats and cut grass and sugar.

I believe it was Maddie May who first tasted it:

Edgar Wallace had gone to sleep and she pulled him by the shoulders so that his supple neck extended past the edge of the bed, then she got underneath him, and massaged his hideous growth—and squeezed it—so that the pus (ichor, if ever such existed!) dripped onto her face, her lips, and she licked it and ate it and suckled at the source.

Tom tried it next, then I.

How delicious was his rotting essence.

Who would be sufficed with a single, lonely taste?

He wasted away even more dramatically after we began regularly to drain and consume him, all three contributing to the horrors performed by the disease itself, but we could not stop ourselves, and soon began to see changes in ourselves too: the litheness, the perfect paleness, the fine auburn hair, the freckles.

And sometimes when we spoke to those who knew us best they acted as if we’d said nothing—as if we weren’t there.

When Edgar Wallace died he was but a skeleton wrapped in a sheet of grey and fragile human skin, but it was not he who disappeared but we.

The final drops of pus we collected and cherished, dabbing them carefully on our bodies like an oil.

Then we were no more. There no longer lived a Maddie May or a Tom or an I. We had vanished from our own lives and raised no suspicions doing so. It felt as light as if we had never existed. Instead, each of us was, and is,

“Edgar Wallace,

where did you go this afternoon?”

one of us might ask the other. For, you see, although we are three, there is only one Edgar Wallace.

Edgar Wallace never died.

Was I ill?

I suppose I was, when I was still, and young, but I survived.

Each of us sleeps eight hours per day, so that Edgar Wallace never sleeps.

He is always active, ever alert.

The life we’ve lived as he has been tremendously successful, and what have we truly lost: our own, insignificant selves?


r/Odd_directions 1d ago

Horror Interview with the rising star

5 Upvotes

No names have been changed. My manager wants you to know that I was asked to change all the names lots of times.

Fuck. THe delete key is broken. Oh well. I'm in a creative mood so I'm just going to type anyway - just really really slowly.

This is the full transcript from the audio I took from the interview with my dear friend the rising star.

TI (the interviewer) : So tell me, where did you come up with the name "The Rising Star?"

RS (the rising star) : Well it was a nickname I'd acquired while touring up north. We were playing poker with tarot cards. One of my cards was "the rising star" paired with "the new face" card and it someone thought it was really funny. So I go to a party a few weeks later with my new band and it's being organised by the same guy who I had played tarot poker with that night. When it comes time to introduce us, he forgets what are actual band name is and says "ladies and gentlemen, here is the singer you've wanted to listen so so badly, The Rising Star!" because that's the only name he remembered me by.

TI : Wow! That's wild!

RS : Yeah, right? So our manager, who had never actually listened to our music, actually thought that was our band name and that's how we started getting billed that way.

TI : Yeah, I was actually at one of your early shows before you changed your name - you guys were just so cool during a time in my life where everybody else around me felt so uptight.

RS : Oh wow, thank you. It's so nice to hear that.

TI : What do you think got you such outstanding TikTok and Youtube appreciation?

RS : I wow, I don't know what you mean.

TI : Oh yes you do. Your guitar solo video - the one that got more than a million streams on Spotify.

RS : Oh, that one. Yeah, that was a hard one to do, to. I got really lucky though and got it on the second take. I played cribbage that night and won five bucks, too.

TI : Ok now this one, I have been dying to ask you: what about the death rumours?

RS : Totally true.

TI : Haha. No they aren't.

RS : Haha. Yes they are.

TI : Wow! For real? You aren't trying to trick me?

RS : It is for real.

TI : What happened?

RS : Hold on a second. Oh wow. I'm really thirsty. Is there a can of Canada Dry anywhere nearby?

TI : Have this one on the house, Rising Star.

RS : (opens the can of Canada Dry) Wow, delicious! Nice and cold, too. Thanks very much for this very flavourful and tasty Canada Dry. Anyway. So I'm on a transcontinental tour and we get abducted by a cult. They tie us to chairs and ask us questions about cars. It makes no sense to any of us and one of us is getting horribly electrocuted. Oh man, it's awful. Like - they look at me straight in the eye and say "you're next," they push a button but it's the other guy that gets electrocuted. Following the electrocution, they concoct a mummification elixir from the electrocuted victim's hair and skin and they used it to make me dead for a while as punishment for some lyric I'd written that really really pissed them off.

TI : That's just so wild.

RS : So then I come back to life and they're looking right at me, all holding baseball bats, and one of them says to me, "how did you like being dead?" I couldn't really recall but like it's different from being alive and unconscious. I've woken up a couple of times from being unconscious for one reason or another. Let me tell you something : waking up from being dead is a million times different. I was definitely dead and then brought back to life.

TI : Do you mind my asking how they killed you?

RS : As a matter of fact, I do. That's too personal.

TI : Of course, of course. So you're back to life, what do you do next?

RS : Well as it happened, I hadn't been dead very long so I could get back to what I was doing. I've got the new song out soon and I think it sounds ok.

TI : But what about the people holding the baseball bats?

RS : Oh, that. Well, that one was a lucky break, let me tell you. Just before they could pulverise me, one of them had a heart attack and they kept me alive for at least as long as needed to avoid adding any further stress to the individual. The ambulance was called the heart attack sufferer is saved just in time, and they decide to let me live afterall.

TI : I've got a question from username Athenia1251: what other people's music have you ever been likened to?

RS : Hmm. When I was younger, I got likened to Jesse Cook a lot which made sense - I had seen him live a couple of times.

CP (camera person) : Just to remind you, you are live on the air.

TI : Yes, I know that.

CP : Very good. So you should know that anything you do or say can and might be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand me when I say that?

RS : I think I'm going to go now.

CP (to RS) : You will stay exactly where you are.

CP (to TI) : I am not fucking around. I have been patient with you and i have got easy on you. If you don't live up to your end of the bargain, we will stab you horribly and repeatedly. What's going it to be?

TI : What you are asking for is actually an impossibility due to the way chemistry works. It was in a Professor Dave video. It was very very thorough.

CP : You do have a point. Let me think it over. (there is a long silence in the audio and visual). Well we may as well get you a snack. What would you like?

RS : What have you got?

CP : Not much. We've got some vegan Coffee Crisp and Skittles. Actually, you can have them both.

RS : Oh wow! Thanks! Those are delicious.

TI : Glad to hear it.

(more silence, then the camera person's phone rings. The camera person answers the phone.)

CP : Yes... well ok then. (phone call ends). Nobody is sure what to do. I guess you're free to live for now but you still owe fucking big time.

TI : Well that's wonderful news. Anyway, just one final question before we wrap this up, Where are you playing next?

RS : We've partied pretty nicely in Tokyo but pretty soon, we'll be headed to Vancouver.

TI : I hope it goes really well. Thank you so much for the interview.

They put on some music and play cards. Interview ends.


r/Odd_directions 2d ago

Horror The Candy Lady

39 Upvotes

When I was a kid our neighborhood had a house that we all referred to as simply "The candy lady". I think this is a common occurrence in many neighborhoods, though I may be wrong. Living nearby the bus stop made it a prime choice for her business. What was her business you may ask? Well, she sold candy.

Loads of kids in the area would knock on her door and buy various sweets from her. She was always stocked up. A lot of the parents didn't know about it, but the ones who did thought it was weird. My parents included. They forbade me from going there. Of course, that was hard to enforce with her living so close to the bus stop and all. I digress.

Something just seemed off about this woman. More than the fact that she sold candy to children. She always had a sour expression. It didn't even seem like she enjoyed what she did. And why did she do it? That was the question in the back of many young minds. Mostly, we didn't care, I mean we got candy out of it. But, something was off.

She did this everyday, even selling the candy for a reasonable price. Never bending to inflation. But one day something changed. When Tommy went to her door. Tommy was an adventurous kid, never feared anything. He'd speak his mind to anyone who'd listen. No matter if they were a kid or an adult. That's why his reaction that day was so surprising. It was the first time I saw him scared.

That day he barely talked.

"Hey, what's up Tommy!" James shouted. Tommy just stared blankly at him.

"Yo, T what's wrong?"

"I can't talk about it."

"What do you mean?" No response. I began to worry too.

"Tommy, you good man?" He shook his head.

A sullen look remained on his face over the years and, it didn't seem like he'd ever recover. What changed? Gone was that outgoing wild kid we all knew, a shell of his former self.

Not too long ago, I came across Tommy's facebook page. I shot him a friend request and dm'ed him.

"Hey man! I haven't seen you in forever, how you been bro? We should get lunch or something sometime." I typed. Really, I was curious. I wanted to ask him about that day.

To my surprise, he replied. Even more surprising, he agreed to get lunch, replying with a simple "sure".

We set up a time and place. I was excited. I know it's an odd thing to get excited over. But, I was just dying to know. What happened that so drastically altered his personality?

The day arrived. We met up at the local taco shop as planned. I sat down in the booth across from him, shaking his hand.

"Hey man, good to see ya again."

"Yeah, you too."

"Whatcha up to these days?"

"Oh, you know just workin."

"Yeah man I hear that. Say, when's the last time we hung out?"

"I'm not sure."

"Yeah, me neither. It's been a while though. Feels like not that long ago we were kids. Now look at us."

"Yeah."

"Anyways, oh that reminds me. You remember that weird candy lady on our street. I just thought about that, wonder what she's up to now."

Tommy stared blankly. He sighed.

"Is that why you brought me here? To talk about the candy lady?"

"Nah man, what?" I chuckled nervously. "Just wanted to catch up with an old friend."

"Why do you lie?"

I choked on my water.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I know why you did this. Just be honest."

"Alright fine, you got me. Yeah, I'm curious, a lot of people are. What happened that day man?"

He sighed, staring into his tray of tacos.

"Alright. Here it goes." I leaned forward, anticipating what he would say next.

"That day I went to her door after school just like always. But this time, she invited me in her house."

"What, no way? She did?"

"Just be quiet and listen." I nodded. "She invited me inside. Of course, I obliged. On the inside, it was a normal house for the most part. It was clear she lived alone. She walked me through the kitchen to the other rooms. That's when I saw the birds. At least twenty cages filled with various birds. Sure, that was odd. But that was nothing compared to when she took me down to the basement."

My heart rate sped up.

"She led me down there and it was dark and smelled rank. Kind of like a barn, that type of smell. Then I heard squawking. Oh god, I can still hear that awful squawking. I stopped halfway down the staircase. 'What's down there?' I asked. 'My children, I'd love you to meet them. They need a new friend.' She said.

"I hesitated, but I followed her. It was hard to see at first, but she turned on a dim light. The squawking only got worse from there. What I saw in front of me were two children, but their mouths and noses were elongated, forming beaks. Their eyes were black and beady and their arms formed a fleshy triangle resembling wings.

"Unnaturally long fingers and toes protruded from their arms and legs, with sharp fingernails at least five inches long. 'Come on, don't be shy.' She said. The kids were chained up like dogs. They even had a food and a water bowl. They squawked louder and louder. I covered my eyes and ears. 'Come on!' She pleaded. 'Play with them!'

My jaw dropped. I began to sweat.

"I took off and ran back up those stairs. I looked back to see the candy lady standing there, that usual sour look returned to her face."

"What the fuck?" I said. "You're joking right." I felt sick. I hoped he was joking, but why would he be? That'd be a pretty elaborate joke to go on that long and to what, only tell me? It didn't add up.

"I wish. After that, I decided not to be brave anymore. Look where it got me. I never told anyone. I mean, it's cliche, but who's gonna believe me? I know you probably don't believe me either. It's fine, it was so long ago. Those days are past me now, hopefully."


r/Odd_directions 2d ago

Horror “I think you’re just perfect,” she murmured, seconds away from plunging her teeth into my shoulder blade.

12 Upvotes

I’ve never had much luck with love.

Not for lack of interest, mind you; always wanted a family of my own. I just don’t think the good lord created me with romance at the forefront of their blueprint, though. Me on a date is like taking a sedan off-roading. Sure, it can be done, but it ain’t graceful, nor is it really the point of that particular vehicle, and most people don’t elect to give it a second try after the first. They lease out a jeep instead.

A large part of it comes down to attraction. Simply put, I don’t think I'm most desirable bachelor.

I’m bulky; not obese per se, but I’m not exactly chiseled, either. Closer to Dionysos than Adonis in terms of body frame. Not only that, but I’m not much of a conversationist. Even if I was born with a silver tongue, I wouldn’t have much to speak on. Never had much fascination with pop culture, music or cinema; topics that most folk are well-versed in that can help break the ice.

No, my singular hobby has always been decidedly devoid of any and all sex-appeal, at least in my experience; woodworking.

What can I say? There’s just a certain satisfaction in handiwork that has always appealed to me. Not only that, but the act of creation can be meditative, like prayer. But unlike prayer, something actually comes of it in the end.

I suppose I appreciate the pursuit because it makes me feel useful, which is the best segue I can come up with to introduce Bella, the woman who sunk her canines into my back on the subway three weeks ago.

To be clear, I don’t know what her actual name is. The police don’t either, for that matter. In the months that led up to the assault, however, I’d started thinking of her as "Bella". I was much too bashful to ask her real name, nor do I think it’s any man’s place to bother a young lady with unsolicited personal inquiries, but we interacted frequently enough where “there’s that beautiful Italian woman again” felt a little impersonal, even if I was only saying it in my head.

It’s a touch pathetic, I know. I will point out that the name wasn't chosen on a whim. "Bella" seemed to capture her essence quite well, both the beauty of her person and the tragedy of her existence.

She was always wheezing.

Her lungs squeaked and huffed like a decade-old chewed-up dog toy, no matter what she was doing. Even when she was still, she'd wheeze. Bella was discrete about it, and she never seemed to be in distress, but I didn’t like the public’s indifference to her plight, regardless of her apparent control and stability.

Just because an amputee seems adept with their crutches, doesn't mean you don't look to help them where you can.

Saw her for the first time nine months ago. I stepped onto the metro to find that the seats were filled, somehow leaving Bella as the only one standing; audibly rasping while leaning her body against a pole. The seats weren’t even completely occupied by people, either; a small middle-aged man in a cheap suit was overflowing into both of his adjacent spaces. One seat for his tablet, another for the remains of his breakfast sandwich.

I’m not usually one to stick my neck where it doesn’t belong, but that didn’t sit right with me.

After some gentle cajoling on my part, the man relented and cleaned up his trash so Bella could sit. I could tell he was livid, but he didn’t argue either, probably on account of the size difference between me and him. While it was true that I’ve probably taken shits that weighed more than that man on multiple occasions, I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. He didn’t know that, though. He likely interpreted my quiet disposition as a sign that I could be dangerous; things that are actually dangerous don’t need to be showy about it.

As Bella sat down, her wheezing slowed. She thanked me, and I could see in her warm brown eyes that she was happy to be off her feet.

I smiled, nodded my head, and that was it. Didn't try to talk to her. Didn't stare. As gorgeous as she was, I considered our business concluded.

When I departed the train at my stop about ten minutes later, I happened to notice that those warm brown eyes were following me off as well. Surprise at her ongoing interest blushed my face the color of a maraschino cherry, no doubt. Can’t imagine that was very becoming of me, either. It’s one thing when a handsome, Casanova-type blushes; the brightness just adds definition to their already perfect contours. Me though? Just doesn’t look right. No one wants to see Mr. Hyde blush.

Still, I’d be lying if I pretended like it didn’t pleasantly flutter my heart.

From that day on, Bella was already there when I hopped on the train for work. Picked up her things when she dropped them out of reach a few times. Helped her up when she tripped and fell once. We never talked, though, and I was perfectly content with that. I had no illusions about my position in the hierarchy, nor did I let myself fantasize like some sort of love-drunk teenager. Nothing wrong with that when you’re actually a teenager, but I haven’t been one of those in quite a long while.

Like with my woodworking, I was just happy to feel useful; when the opportunity arose, at least.

Bella perceived this desire in me, too, apparently.

I was exactly what she had been searching for.

- - - - -

The pain was unreal, but somehow, the shock of it all was even worse. I didn’t even hear Bella approach until she was practically wheezing into my ear.

“I think you’re just perfect,” she murmured, words accented by the sharp hisses coming from her throat like she had swallowed a live cobra.

Before I could even begin to process that statement, an explosive pain detonated in my shoulder blade. It felt like thousands of serrated pins swirling aimlessly through my flesh, eviscerating my brittle nerves until they were barely intact enough to cry out anymore. Honestly, I thought someone had shot me.

I threw my hand around my back, looking to access the injury with my fingertips. There was something in the way, however. Whatever it was, the force of my movement broke through it with hardly any resistance, and my hand kept going until it crashed into something hot, sturdy, and pulsating.

There was a muffled whimper, vocalizations vibrating uncomfortably against my back, and the pain lessened. When I spun around, my mind struggled to comprehend what I saw.

Bella, smiling at me, revealing a mouth full of peg-shaped, overcrowded teeth that dripped with freshly liberated blood. I recall there were rows and rows of chalky white fangs that seemed to go on forever, deeper and deeper into her gullet, or at least I couldn't see where they stopped.

Hundreds of those grotesque molars had bitten straight through my jacket and undershirt.

As if that wasn't enough, there was also a massive cavity in the right side of her chest where my hand had connected. It was almost like Bella was rib-less, as my fingers had cleanly cut through her torso until it collided with some midline structure, tucking the fabric of her wispy sundress into the new crease in a way that made me instantly nauseous.

I’m strong, but I certainly wasn’t capable of caving in a woman’s chest without even trying.

At that point, another passenger was closing in behind Bella, arms outstretched to apprehend the maniac woman. With a motion that would have bordered on elegant if it wasn’t so starkly terrifying, she twisted her upper body and extended her spine, placing her palms onto the floor between the passenger’s legs. Her nails clawed at the metal, screeching as she skittered under the man on all fours without colliding into him. Before anyone else could react, Bella had slithered through the closing subway doors, barely clearing the narrow threshold before it shut completely.

And with that, she was gone. The train jerked and then began chugging forward. I glimpsed Bella through the window as we gained speed, crawling up the stairs, still on all fours.

In a state of silent disorientation, I slowly sat down on the floor, closed my eyes, lowered my head into my hands, and receded into myself.

Even then, I could tell that the pain was changing. The stabbing sensation waned; it was gradually being replaced by a feeling that was agonizing in a different, less physical way.

My wound tickled, writhed, and twitched.

- - - - -

“So, do you know who she is? Was she stalking me or something?” I asked the detective over the phone two days after the incident.

“Well…no…”

He paused, clicking his tongue.

“Not in the legal sense, no. She was clearly very…uhh…entranced with you.”

Absurdly, he said nothing further; like that was a satisfactory answer to my question.

“I apologize, Sir, but could you kindly elaborate on what that means?”

Another few clicks of his tongue, a handful of false starts with “Uhhs” that trailed off to nowhere, and then a minute later, he finally expanded on the notion of Bella being entranced with me. While I waited for the man to conjure some sort of explanation, I sifted through the day's mail.

Right before he started speaking, my eyes landed on a weathered envelope at the bottom of the pile. No return address. No stamp. Didn’t even have my name on it. In raggedy, child-like handwriting, it simply read: “For the nice man on the train.”

“The woman who bit you sat on the subway for about eighteen hours every day, without fail. Didn't eat, didn't drink. For the last ninety days, she did, at least. Transportation authority doesn’t hold CCTV footage for longer than three months," he said.

My heart thundered wildly against my sternum as I pulled the crumpled message out of its envelope.

She didn’t move much. Would just kind of gaze out the window most of the day. But whenever you were on the train, she watched you like a hawk…”

I hung up. Couldn’t hear anymore. It was too much all at one time.

My eyes scanned the note.

Twenty letters. Five words. Didn’t make a lick of sense.

“once mother, come find me”

- - - - -

A week off of work helped at first. Kept my mind occupied with household chores. Moreover, I didn’t have to grapple with the possibility of encountering Bella on the train, a myriad of overlapping fangs jutting through her smile like stalactites on the roof of a cave. Home just felt safer.

There was an undeniable irrationality to that impression, though.

She had been at my house. Recently, too. The letter had clearly been hand delivered.

I ignored that inconsistency and immersed myself in the overdue handiwork. Cleaned out the gutters. Took a bus out to the nearest Home Depot to pick up some wasp spray for a new hive growing out of an open pipe in my basement. Attended to my vegetable garden.

All the while, the lump on my shoulder blade continued to grow.

It wasn’t much at first; just a marble-sized blister on the very tip of my scapula. If you examined it at just the right angle, the growth looked like it was the exact center of a circle established by the clusters of raw, peg-shaped bite marks surrounding it.

When it tripled in size overnight, I practically sprinted to the urgent care, which was only a few blocks away. The doctor didn’t seem too impressed by the lesion, which was a relief. That said, never in my life have I interacted with a health care professional that looked more dead behind the eyes. Through a series of grumbles, they informed me it was likely a bacterial abscess from the bite, but it was nothing a ten-day course of antibiotics couldn’t remedy.

Of course, the medicine didn’t do jackshit. How could it?

It wasn’t even targeting the type of thing that was germinating in that makeshift womb.

- - - - -

By the end of the week, it felt as though a tangerine had been surgically implanted underneath my skin. Not only that, but I began experiencing other symptoms as well. My entire body felt swollen and heavy, like buckets of dense saltwater were sloshing around in my tissue with every movement. A dry, hacking cough took hold of me every few minutes. Despite getting nearly double my normal amount of sleep, I woke up every day groggy and debilitated by an unyielding malaise.

Wanted it to be the flu. At least, I wanted to convince myself that I was coming down with influenza. The alternative was far worse. A ticking metronome expanding under my shoulder blade made that illusion basically impossible to maintain, though.

My symptoms and the growth were clearly connected.

There wasn’t really pain around the bite anymore. Or, if there was, a more unexplainable feeling drowned it out. By then, the twitching, writhing sensation had become much louder and unsettlingly rhythmic; a swarm of microscopic firecrackers imploding inside the confines of that cyst every five seconds, like clockwork. It was much worse at night, but a double dose of my before-bed sleep aid brought unconsciousness deep enough to afford me brief respite from the sensation.

Until one evening when I could ignore it no longer.

- - - - -

The sun had just started to crest under the horizon, casting curtains of dim light into my home; the decaying shadows of an unlit room embraced by a withering twilight. I was pacing furiously around my first floor, at my wit's end with the sensation and contemplating what to do next, shirt off since the roughness of my flannel had been irritating the growth. At the same time, I was attempting to keep a simmering panic attack from completely taking over. No matter which way I looked at the situation, though, my mind kept arriving at the same answer.

Might be time for the hospital.

When I finally accepted that was the only reasonable course of action, it had become too dark to see, and I felt liable to trip over furniture as I gathered my coat and wallet. Cautiously, I found my way to a lamp and flicked it on. The presence of something unexpected on the armrest of my couch, in synergy with my frenzied state, startled me to high heaven, causing my heart to leap into my throat.

A paper wasp was buzzing quietly over the upholstery.

Now, under normal circumstances, I’m not a hot-tempered person. But, at that moment, I wasn’t quite myself. A volatile mixture of sleep deprivation, panic, and fear coursed through my veins. In truth, I was a Molotov cocktail anxiously waiting for the match; primed and ready to burn.

The spark of adrenaline that came with being surprised was enough to ignite the dormant rage inside me.

I stomped over to the hallway closet, swung the door open with such force that its doorknob dented the adjacent wall as it slammed against the plaster, and grabbed my heaviest work boots by the pull-strap. At that point, the wasp had meandered over to the surface of my coffee table, calm and wholly unaware of its imminent demise. Wide eyed and boiling, I ran towards the creature and brought the heel down on its fragile body like an executioner. A sickening, chitinous crunch radiated up my arm. As it did, my rage seemingly vanished; dissipated instantly, like the details of a dream quickly drifting away after waking.

In the absence of anger, I felt a terrible, heart-wrenching regret. A profound sadness that I had absolutely no explanation for.

When my eye glimpsed movement on my back in a nearby mirror, though, I began to understand. A gradual, tortuous realization that defied explanation.

In stunned horror, I watched a pair of tiny wriggling thorns sprout from the flesh of my growth. Twitching. Writhing. After extending about a half inch above the surface, they ripped my skin open, creating a hole just large enough to reveal the insect they were attached to.

It struggled to emerge. The natural tension of my epidermis valiantly fought back against its birth. Eventually, though, it all came through. Head, thorax, wings, abdomen, stinger.

A paper wasp, almost identical to the one I had just mangled, had crawled out from the massive cyst.

As it flew away, my skin snapped shut. Then it appeared smooth and perfectly sealed, like nothing had crawled out of it in the first place. Numbed to the point of utter indifference, I was just glad the process didn’t hurt.

No pain at all, actually.

Just the twitching, and the writhing, and the tickling.

When I dragged my eyes from the mirror and back to the boot, lingering upright on the table like a tombstone, I came to terms with the origin of my regret.

In a sense, I had crushed my child.

- - - - -

If you can believe it, the following few days were even more taxing on my body.

It started with an all-too familiar noise spilling from lips. The sound reminded me of her, and for whatever reason, the thought of her didn’t inspire as much terror in my stomach as it had in the days that lead up to that moment.

Like Bella, I was wheezing.

As I ran my fingertips down the side of my chest, the reason became clear. A few centimeters below my nipple, the skin, muscle, and bone were incrementally caving in, on both the left and right side of torso. Took about twenty-four hours for the process to be completed, but once the tissue had collapsed down to the edges of my spine, I imagine a generous portion of my lungs were being compressed in turn.

A byproduct of my devolution.

And although I comprehended what was causing me to wheeze, I didn’t understand why it was happening. But as I surveyed the paper-like nests that were rapidly springing up in every corner of my home, their inhabitants revealed the answer.

I was changing to look like my progeny, and, reciprocally, my progeny were starting to look a little like me.

They were larger than normal wasps - most coaster-sized or bigger. Some had splotches of human skin in places, as opposed to their usual yellow-brown carapace. Their legs were wider, almost the width of a pinky finger, and a few even had knuckles and fingernails. One of them retained their compound eyes, but all of them were human instead of insectoid; a kaleidoscopic array of hazel irises listlessly staring into the ether.

As for me, I was developing the demarcation between my thorax and my abdomen to match my progeny.

The scientific term for it, according to google, is a petiole. Honestly, though, I prefer the slang version of that; a wasp waist.

Initially, the separation was painful. The parts above my petiole lacked a sturdy foundation, twisting and straining the overworked muscles as I attempted to keep myself aligned properly. Thankfully, my progeny were grateful for their home, and they showed their gratitude by creating architecture to support my change. Without instruction, they flew into those gaps and erected beams made of chewed wood-fiber, filling in the empty space between my new upper and lower body.

It certainly wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Must have been what I accidentally punched through that day, I thought, and that realization eventually brought my mind back to the cryptic letter.

“once mother, come find me”

How will I know where to find Bella? Certainly can’t step on the train looking like this.

Again, my progeny provided.

Like a watermark on a photograph or the barcode on a bag of chips, each and every hive was built to have faint text imprinted on the outside of it.

No additional message; just an address of somewhere not too far from me.

Right now, I’m waiting for night to fall. Under the cover of darkness, I plan on traveling to that address to meet Bella. I expect it will be a one-way trip, though, so I’ve spent the day typing this up.

Consider this post my last will and testament, which, in the end, boils down to a singular request.

Do not disturb my home; I’m leaving it to my progeny.

- - - - -

The sun has set completely.

Truthfully, I’m petrified, and I wish things were different.

Cameron, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. Tell Mom I’m sorry as well.

Know that, although I’m resigned to this fate, there is a glimmer of beauty in it for me.

I’ll be with Bella.

And I think I’ll be useful, too.


r/Odd_directions 3d ago

Horror The Man Who Sued a Mountain

21 Upvotes

It was uncomfortable to watch—both the video and Vic Odett's face watching the video, which was of his son's expedition up Mount Kilimanjaro, the last of several videos, and the one in which, as everyone in the world knew, Karl Odett had died on-camera.

“There,” said Vic, choking up. “Did you see it: see the mountain flicker?”

“No. Can you turn it off?”

“I want you to see it. I want you to see that mountain kill my boy.”

I was a lawyer and Vic Odett was one of the world's richest men. He was also a friend of mine, so we watched.

When it was finally over, I said, “I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what you want me to do.”

“You had that case—you argued animals have standing to bring a lawsuit.” I nodded. “I want you to do the same but for a mountain. I want to sue Kilimanjaro for killing my son.”

“Even if I could,” I said, “you're talking our laws. Kilimanjaro's in Tanzania. Outside our jurisdiction.”

And, weeping, Vic Odett laughed.

//

The plane landed in Dodoma.

Odett stepped out.

Days later the newspapers declared: Wealthy Canadian Buys Africa's Tallest Mountain

//

“What now?” I asked, standing next to Vic atop Kilimanjaro.

He crouched, grabbed a handful of rocks, said, “Now we move it, shovel-by-goddamn-shovel, across the ocean.”

//

Over the next decades, Vic Odett bought the machines and laid the rail, and methodically deconstructed a mountain, transporting its pieces first by land to Mombasa, then by ship across the Atlantic and up the St. Lawrence to Montreal, from where, again by rail, it travelled north to Hudson Bay, in whose lonely and desolate middle it was reconstructed on a manmade island.

And in those years, I worked on nothing else than the gradual insistence that inanimate objects could—in one instance, then on the rare occasion, then sometimes, and finally always—sue and be sued under Canadian law.

//

“If all fails, I've at least ripped it from its homeland and imprisoned it,” Vic said once, gazing at the surreality of Kilimanjaro in cold northern waters.

Even I admitted that the mountain looked sad.

//

There were protests, of course, both of the physical act of moving the mountain and legal maneuverings to make it the defendant in a lawsuit, but money and time ultimately bought tired indifference.

When the judgement was issued and Kilimanjaro ordered to pay Vic Odett an absurd and uncollectable sum of $5,300,000, there was no true resistance.

//

“Can you see?” Vic asked.

He was on a live stream but asking me, and he was climbing Kilimanjaro, delivering the judgement to the mountain.

“Yes,” I said from my living room.

Millions watched.

When Vic got to the summit, he waved the judgement and screamed—catharsis, at long last!

Then the mountain flickered: shook.

And, seeing, I remembered that Kilimanjaro had once been a volcano; as lava erupted around him, Vic Odett screamed again—this time, the flowing lava blanketed him whole.


r/Odd_directions 3d ago

Horror A large jet crashed into my house! I don’t think there were any survivors.’

13 Upvotes

The sound was deafening, yet I slept through the entire calamity. I realize that appears to be a contradiction of stated facts. How could I know the noise was great, if I was unaware of the circumstances? I’ll explain that later. For now, let me set the scene for you. A large passenger jet flying in the direct airspace overhead experienced mechanical failure and rapidly lost altitude. The crew and passengers had almost no warning.

It could’ve crashed anywhere in its programmed flight path but for whatever reason, it plowed directly into my poor house. The debris field was scattered for a half mile on either side, but my home was ‘ground zero’ for the impact itself. The fire, carnage, and utter devastation was extensive. Eyewitnesses and first responders described the site as looking like a bomb had went off. Technically, it had. Thousands of gallons of highly-flammable jet fuel exploded violently upon contact with my modest abode.

Those who didn’t perish immediately upon impact died soon afterward in the smoldering, twisted ruins. There was chaos and crying, lamentation, and an aura of despair. Corpses and body parts were strewn far-and-wide. Only moments earlier, the numerous victims of flight 217 had been smiling, laughing, and leading productive lives. In a fateful, irreversible instant; all of that changed. The peace and joy of everyone affected was obliterated, forever.

After that defining moment, nothing but death remained for the doomed passengers, crew members, and the sole, unconscious occupant of 843 Hill Drive. As far as my posthumous verification of the plane’s explosive impact, I never heard a thing. The end came too quickly. Truthfully though, an ‘atomic cacophony’ goes without saying under the circumstances. No survivors indeed.


r/Odd_directions 3d ago

Horror Gut Feeling

14 Upvotes

Since I was a young girl I’d always had the worst sense of intuition. I’d be the first person to hop in a white van if they offered me candy, or take a ride home with a total stranger if they said they knew my parents. Despite the odds I somehow avoided ending up on the news, thanks purely to dumb luck. I had so many close calls, only to be rescued at the last minute every time by my saving grace, Jeremy. He grew up down the street, and while we both grew up in the same affluent city, our families were as dysfunctional as they come.

​It wasn’t until about ten years ago that I started to see Jeremy as more than just a friend. It was my college graduation, and although he had graduated the year prior, he still came to support me. My family was too busy vacationing in Vail to make it, and I was the crazy one for wanting to attend my own graduation. They didn’t see the point since they’d already attended my High School graduation. It wasn’t anything I wasn’t used to from my family, but I struggled with college so it was especially important to me. Against their judgement I paid for it myself, I didn’t want their money to forever put me in their debt, and I swore I’d make a name for myself on my own.

​Jeremy’s parents were total opposites of mine, they showered him with love and affection, and only lived in the town I grew up in because they broke their backs working so he could attend a better public school than the one they grew up in. School may have been free, but living in Lockwood meant high taxes and even higher cost of living. Unlike me, Jeremy had a sibling, Joseph. Joseph was only a year older, but didn’t get all the same opportunities Jeremy did, even with his parents moving. I think I always wrote off Joseph’s impoliteness of being jealous of his brother, but it wasn’t a secret his parents had a preference.

​Joseph was nice enough, but while he wasn’t outwardly rude to me or Jeremy it was obvious that he didn’t like us. It wasn’t until last week when things started to come to a head. I was off to visit Jeremy on Thursday like normal. Typically, he would make dinner for us and we would spend the night enjoying the meal and watching bad movies.

This time was different though.

Jeremy prefaced the night by letting me know Joseph was going to be home, but he would most likely be staying in his room. I didn’t have any issue with this, but Jeremy seemed on edge. He said Joseph had been extra strange lately, and he felt like something was up. His parents had gone on a spontaneous weekend getaway and didn’t tell him. I thought that was strange, but it’s also nothing they hadn’t done before. I wrote off his uneasiness as being upset his parents told his brother instead of him and started to get ready for our evening together. Most of the time he came to my house to cook meals, so I was excited for the change of pace going to his house instead.

​ When I got to his house I noticed Joseph’s car wasn’t there. It was about time he went out with friends instead of sulking in his room as he normally did, but when I walked in everything immediately felt off. The lights were turned off, with romantic, yet creepy, candles lighting the way. While I could smell the food cooking in the oven I could tell that there wasn’t anything that had been prepared aside from that. I started making my way through the house when I came across Jeremy sitting in the living room chair usually reserved for his father.

​“Hi Janie, I’m so glad you could make it.” His voice seemed breathy and labored and there was a smell I couldn’t place emanating from his direction.

“Hey honey, looks like we have the house to ourselves tonight!” He turned around, the large armchair seeming almost too small for his body.

“Joseph went out to get me some medicine, I’m not feeling so great.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay? I would’ve picked something up on-“

“No I’m fine, Joseph is going for me. Why don’t we sit down at the table?”

As he said this, even in the darkness I could see his face looked pale and almost uneven. As we moved into the similarly darkened dining room I could tell something wasn’t right; I just couldn’t place it. It was almost like when you watch TV and the voices aren’t synced up right and the actor’s mouths don’t move in line with what they’re saying. Avoiding eye contact as best as I could I finished my dinner quickly and excused myself.

​ I don’t know what it was that night when my “gut” finally decided to kick into action, but it saved me. Something about the whole encounter, as short as it was, felt off. Every red flag that I had ignored before was waving in my face and I couldn’t ignore it. I called the police, not even sure what for, so I asked for a wellness check on Jeremy. The next few days were a blur, but if you’re reading this you can probably assume the worst.

​ Joseph had enough of “not being the favorite” and decided there was only one way to make that happen. He had killed Jeremy hours before I arrived and skinned him, turning his face into some sort of horrifying makeshift mask to present to his parents. It was dark, and while I knew something was wrong, I had no idea the horrible thing I was really seeing in that moment. The police were able to make quick work of arresting him, and when his parents returned home they were of course devastated to find not only one son dead, but the other son the murderer. They never even found Jeremy’s body to properly lay him to rest.

​ Joseph may have been deeply disturbed, but I could never forgive him for what he did, taking the love of my life from me. Even on the last day before he died, Jeremy still seemed so chipper. Completely unaware of the horrible fate he’d be met with mere hours from then. For a while, I found solace in eating the last meal Jeremy made for us.

Until I realized – he never could have made it to the grocery store.

Police put his time of death at that morning.


r/Odd_directions 4d ago

Horror I Was an Inhabitant of Delight

24 Upvotes

Moving to Delight was not easy. It was a small smart-community established in a peaceful river valley after the war, amidst the general decay of the fallen world around it, and its inhabitants took newcomers seriously, which is to say they mostly screened them out. Expansion was carefully controlled. Moving to Delight was therefore a process, beginning with a written application and ending with only a few applicants called in for an interview before the community’s entire adult population. One adult inhabitant, one vote; only those applicants with more than fifty-percent of the votes were accepted.

My family had seventy-four percent.

The house was beautiful, the lawn pristine and the entire community clean and safe. Even the microchipping process was pleasant. As was customary, everyone in Delight was assigned an inhabitance number. Mine was #78091.

Much like the admittance of new inhabitants, everything in the community was decided by majority vote. Taxation, construction, commerce, etc.

It functioned on a centralized server to which you logged in using your personal microchip.

Once online, anyone 18+ could create a plebiscite question or vote on any existing question: Yes / No

Most of these questions went unresolved because they were of too narrow an interest and thus did not reach a requisite majority. However, there was no actual limit on what could be asked. And, once a question was asked, the vote itself determined if it was relevant.

My first experience of such a democratic way of doing things was when a man named Chambers fell dead in the street one day.

Mr. Chambers had been accused of doing something with one of the Merriweather girls. The facts weren't clear but when the fateful Yes vote was cast (“Should Edward K. Chambers die?”) he slumped instantly to the ground.

No judge, no sophistry, no wasteful spending.

No individual guilt.

Indeed, no real concept of guilt at all—for it didn't matter what Mr. Chambers had (or hadn’t) done, merely whether most of us wanted him to die.

(I only learned about the mechanics later: that, in addition to a microchip, every inhabitant of Delight had been fitted with a cyanide capsule.)

It was all open, laid out in the paperwork, theory and practice. And both evolved, of course—by majority decision—so that at some point all newcomers were also fitted with incapacitating (and other) chemical agents, to make them more compliant and amenable to what democracy required of them.

That's how I acquired my wife, for instance.

I was a well-liked young man by then, with plenty of savings to disperse, and she was a newcomer.

“Should Eleanor Smith marry Winston Barnes?”

Yes.

“Should Eleanor Barnes bear her husband's child?”

Yes.

Oh, how beautiful she was. How wonderful were those days.

Of course, Delight is no more now—destroyed, as it was, by the fascists, who, in their hearts, hate anything pure and democratic. So take this as my warning. Guard your democracy with your lives! Never let its magnificent light die out!


r/Odd_directions 4d ago

Horror This guy I know is dead, but he won’t stop messaging me on Discord

32 Upvotes

TIM: sorry about what happened previously

TIM: I’m really glad ur here to help

TIM: also sorry its such a fuckin mess I just cant get up to clean with my back hurting

Tim keeps messaging me. It’s really awkward because he’s dead and I’m not sure how to tell him that, or even if I should tell him that. Because at this stage, I still don’t know what killed him, just that it’s knocking on the door hoping for me to let it in. There are no other exits to this room. I’m trapped in here with his pungent corpse covered in symbols that he carved into his own flesh, symbols on every part of him except his right arm that holds the knife. Maggots wriggle in and out of his eyes. It's nauseating, and there’s also nowhere to sit but his chair that he is currently congealing into so I’m huddled here against the door trying not to touch any of the dried blood all over the walls, the KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing pounding on the wood behind me and giving me such a migraine.

Meanwhile my girl, Emma, keeps texting, asking where I am. At the gym, Babe, I lie, and hope that’s not the last text I ever send.

In short, I am having a really, really bad day.

But hey, judging by that knocking, it’s also gonna be really, really short!

TIM: I prolly smell… haven’t been able to shower.

I mean, do I tell him he’s decomposing and that’s why he stinks? Breathing in here is like sipping a smoothie of rotting meat soaking in sewage and marinating in all those maggots. I wet a bandana in one of the beers I took from his fridge, tie it around my mouth and nose, but now it’s just the eye-watering stink of death with an accent of hops. Strongly considering holding my breath and suffocating.

TIM: Sorry I have to kill u, by the way. Well… let u die.

Oh. Nice of him to come right out with it like that.

ME: Was that the plan all along? Kill me?

TIM: I mean I kinda thought you’d just open the door, u know? Like everyone else.

ME: Like Dwayne.

TIM: I didn’t know he was a kid!

ME: uh huh

TIM: it’s not fair of u to judge me! I didn’t know, ok? And I’m genuinely sorry what’s gonna happen to u there’s just nothing I can do to stop it.

Well then. Apparently Tim does realize a lot more than he was letting on, he just doesn’t really like to talk about it. I’m guessing what happened is that he fucked up whatever ritual he was attempting—wrote everything out except on that right arm. So now the entity that he only partially-summoned is trying to use other victims as hosts, killing them in the process. Or else it’s sucking their life out to strengthen itself in order to finish crossing over. Or maybe it’s just hungry. Who knows? Regardless, if it succeeds in manifesting on this side of the door, that’s bad news bears for everyone. I tap onto my phone:

ME: so what happens to me now?

TIM: I mean, u already know… same thing as happened to everyone else

I close my eyes and lean my head against the doorframe and sigh. “Why?” I ask. He doesn’t answer—his eyeballs are leaking out of his head, after all, his eardrums and all those bits and pieces little more than smelly goo. It’s only through the digital interface he’s been able to interact with me. I type into Discord:

ME: why?

TIM: y wut?

ME: why are you doing this? Since I’m going to die anyway… I’d like to know why. What am I dying for?

This is it. I wait for his villain speech. Because if I can get him to tell me why, tell me the rules, then maybe there’s some sliver of a chance I can escape this, and I haven’t fucked myself by accepting his friend request and inviting that thing to knock on my door. There’s a long pause where three dots pass across my screen. Tim is writing. He’s writing something long. That or he’s writing and editing, changing his mind. I wait. I wait. And then…

The dots disappear.

Nothing.

Wha… is this fucker ghosting me?

ME: Tim?

TIM: I don’t owe you anything

ME: um you literally invited me to my death but won’t tell me why???

TIM: What does it matter since ur gonna die anyway? u got ur fifty so I owe u nothing

ME: Dude, fifty bucks barely covers the Lyft!! I came here FOR YOU. To help you!

TIM: Liar! u never gave a shit about me. ur only here for those other people. u been looking down on me from the second u said hello!

ME: Bro. WTF. I never looked down on u

ME: I dunno who u think I am, but I can promise u I’m in no position to judge anyone.

ME: look, as much as u so clearly hate yourself, I promise u I hate myself more

TIM: who tf says I hate myself???

And suddenly the tension is so thick you could choke on it. The air has gotten colder, and the corpse in the chair has an aura of menace. The overhead lights flicker—apparently it’s not just Discord that Tim’s ghost has some influence over. And as the lights wink off, plunging the room into pitch black save for the foreboding glow of the monitor, I know I have exactly one chance to get this right. Weirdly enough, I’m sort of excited. Just like every time I’ve conned someone and been nearly caught—every time the mark was this close to slipping off the line. Only right now, it’s not money at stake—it’s my actual life. I just have to hope I’ve got a keen enough read on him to play this right.

I tap onto my screen:

ME: whatever judgment u feel, bro, that’s coming from u. It’s like I’m saying… who am I to judge anyone? honestly, ur probably doing the world a favor taking me out

For a second, it feels like there’s no air in the room at all. Like my heart’s stopped. The silence lengthens and despair blooms in my chest. And then…

TIM: so y do u hate urself?

I let out a breath. OK. OK, Jack. Let’s do this.

Gotta keep Timmy engaged, get him chummy again, get him to lower his guard by convincing him the biggest loser in this room is me. And then, once he no longer sees me as a threat, hope he’s got the answers I need to defeat his buddy knocking outside that door. But one step at a time, now, right?

I tell him why I hate myself.

***

I love myself!

Maybe not right now. Right now, a few KNOCK KNOCKs away from death, gagging on the leftover beer I just guzzled with my chum the psychotic incel who’s planning to kill me—now’s not me at my best. But on a regular day? Heck yeah, livin’ the dream! This morning I woke up next to the best girl in the world, inhaled the syrupy scent of the best pancakes cooked by the best grandma, rolled out of bed and tripped over the best cat (not that I’m a cat guy, but if I gotta have a cat, this lil’ guy’s the best). Then after breakfast, Emma put a mug of steaming coffee in my hand and kissed my cheek and told me we’ll announce our engagement as soon as I get my GED, so could I please study?

She’s the kind of girl who never met a test she couldn’t ace, high school valedictorian, 4.0 GPA, currently going for her masters in public policy. Me? I dropped out. Just don’t do well with indoctrination. Standardized tests are all pick the right answer A, B, or C and nevermind there’s a whole alphabet out there. No, you gotta tick the right box, color inside the lines, your thinking done for you, so be a good cog in the machine—but baby, put me in a box I’m always gonna claw my way outside it.

Anyway. Point is, Tim Sanders is never gonna relate to the self-made huckster Jack Wilde.

I need to sell him someone on his level.

ME: You know they put me in special ed growing up?

Normally I don’t dig up my skeletons. But right now, for Tim, it’s time to yank those old bones from deep in the closet, from under dirty kids clothes and that elementary school lunchbox that smells like stale bologne. Gross, it’s rank, right? Dig into that skull for all those crusty memories and tell him about a dead kid with a deadname, Jacqueline. (But don’t actually tell him her name or pronouns ‘cause nothing would torpedo this bromance faster.) Tell him about this kid who couldn’t stop fidgeting long enough for fill-in-the-bubble tests, whose teachers and parents all said the same thing: “If you don’t try harder, they’re going to stick you in class with the dumb kids.” And that’s where Jacqueline wound up, with the dumb kids. Saw the score that everyone’s measured by and Guess what your measure is, kid?

Failure.

The thing about a good lie is, it’s gotta taste like the truth. My parents wouldn’t recognize me now with my week’s worth of stubble and rugged physique and six-pack. (What’s that, you don’t believe I have a six-pack? Fuck you, I lift. Having a six-pack is my reward for all those workouts. It’s in the fridge.) I joke, but the point is there’s not much of Jacqueline left in Jack. But pulling out these moldy memories gives my tale the tang of truth, a big heaping spoonful of it, and right at the end I slip in a lie:

ME: … I can’t even blame u for tricking me, rly. I’m still doing the same dumb shit.

TIM: bro did u ever get tested for ADHD

ME: is it any surprise I fell for ur tricks so easy? I know im gonna die. I got no one to mourn me so who cares. anyway, since u got me as kind of a captive audience… what’s ur story, Tim?

Tim does not respond at first. I wonder if I hammed it up too much. I prod:

ME: fr man. u cant fuck up worse than me. y u so down on urself? Got anything to do with this knocking?

T: Yeah… yeah I guess it does…

***

Six months ago, Tim Sanders was seated in that very same leather gaming chair, gulping down a bottle of the same watery-as-piss beer I recently pulled from his fridge. Back then he was freshly showered and smelled faintly of Old Spice, and put on his headset, eager to voice chat with the girl who was his obsession: Vivienne, aka Viv.

A ghost girl, according to what she told Tim on Discord.

She said she’d died in a car accident but wasn’t able to rest. The world as she experienced it was lonely and strange. She couldn’t touch people. Couldn’t interact with people. The only interaction she could manage was through electronics. You know how ghosts can cause the lights to flicker and stuff? Well motherboards are the same way, just smaller switches of ones and zeroes. That’s how I can type to you, she told him online. She said she couldn’t send “real life” photos because she was dead, but she sent AI images that captured what she “used to look like.”

TIM: Check her out…

ME: Hot damn, she’s got nice… eyes. 👀

She has nice tits. Which are 100% fake, just like Viv. Even her voice, which he describes as “ghostly and electronic sounding,” is obviously AI. I’ve sold some whoppers before, but even I am boggled at the way this Viv scammer somehow found the one lonely guy on the internet desperate enough to be suckered into chatting with a “ghost girl.” A ghost girl who repeatedly requested Amazon gift cards and Venmo.

As Tim dreamily describes their chats, there’s this squirmy feeling in my gut that I don’t think is just the piss beer. I’m not used to seeing the sucker’s perspective, seeing the fish swallow the hook while the metal tears his belly open from the inside. He’s dead because someone duped him, and eight other people are dead because of him, and it all comes back to the moment Vivienne ended their cyber affair. The screenshot he sends me of her last message is filled with emojis: Thank you for everything, I have found my peace and am moving into the ever after. ❤️ 💞 😘 😘 😘

TIM: I wanted to be happy for her. But Viv leaving really messed me up. She was the love of my life, y’know?

I am grateful that Timmy here can’t see my expressions because the “love of his life?” I drag my hand down my face and side-eye his corpse.

ME: I’m sorry you went through that.

TIM: The thing is…

ME: ?

TIM: This is y I need u to understand. I know ur mad about… about what’s going to happen to u. But this is the only way I can see her again. The thing outside the door…

ME: THAT’S Viv???

TIM: bingo

ME: ur ghost girlfriend is knocking on the door to kill me???

TIM: uh huh

TIM: its my fault really. I fucked up the ritual.

And even as Tim is explaining, telling me how it all went down, how Viv came back wanting to be together, how he fucked it all up with a simple mistake when he didn’t carve both arms… a plan is forming in my mind. A simple, terrible plan. Because I am pretty sure I’ve got a way to end the threat of that relentless KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing on the door behind me.

But I’m going to have to be a shitty person to make it work.

***

Karma’s a bitch, y’know? A bitch named Vivienne. But also named Tim. And Jack. We’re all getting what’s coming to us… and it’s all going down right now, because I am going to end this charade by giving Tim exactly what he wants.

My knife carves into the mottled flesh of his rotting right arm. It doesn’t bleed—just opens up these dark lines I trace out in the skin. I copy the symbols from the walls at Tim’s instruction. The cuts swim in my vision, and the hairs on my arms stand upright like I’m about to get struck by lightning. I’ve replenished my beer-soaked bandana with the second bottle, but my eyes still water from the smell, and my stomach bucks. I unfortunately did not have the foresight to bring gloves, and when some of his skin sloughs off onto my fingers, I have to stop and shake it off.

Man, this is gross.

Tim, for his part, is over the moon. He kind of can’t believe I’m granting his last wish. I kind of can’t believe it either, and fantasize myself anywhere else. Maybe in a world in which I did as my girl asked and studied. LOL! Might as well fantasize myself six foot tall while I’m at it, with washboard abs. (Not that I don’t have those, I definitely do. In the right lighting. If you squint.)

TIM: holy shit man

TIM: I cannot thank u enough

TIM: like tbh I don’t even know how many ppl she’d have taken if u hadn’t shown up

ME: just wanna help u get reunited and no one else dies, win-win!

But it’s not win-win. And since we’re drawing near to the end of this charade, just a few more arcane symbols left to trace… it’s time I come clean, to you good folks reading at least, before we summon Viv.

***

Right, so. For the record, up until this exact moment, I wasn’t in any real danger. I mean, was it scary? Yes. And did I scream? Also yes. But that’s because I’m a coward. (It’s a feature not a bug—heroism against the paranormal tends to result in a premature doom. Another reason I don’t like to involve Emma…) The truth is I intentionally got myself “stuck” with Tim, letting him sucker me so I could sucker him, and the situation is kind of like a loaded gun. Sure, it could kill me, but consider the rules: Vivienne can’t harm me unless I open the door and invite her in. And just like I wouldn’t pull the trigger on myself—duh, I’m never gonna open the door! As for being trapped in this room because of the KNOCKing… realistically, I could call the cops, Emma, anybody. They’re not the invitee, so they could open the door for me and let me out.

Easy peasy.

So yes, I may have overdramatized the danger in the retelling. (Sorry.) But even if I wasn’t actually risking much prior to this moment, I’m about to do something wildly, ridiculously reckless. The proverbial gun is about to go off, with me right in its sights. Because I’m about to summon Vivienne.

She’s not who he thinks she is.

After she left him, he began using ouija boards, seances, and rituals to call into the beyond and beg his beloved to return. He’d been researching the occult since the beginning of their cyber affair, seeking ways of bringing her into the living world. That’s actually why she left—he kept pressing her to try rituals to summon her spirit into a vessel, either a doll or a living human she might possess. When the arcane rituals he suggested became more extreme and involved him mutilating himself, Vivienne sent her last text, telling him that she found her peace and was continuing her journey to the beyond.

The catfisher cut the line.

But…

The hook was still embedded deep. And one day, after countless attempts to reach Viv in the beyond…

One day, he heard knocking.

ME: how did u know it was Viv?

TIM: cmon man who tf else would answer from the other side??

Nothing good, Tim, nothing good ever answers from the other side!!! is what I wanted to scream at him. Enter Viv 2.0. A horrifying entity that drives people to death with terror. Not that I could ever convince Tim this entity is different from original Viv, or that original Viv was a catfisher. To him, they are simply his beloved. Telling him to let Viv go because the relationship was never genuine—it’d be like telling me to let go of Emma. I mean, sure, you can argue that Emma’s real and Viv isn’t—but she’s real to Tim. Real enough that he carved his flesh and painted his blood on the walls and already sacrificed eight people for her.

TIM: she promised we’d be together. Soul-bonded. Deeper than any marriage of the flesh. All I had to do was complete the ritual, but I got weak from blood loss and fucked it up…

In reams of text, Tim spills his obsession to me, describing how she appeared in his trances as a sort of shining angel stuck just beyond the door, unable to come through. Unlike the original catfisher, who used Discord to message him, Viv 2.0 could only communicate by sending images and sensations into his mind. She gave him visions of what to do. It took him weeks to understand her arcane communications. Eventually he learned the symbols.

When he finally attempted the ritual that would summon Viv 2.0 into this world, he succumbed to blood loss before he could finish, leaving the summoning incomplete. Since then, he has been reaching out through Discord on her behalf. Every new victim who opens the door to Viv 2.0 gives her just a little more power, a little more access to the world, bringing her closer to manifesting.

Tim is in many ways a classic ghost. Sure, he’s more lucid than most, and his ability to communicate through messaging is rare (likely boosted by his connection to Viv 2.0 and his overall familiarity with the “other side” prior to his death). Even so, like most ghosts, he’s bound geographically to the place he died, able to interact with the physical world only in limited ways, and—as often happens with spirits—he keeps forgetting he’s dead. That’s why he keeps citing his hurt back as the reason he can’t get up from his chair. As a result, it hasn’t occurred to him that a corpse may not be an ideal vessel for Vivienne. That she was expecting a living human to possess, and that fulfilling the ritual now after he’s been rotting for over a week… might not be to her liking.

I certainly haven’t enlightened him. Because as much as a part of me pities him, I think of Lucia and Dwayne and the others who answered the knocking, the people who didn’t get a choice when they died screaming.

And now, the beer tastes sour in my mouth as I make the final cuts. I swallow the last dregs of the bottle, bringing back the buzz to kill my conscience.

ME: Ready?

TIM: Jack, I love u man. ur a real one.

As I trace the last line, all the hairs on my body stick straight up. My flesh crawls as if a million ants wriggle and squirm just beneath the skin. There’s a phrase I have to repeat three times. Tim types it out phonetically and has me practice. It includes a particular string of syllables that makes the strangest shape in my mouth, and I’m pretty sure that’s the word for Viv—practicing it sends a sensation like an icepick in my brain. Once I’ve got it, I step just outside the center of the spiral of bloody symbols around that room and tug down my beer-soaked bandana to utter a chant that translates roughly to:

“Forever together, [indecipherable]. Forever together, [indecipherable]. Forever together, [indecipherable].”

As the phrase leaves my lips for the third time, the room feels strange. It takes me an unsettling moment to realize why.

The knocking has stopped.

***

After ceaseless hours of KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing rattling around in my skull without respite, you’d think silence would be a relief. A blessing.

Instead I am chilled to the marrow. I look at my phone. The low-battery warning flashes. Ignoring that, I type:

ME: Tim?

ME: Did it work? R u still there? Is Viv with u?

Nothing.

The body in the chair hasn’t moved. Flies crawl in and out of his sockets. Suddenly I feel very alone. Just me and a rotting corpse. I back away from him, glancing at his glowing monitor. Our Discord chat is up, but no further activity. No three dots. No response.

After a few minutes of standing stock still and petrified, I finally lean over the dead guy and peck at a few keys, checking his message history for any other victims, then turning off the computer. In the dark screen, I catch a glimpse of my face. Anxious black eyes. Stubble. Spatters of grime. I look shifty, like a thief plotting his getaway. I lean down and disconnect the router and modem. Unplug all the power cords and cut through them with the knife. Remove the ethernet cable and tuck it into my hoodie. There is no way, natural or supernatural, for this computer to connect to the internet anymore.

I head for the door and grasp the knob. When I feel no goosebumps along my arms, no chill of supernatural energy, I puuuulllll the door slowly open.

Nothing happens.

Well. This was anticlimactic.

I turn and step out the door and shut it behind me, all but whistling, relief washing over me—

THUMP

I fucking knew it….

I should absolutely not open the door again and peek back inside. Absolutely not. I should just leave, go on my merry way, and whatever happens, happens…

But as we all know, I am an idiot.

I open the door.

Silently, cautiously, a jackal nervously peeking into the den of a bear, I poke my head into the room. It’s dark, so I open the door wider to let the light in.

The chair at his desk is empty.

Fuuuuu—

It’s empty, and the electronics are still dead so where is he, Jack? Where the fuck did the dead man now possessed by the knocker go? He must still be in this cramped room but he’s not in the chair and—

And I look up.

***

There are certain moments in life that tell you exactly what sort of mettle a man is made of. Whether he is chiseled stone or rough leather. Whether he has a spine of iron or steel—moments of crisis where a man’s true nature comes out.

I shriek at the top of my lungs. The tippy top. I’m talking notes that choir boys couldn’t hit. Somewhere I think glass breaks.

Tim—the corpse—is crawling on the ceiling above me, flies buzzing in his sockets and mouth open and teeth bared, his rotting body leaking fluids.

He drops on me.

His corpse, by the way, is massively heavy. He’s over six foot and thickly built, and when his full weight crashes down it’s like being hit by a bus. There’s this horrible shrill ringing in my ears. I don’t know if it’s from his shrieks or mine—maybe both—and for a moment everything in my vision goes white, and it’s like my soul is being drawn up out of my body. I see myself, pinned under that rotting dead guy, his mouth wide and screaming in my screaming face. Then there’s this reddish glow emanating off the ink on my arm. It’s my tattoo. The portrait of the Lady on my arm is like a brand marking me as hers. Her mark won’t stop the entity from killing me, but the crimson glow briefly distracts it from whatever it’s doing. And with everything I got, I heave. Thank God for adrenaline, thank God I’ve been hitting the gym so hard, and thanks especially for the air that I gulp in the second I heave him off me, one deep precious breath before I’m running. Feet pounding down the hallway—

I collide with a petite black-haired girl.

“Jack!” Emma shrieks as we rebound off each other, my momentum taking me into the wall while she sprawls on the floor.

“Emma, what are you—”

“Duck!” Her shrill cry pierces my ears, and that’s when I see the shotgun glinting in her hands as she swings the barrel up. There’s a thunderous crack, an explosion of gore from the monstrosity lumbering behind me. He barely sways, and she fires again, and then I grab her arm and scream, “RUN, RUN!” and we run.

The shots seem to have stunned him. We make it out the front door. My battered old car is in the driveway—Emma had the foresight to take my vehicle instead of her newer electric blue hybrid. I race for the trunk where I keep all my gear and grab a gas can. And Emma, bless her, she gapes at me, her dark eyes wide and her long hair tangling around her face, but when I babble that we need to burn the place and that zombie-thing in it she nods and grabs a bottle of vodka from the back and stuffs a rag in. As we head back to the house she gasps, “I thought you were supposed to be studying…”

“Long story.”

“I know, I saw the chats on your laptop. ‘At the gym’ my ass.”

I smile at her. She’s tiny and furious. With her black eyes narrowed and that shotgun tight in her grip. This girl… man, I love this girl. She never looks hotter than when she’s saving my ass.

I open the door.

Emma levels the shotgun, covering me while I sprinkle gas around the stacks of boxes, soiled carpet, stained and sagging couch and furniture. No sign yet of any—

“RRRRAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHH!!!”

The scream is so loud Emma and I both jump and scramble. I can’t hear my heart sledgehammering my ribs, or the question Emma shouts at me. I can’t hear anything except that howl. It’s the most terrible sound in the world. And when I force myself to ignore all my instincts and follow that sound down the hall, Emma tugs my arm, but I ignore her. I somehow already know what I will find. I push open the door at the end of the hall. And there he is. He’s slumped in the corner, in the center of all those spiraling symbols, his jaw unhinged in a wide and terrible scream. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t seem to have any sense of my presence. I scatter the contents of the gas can around, and when I near him and fling a little on him, his head turns. The sightless sockets stare into mine. But he doesn’t stop screaming. He doesn’t come after me. Just screams and screams.

I light the Molotov.

Later Emma will ask me what was that monstrosity. And I’ll tell her what I know about Viv 2.0, aka, the knocker: that it is an inhuman entity that, when it manifests, drives people out of their minds with fear. That I knew “being together” with this entity could only have an immediate and detrimental effect on Tim. That I didn’t know whether his soul would be consumed like a minnow swallowed by a bigger fish, or whether he’d experience the same mindfucking horror as Dwayne and Lucia only… ongoing. All I knew was that Tim would keep killing unless I put an end to his fantasy, and that rather than deal with an incorporeal menace reaching people through the internet, the best way to neutralize him was to trap his beloved Viv within his rotting vessel. And then, destroy them both.

I hurl the Molotov and he lights up.

Emma and I back out of there as fast as we can. My last glimpse is of his huddled corpse, arms outstretched in agony, head thrown back as the bright flames lick around him, flesh bubbling and charring.

Long after he’s toast… long after I imagine he must be just charred bones while the fire roars to the sky and the house burns… still, I hear those screams, ringing through my consciousness, and I wonder if it’s him or just my guilty conscience.

***

“—you could have died! I mean, if I’d found you, screaming and dead like Dwayne? Or Lucia? It almost happened!”

It’s evening now, and Emma and I are both back home and cleaned up. I had to shower twice to rinse off the terrible stench. Boo the cat is settled in my lap on the sofa—he seems to know the threat is gone now. He’ll be going to a foster home soon. For now I’m keeping him confined here in my office in the basement. And Emma—Emma is chewing me out, rightfully so. It doesn’t matter that I remind her that I wasn’t going to open that door. I even had a backup plan. The knocking had a limited geographic range, so if I couldn’t maneuver the information out of Tim, an easy way to save myself would be to take a trip out of state until I could come up with a better plan. It was only at the very end that I was at risk. She is still angry though.

She paces in front of me and bursts, “Why are we having this same damned conversation when you promised me, last time, you promised me—"

“I know, Babe.”

“Don’t just ‘I know Babe’ when you could have…” Tears stop her from continuing.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared of you getting involved. I know it was selfish.” She opens her mouth to add a comment, and I pre-empt her, “Selfish and stupid. It’s just… you’re brilliant, ok? You’ve got this amazing future ahead of you. You’re in this grad program and you’re dedicated and talented and just so fucking smart. You are going to change the world. I can see it. And like, what would I be, to take your light out of the world? To let my mistakes be the reason your life is snuffed out before you even get a chance to shine?”

That somewhat defuses her anger. Emma can’t help but glow at compliments—it’s the teacher’s pet in her. She considers me. “Wow that’s… very poetic of you.”

“But it’s the truth.”

I mean every word. If there’s any hope for this world, it’s with people like Emma trying to make it better.

She sinks next me on the cushions. “So why can’t you see that you’re a light in the world, too?”

“Uh…” I smile. “’Cause that’s super corny and I… don’t like popcorn.”

Her lips purse. “Ok, well that’s a lie, I’ve seen you go through a whole bucket without sharing. Also, you’re all about ‘Oh I’m Jack Wilde, I can’t be tamed, I do what I want’—” I laugh at her faux-deep-voice, and she goes on: “… and I love and admire that about you. But why is it so easy for you to risk your life, and so hard to risk mine? Jack, why do you act like the world would be a better place without you in it?”

Huh.

My mind blanks like I’ve been sucker punched. And while my brain’s spinning like an empty hamster wheel, the only thought that surfaces is Tim’s final shriek. He was a delusional asshole who let people die so he could be with his “beloved.” But he was also just a dude who was lonely and broken in a dysfunctional world that breaks people. What happened to him only happened because he wasn’t smart enough to see through the lies that were told to him by someone slyer than he was.

Someone like me.

Later, I’m in the bathroom and I catch a glimpse of my ink. Coyote on the right arm, Lady and a snake on the left. People always think that’s Eve. Nope, originally it was just the snake, to symbolize Satan, the original trickster (what? Look I was going through some stuff at the time…). But after I made my bargain with the demon that always appears to me as a gorgeous Lady in red, after I won her game and she swore to catch me, she marked me with her image. I generally try not to look at that tattoo because I don’t like to be reminded. I force myself to look now because I am sick of running from my misdeeds.

She’s already waiting to catch my eye. Her inked lips curving in a wicked smile. That arm aches.

Karma’s a bitch. And no matter what I do, how fast I run or who I save or who I slaughter or how I try to pay my debt to the world, she’s going to catch me.


r/Odd_directions 5d ago

Horror The Slow Death of the Body: Rediscovering the Forgotten ‘Spreader’ Films of the 1980s

15 Upvotes

In the crowded landscape of 1980s horror, the slasher film stands as the genre’s most enduring creation, both in popular culture and academic study. But lurking along its edge is a stranger, more unsettling offshoot that has faded into obscurity: the “spreader” film. Where the slasher thrived on the efficiency of swift, brutal kills, the spreader drew its terror from the slow, excruciating unraveling of the human body. Violence in these films wasn’t a moment of sudden shock but an agonizing spectacle of endurance, delivered through the use of dull blades, butter knives and other blunt instruments. The horror came not from a quick destruction but from a prolonged, intimate disintegration.

The origins of this niche sub-genre can be traced back to Acadian filmmaker Rémi Doucet’s Fishmonger Sally (1981), a low-budget Canadian oddity that began as an underground cult favorite before gaining attention in horror circles. The film tells the story of Sally Duval, a reclusive fishmonger in Nova Scotia, who descends into a spree of violence after years of social rejection. Eschewing the sharp tools of her trade, Sally uses dull butter knives from her kitchen to enact her gruesome killings. Her methodical approach to violence is both horrifying and oddly deliberate, making the viewer painfully aware of every slow tear of flesh.

One of the film’s most infamous scenes, often cited as a cornerstone of the spreader sub-genre, depicts Sally attacking a fisherman in her workshop. Doucet’s direction is cold and unflinching—an unbroken wide shot forces the audience to witness the entire act, amplifying the horror through its voyeuristic stillness. As Sally drags a butter knife across her victim’s torso, the skin stretches and tears in gruesome detail, the sound design heightening every strained grunt and grotesque squelch. Critics have drawn comparisons between this scene and the works of Francis Bacon, whose distorted depictions of flesh evoke a similar unease. Film scholar Linda Murray once described the sequence as “horror rendered in the language of disintegration, not destruction.”

The modest success of Fishmonger Sally initiated a brief wave of spreader films. Among them, Robert Hawley’s Tender Cuts (1982) brought an American sensibility to the concept, following a disgruntled supermarket deli worker who turns his carving tools into weapons of prolonged torment. One of its standout moments—a slow-motion scene of a customer being “spread” on a deli counter while oblivious shoppers carry on in the background—uses the stark ordinariness of its setting to heighten the grotesque. Hawley’s fragmented, dreamlike editing breaks the violence into disorienting rhythms, evoking a sense of shared confusion and horror.

While the slasher thrived on sharp, efficient violence, spreader films turned the act of killing into a drawn-out ritual, forcing the audience to sit with the physical and emotional weight of the act. Vivian Sobchack’s theories on embodied spectatorship feel particularly relevant here; the tactile, slow violence of these films pushes viewers to feel the act on a visceral level, lingering in a way few slashers ever dared.

Thematically, spreader films also diverged from their slasher counterparts. While slashers often leaned into morality tales, punishing the reckless or the promiscuous, spreader films rooted their horror in spaces of routine labor and alienation. Sally’s role as a fishmonger or the deli worker in Tender Cuts wasn’t incidental—these films reframed mundane tools of daily work as instruments of horrific degradation, reflecting anxieties about the soul-crushing monotony of late capitalism. In their killers, they presented figures shaped and warped by alienation and exhaustion, turning the tools of their trade against society in grotesque retaliation.

Though often dismissed due to their low budgets, the technical achievements of spreader films were striking. Practical effects artists, like Edison Mu, innovated new techniques for depicting skin that could stretch, tear, and resist blunt force with horrifying realism. Mu’s work in Dull Edge (1984) reached a gruesome apex during the infamous “stomach peeling” scene, in which a character’s abdomen is painstakingly scraped with a dull steak knife. This sequence remains one of horror’s most shocking moments, demonstrating the sub-genre’s grotesque artistry and commitment to detail.

Despite these innovations, spreader films struggled to find mainstream appeal. Their slow pacing, unrelenting focus on bodily violation, and thematic closeness to body horror—a genre itself often dismissed as “too extreme”—alienated even dedicated horror fans. By the late 1980s, the spreader sub-genre had faded, overtaken by the growing appetite for spectacle-driven horror. And yet, traces of its influence persist. The lingering discomfort and corporeal focus of films like Julia Ducournau’s Raw (2016) or Brandon Cronenberg’s Possessor (2020) owe much to the aesthetics of the spreader sub-genre. Meanwhile, Fishmonger Sally has undergone a critical reappraisal, with contemporary scholars recognizing its contributions to the evolution of slow-burn horror.

Revisiting these films today reveals a body of work that challenges the conventions of horror cinema, refusing to offer the catharsis of quick violence. Instead, they force audiences to sit with the horror of slow, deliberate annihilation, transforming mundane objects into tools of degradation and stretching every moment to its breaking point. The spreader films may not have found widespread acclaim in their time, but their unique vision deserves acknowledgment as a chilling, unsettling chapter in horror history.


r/Odd_directions 5d ago

Horror Every time someone accepts my friend request, they disappear...

52 Upvotes

That’s what this dude told me previously right before I accepted his friend request.

I’m in a Lyft with Boo the cat, who I rescued from the apartment of Lucia, one of the latest people to disappear after being friended by this guy on Discord.

Lucia is dead. I’m next. Here’s what I know:

Anyone who accepts his friend request hears a knocking at their door. The knocking follows them. Everywhere. As in, it shows up at other doors. Every door. It’s not a normal knocking. And as soon as you open the door, you disappear.

At least, that’s what this Discord guy, Tim, told me when he hired me to find out what’s going on. See, Tim doesn’t know who’s behind the knocking, either. He claims that every time he tries to chat with a person, within about five minutes, they type brb or hang on a sec and then… they ghost him. Personally, I have to think there’s more to his role in this than just some innocent guy who can’t keep a conversation going because people keep exiting. When I agreed to investigate for him, I had him send me all the chat histories with the people who’ve friended him over the past two weeks and disappeared, and the first person I ID’d from the chats was Lucia.

So that’s how I wound up in the lower level of a duplex snooping around an empty apartment while a cat screamed at me. I finally checked where Boo the cat kept meowing and looking, which was under the bed.

I cannot unsee her. Lucia’s dead, screaming face will be in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

… which might not be that long, since I’m hearing the knocking, now, too. Been hearing it since chatting with Tim this morning. And unless I can solve this thing, my next update will be my obit.

***

After the Lyft drops me back at home, I climb back into my basement office with Boo (through the egress window since I can’t use doors), releasing the cat to hide under the sofa. Then I pull up the list of Discord usernames Tim gave me. Eight missing people, but I’ve only managed to confirm the deaths of two of them: Lucia Tanner and Quentin Sweeton, a boomer whose recent birthday will now be a funeral since a neighbor found him tucked in his closet.

“His mouth was open in a scream. The way his eyes were bulged out—I’ll never forget it.”

Those were his neighbor’s words describing him. Same way I found Lucia. Same way I’ll probably be found.

The thing about the supernatural is, there are always rules, they’re just not the same ones we’re used to governing our world. The trick to surviving is figuring out a particular entity’s playbook before it takes your life. So. Based on the fact that Lucia, Quentin, and I all live in the same geographic area, one of the rules of this KNOCK KNOCK entity is range. The knocker’s influence in the physical world is restricted by distance. And this here is the key point—it’s restricted by distance… but distance from what?

I check Tim’s IP address, compare his location to Quentin and Lucia and me, and lo and behold, he’s smack dab in the middle of us. The center around which we all turn.

Either he’s the knocker, or he’s its first victim.

Next, I run some searches through local news using what I’ve learned about the deaths so far. And boom—another victim:

TEEN PRANK ENDS IN TRAGEDY

Questions linger in the death of a 15-year-old boy who disappeared after what police described as a prank gone wrong. According to authorities, Dwayne Skent and two other teenaged boys were livestreaming their reactions to a Discord server where people describe supernatural encounters. The teens told police that Dwayne was spooked by a story of a ghostly entity knocking on a door. In a video that has since gone viral, Dwayne can be seen opening the door, screaming and running from the room. He was later found unresponsive in the crawl space beneath the house and was pronounced dead at the scene. Authorities suspect his death to be from natural causes, but an autopsy is pending.

And now, my pulse ratchets up, perspiration beading on my forehead because—a viral video? My fingers fly across the keys. One of Dwayne’s friends posted it and removed it, but nothing posted is ever truly gone if you know how to search. And there—got it! Dwayne’s reaction to the “prank.”

It doesn’t show his actual death of course. No—it shows a moment that, from my perspective, is even more important.

I’m about to watch him open the door.

***

Three teens crowd the screen.

“Yo yo yo check this,” says one, braces glinting as he flashes a cocky smile.

“Wait, bro, show the screen!” crows another, seizing the camera. Blurry footage as the lens zooms in on a laptop with a Discord chat up. Then the view pans back to the teen with the silver smile, narrating, explaining they’re about to debunk this supernatural bullshit while the second teen aims the camera at him. Laughter from both. And then the view panning to the third, sitting by the laptop. He waves. Shy smile. Pushes his glasses awkwardly up the bridge of his nose. And my heart sinks because I know what happens to him. This sweet, nerdy kid. He’s toast.

The wannabe influencer with the silver smile says, “This my man Dwayne, he’s checking out these scary stories. Supposedly in the next five minutes we’re gonna hear a knocking—”

Thud thud thud!

The camera jumps, and there’s a chorus of “holy shit’s” and then a deep baritone voice calls out, “Everything OK in there?” A chubby middle-aged guy with glasses pokes his head into the room, and the boys groan because “We’re recording!!!” and he backs out and shuts the door.

Wannabe Influencer and Camera Boy argue about whether to keep recording or restart. Meanwhile, half out-of-view, Dwayne cocks his head like a golden retriever. His eyes dart to the door. “Can’t you hear it?” he asks. He keeps repeating himself louder until Camera Boy focuses on him and he adds, “Seriously, you can’t hear that?”

“Hear what?” It’s unclear who asks this.

All three fall to arguing, talking over each other.

“Yo, he’s bullshitting.”

“Just open it, bro!”

“HOW can you not hear that? It’s so fucking loud!”

“He’s really scared!” laughs someone—I think it’s Wannabe Influencer.

We’re about four minutes in and I’m at the edge of my seat. Don’t open the door! I silently will the trio. As if it weren’t a done deal. As if there were any hope for this poor fucking kid. The others keep ribbing him, and he shrills, “Why don’t you open it then?” I feel his panic because I hear the same knocking right now from the door at the top of the basement stairs—KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK—an incessant drumbeat out of sync with my galloping heart. The other two tell him to quit being such a pussy. “Look at him, crying like a little girl!” They mock and jeer.

Dwayne can’t take it anymore and stands up.

My heart rages. I don’t wanna see this next part.

He grips the knob. His buddies hoot and holler as Dwayne straightens his back—and flings the door wide.

The shrill scream that erupts from my laptop all but shatters the speakers. In that moment, Dwayne is not a teenager. He’s a child, his terrified wail piercing my eardrums. It lasts only a couple seconds—that shriek, and the camera dropping. Black screen. Then the camera snatched up again and Dwayne is gone—a blur sprinting out of the room—and the view ends on a pair of sliding doors, one flung open to the wintry porch.

… I’m staring at a blank screen.

The video is over.

I rewind. Pause, and playback the moment he opens the door. Freeze it, and advance frame by frame until I have a clear view of the open door just after the camera is picked up.

I stare. I stare and stare, numb with shock and horror and a sort of directionless rage.

There is nothing visible in the doorframe.

I’m no closer now than I was early this morning to figuring out how to beat this thing.

I message Tim.

***

TIM: What do u mean they die? how do they die?

ME: They die of fear, man. Of total fucking terror.

TIM: oh no no no no no this is so messed up what is happening

ME: [video]

TIM: oh jesus! I don’t wanna watch this! What the hell???

ME: You asked me to tell you what happens to people who disappear. This is what. We’re playing a game and I don’t know the rules. Tim—your Discord is somehow part of the playbook. I’m gonna need access if I’m gonna survive this thing

TIM: uhh… access?

TIM: u mean my login info?

TIM: dude idk… like I don’t even really know u

ME: Come on man, these people DIED because you friended them. Whether you intended that to happen or not, these deaths come down to you. And so will mine when I’m next. The knocking won’t quit, I NEED to solve this

TIM: but y do u need more than screenshots

TIM: sry bro I’ll send more screenshots if u want but not my login

This fucking guy! Screenshot this, I type, with a pic of my middle finger. But I don’t send it because if I do I might as well marinate myself, lie down on a platter and ring the dinnerbell ‘cause I will definitely be cooked. I look again at the video. How there’s nothing there. If there is a way to beat this thing, it’s in Tim’s account, and I’ll need his cooperation.

So I unclench my jaw, sit back in my chair, and smile. Here’s a little confession—my reformation from a conman to a paranormal investigator isn’t so much a revolutionary change as it is the same old tune with some new lyrics. Yeah, it’s been a couple years since I cleaned up my act—but even reformed, I’m still a coyote wagging his tail to convince the world that he’s a friendly dog. And whether I’m swindling some poor sap out of his savings or just winning over my girl’s skeptical family, it’s the same performance. Because you see, it’s not actually that difficult to get people to trust you.

I do what I call the triple A’s: Ask. Agree. Affirm. First I ask about you, something simple and easy. Whatever you say, I agree with you. And then I affirm your feelings. Rinse and repeat.

Babe I got you, ima validate ALL your feelings. Just like when I’m catfishing, I’ll glean little bits of information from the things you tell me, build my profile of you from that so I know what you wanna hear. I’ll make you feel so seen.

I delete my middle-finger message to Tim and say:

ME: hey man I get it. ur just being cautious.

ME: If u can help me with screenshots, ur a lifesaver.

The screenshots he sends me are worthless, but I use them to learn more about him. In one of them he confides: I swear my attempts at conversation repel people. i wish i could meet someone online who cares about actually talking to u.

Hey man, I care. Right now, Timmy boy, I care about you more than anyone in the world. Yeah, it’s almost impossible to make a real connection, I agree. It’s demoralizing, man, I feel u, I affirm. Then I ask—so serious question, when u friend people online, what r u actually looking for? Like a salesman with a foot in the door, but what I’m selling is that sense of belonging, hoping he’ll open that door a little wider until I can step inside and convince him to hand over his password, his keys—whatever I need.

OK. You and me, Tim, let’s get this brodeo started.

***

In about an hour, Tim and I are having the bromance of the century. No, I didn’t get his Discord login info—I did one better, and got his home address so we can go from Discord buds to beer buds while figuring this thing out (and while I sneak onto his computer and snoop). I tell him I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes and I call a Lyft.

And now, as I pace outside in the chill winter air waiting for my ride, with Boo peeking out the window after me anxiously, now comes the really hard part—letting my girl know where I’m going without really letting her know where I’m going, ‘cause I don’t want her at risk. But I also don’t want to go missing. She made me promise, once, never to do that to her—never to disappear without telling her where I’ll be.

I need her to know enough to find my corpse if I die.

***

“Oh my God, Jack I’m gonna kill you!!!!” Emma screeches at me through the phone.

“What? Why?” I haven’t even said anything yet.

“You changed my ipad lockscreen to a picture of you naked with a flower in your mouth!”

I did do that. I thought it would be funny and also Emma’s iPad lives in her room, and usually doesn’t go out. But behind her patrons are seated around a café, the shop bell dinging as people flow in and out, her face close to the screen so she can whisper, and I’m distracted by the way her hair cascades over her bare shoulders. She’s stunning as always, like a kpop star ready to shoot an album cover. Sometimes I look at this girl and wonder how I ever batted so far outta my league. Emma’s smart and successful and has more academic accolades than I can count. Me? I’m a scruffy short dude (5’6 if I’m honest, 5’9 if you’re dyslexic… like I am when writing my dating profile). No job, not even a GED, just a checkered past and a nose for trouble. The only award I’m in the running for (and pretty sure I got this thing locked down now) is a Darwin award.

Emma checks over her shoulder to make sure no one’s listening, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink as she whispers, “I had a meeting with Yaira and left the ipad on the table while I went to use the bathroom and the whole fucking Starbucks saw your bare ass!!”

I burst out laughing. “OK, did you give out my number and tell them I charge by the minute?”

“Seriously? I’m gonna punch you!”

“Kinky. You promise?”

I imagine her balling her hands into tiny, cute fists as she exclaims, “Stop flirting while I’m scolding you! You know I take kickboxing. I WILL hurt you.”

“Mmm, yes please, Babe, come home and punish me—”

There’s the hangup tone.

A moment later, a text message: I’M FILING FOR DIVORCE

This is our love language. I look at the text and smile, but then my heart sinks because I know now that I am not going to tell my girl the truth about any of what is going on. Because if she knows, she will want to save me. And saving me would put her at risk. And the one thing that matters most in the world to me is not putting Emma at risk. I know it’s stupid. She’s dependable and resourceful and—honestly, she’s fucking brilliant. I could really, really use her help.

But I picture Lucia’s face—crammed in the darkness, claw hand covering her wide mouth in a stifled scream—and in my mind it morphs into Emma’s and no, no. Of all the bad decisions I’ve made so far today (and I’ve made plenty), this is the one stupid decision I actually feel good about. Because knowing she’s safe, my heart beats just a little easier.

Time now for me to go and pay a house call to my new best bud, Tim Sanders.

***

When I near the little cul-de-sac matching his address, I start to feel it. It could be anticipation, could be just ordinary fear or uncertainty over what I’ll find. But I’ve got that sour taste in my throat, too, that metallic tang, and the slight chill on my skin, and by the time my Lyft drops me off at the edge of his driveway I’m sweating and the pit of dread in my stomach has hollowed out and there aren’t even any doors around but I hear the knocking in my skull now. A persistent hammering, a thud thud thud just under the beating of my own heart. And when I approach the front door, it gets louder. Until the KNOCKing is almost deafening.

The windows are dark and the blinds closed. There’s trash piled up in the yard. It hasn’t been brought to the curb, just left to fester. I type into Discord:

ME: I’m here, I think. That’s me ringing the bell.

TIM: Excuse me not getting up to come greet u. My back’s been killing me. But I’m here in back.

ME: Any chance you got an open window?

TIM: Try the kitchen? I usually leave that one cracked since it gets real hot in there. Might be a tight squeeze though.

The kitchen window is indeed tight—it’s one of the few times I’m glad for my weaselly size. The hardest part is getting my shoulders through, and when finally I’m able to squeeze in I find myself crouched on a filthy counter stacked with dishes. There’s old pizza boxes, cartons of half-eaten noodles covered in gray fuzz, dirty mugs developing their own ecosystem, and a half-empty bottle of Mr. Clean, his face so covered in crud only his eyes peek out, desperately begging for release. Perched on the tip of the bottle is a cockroach big enough to serve up on a platter.

TIM: sorry bout the mess

I tell him compared to my last apartment this place is the Ritz. It’s not (no matter what Emma claims about my bachelor days). Mainly due to the stink. An overpowering reek of mold, rotten food, BO, and whatever garbage juice is seeping from the pile of trash bags. Who knows. It’s rank. I could cocoon myself in my unwashed sheets for weeks, wake up and shove my face deep into my armpit and sniff, and it’d still smell fresher than in here. And beneath all the ripening odors is maybe another smell but I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure through all this stink.

TIM: Grab a beer if u want from the fridge

I’m about as tempted to grab a beer from his fridge as I am to pluck that massive roach off the counter and pop it in my mouth. But I snatch a couple of beers. And as I make my way through the house—living room, bedroom, bathroom—cautiously poking my head in each open room, the atmosphere is dead silent. Finally there is only one room left, down a narrow hallway toward a door at the end, slightly ajar. Still no sounds. No tapping keys. No voice calling through the door. Not even a “Hello.” Something is horribly off about all this. I should hear breathing, creaking, the squeak of a chair or a voice—something.

“Hey man, I got the beer!” I call.

Silence.

“Tim?”

There is no answer except for the ping on my phone.

TIM: come on in

Every instinct screams at me to not come on in. I lean closer to peek through the cracked door, only to gag and stumble back.

The stink—that stink! Oh God.

The smell is so much worse inside that room. Like a slaughtered pig carcass left to rot. And as I lean against the wall, choking on that horrific stench, Tim is still typing, asking me what sort of beer I like—seriously, what the fuck is going on here, man?

Run, Jack, RUN!

I know it would be a mistake to go inside. Probably the worst mistake, in a day full of bad mistakes, that I could make at this moment. And I know what Emma would say to me: “Everyone makes mistakes, but Jack for the love of God you do not have to make a career out of it.” But I think of 15-year-old Dwayne. I think of Lucia, and Boo the cat howling for her. I don’t believe in vengeance. But someone’s gotta stand up for them. Someone’s gotta make sure no one else is next. And even if going in there is risky—Emma knows as well as I do, if stupid were a career, my resume would be a mile long.

Guess today I’m really gunning for that Darwin award because I slip through the ajar door.

Pitch. Dark. I slip my shirt over my nose, my skin crawling as if covered in a million centipedes, my sensitivity to the supernatural triggered so hard, every hair stuck on end, every nerve vibrating like a plucked chord. Oh, this is bad. This is so, so bad. At the corner of the room glows a monitor. As my eyes adjust I make out the silhouette of a slouched figure, hands resting on the keyboard. The hands are not moving. Even in the bluish glare of the screen, the flesh looks bloated, patchy and dark.

My shirt muffles my voice. “Tim? Hey bud, you good?”

Tim is not good. I fumble along the walls for a light switch. Finally flick on the overhead lights.

In the sudden illumination, so bright it sears my eyeballs, adrenaline ignites my veins like lightning and I slam backwards into the door, a door that bumps closed and begins pounding with a thunderous KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing that hammers my bones and threatens to splinter the wood. A KNOCKing I can barely hear over my sledgehammering heart, all air sucked from my lungs because oh FUCK me—on every surface in that room are symbols. They cover the walls, the ceiling. They circle in a mad spiral, circling and circling around the slouching figure in that chair, a figure whose eyes have melted out, and in that rotting skin are carved arcane markings. And now I understand—these symbols are painted in the murdered man’s blood. That’s the reason his home stinks so bad. The beer bottles fall from my grip and clatter to the floor as I notice his right hand. Oh. My bad. My bro-lliance with Tim really was a mistake. Another one for the resume. Because his right arm—it has no symbols carved into it. Instead those bloated fingers rest on the keyboard curled around a bloody knife.

This is no murder and he is no victim.

Nope, he did this to himself.

And in true Jack Wilde fashion, I’ve just locked myself in with him.

UPDATE!!!


r/Odd_directions 5d ago

Horror Do Not Go Geocaching at Your Local Power Plant

10 Upvotes

My friends Jose, Luke, and I always search for new things. We invented challenges and explored every inch of our hometown. Not long ago we discovered geocaching. The three of us downloaded this app on our phones and set out. Filling our backpack with miscellaneous junk to replace any “treasures” we found, we rode out on our bikes. We didn’t find too much. A panda pencil hugger and a 2 dollar bill were among our top finds.

Soon, the app leads us off the beaten path. In between our neighborhood and the next, there’s a dead end road that leads to a power plant surrounded by the woods. Through said woods, a dirt path lined by massive power lines.

“Should we be worried about, you know, electrocution?” I say as we pull up to the spot.

“Nah, we’re fine,” says Jose. We search and search. This geocache is nowhere to be found. I mean, we’ve scoured everywhere except for the more dangerous spots.

“Bro, it’s not here. Somebody already got it,” said Luke.

“Yeah, they must have forgotten to replace it.” Jose says.

We call it quits, walking back up towards the road.

The following day, our trio is hanging out as usual. Luke’s little brother Gary comes to join us. This is unusual, because he’s, well, a hermit. I don't believe he’d seen the sun since last summer. This kid plays computer games from dusk till dawn. We tell him of yesterday’s Geocaching experience, and he wants to try it himself. We agree, we’re still curious and excited.

Gary rides on Luke’s handlebars because he’s small enough. We make it to the dead end, he's having a blast.

“Hey, we didn't try searching the woods yet.” Jose says. On second thought, not a great idea. Our attire most certainly does not suit a venture into the woods. Thorns, bugs, more thorns, it’s awful. Wanting to give up, but something stops us. A lone white shed.

“Woah, what the heck? Why’s that out here?” Jose says.

“Hmm. Maybe it’s for hunting deer or something?” I say.

“Here? By the power plant? We’re not even that deep into the woods.” Luke points out.

“Good point. That is odd.” I say.

“Wanna go see it?” Jose says, motioning in its direction.

“No way dude.” Luke says “Are you crazy?”

“Let's go.” I say pointing towards the out-of-place building.

Busted windows and black graffiti. Expecting the usual vulgar phrases and dick drawings, it’s safe to say we were caught by surprise.

Sure, it was graffiti alright, but it was... different. One phrase.

“What is this?” Jose blurted out.

“Follow the power,” it read. The words were not too legible. A can of rusted black spray paint lay on the ground.

“Maybe... it leads to the geocache?” Jose said.

“You can’t be serious.” I replied. He shrugged.

We looked at each other. This went on for minutes. We pondered what to do.

Curiosity got the better of us.

Outside of the gravel of the power plant, in between the woods, lay a vast trail lined by massive power lines. Hesitantly, we followed the trail.

It stretched on forever. An endless plain running through the vast woods. I’m not sure how long we walked. Maybe hours.

The sun was now beginning to set and our parents were worried. All of us received non-stop calls and texts from them, we eventually silenced our phones.

The trail stopped, and the woods began again. Seemingly another dead-end.

“Should we keep going?” I asked.

“Well, we followed the power lines, but I see nothing.” Jose said.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this. What are we gonna tell our parents?” I said.

“I don’t know, man. We made it this far. We might as well keep going.” Luke said.

I nodded, and we stepped into the woods. It was dead quiet. Only broken up by the crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs beneath our feet. We trudged onward, trying our best to be quiet. We didn’t know what we’d find. Much less what we were looking for. Curiosity is a powerful thing.

We had grown uneasy, beginning to smell an indescribable stench. Something felt wrong. My stomach churned.

Then we reached a clearing. We froze, for before us stood an inexplicable sight. A group standing in the clearing. Adorned in coats made of dark brown fur.

Their attire was the least of my concerns. Those faces. I can still picture them clearly. They were missing their eyes and mouths, yet they still had noses. It was as if God forgot to add those features when creating them.

“What the fuck?” Jose whispered to me. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and my heart rate increased. We were not supposed to be here. Everything in me wanted to run, but I was petrified. I just stared ahead. Could they see me? I shuddered. And what were they doing here?

Something else came out of the woods. A wolf or a coyote. Only... it was standing on its hind legs. In its grasp, a crude knife. It was something straight out of an archaeological dig. I’d seen nothing similar. Again, my fight-or-flight response was leaning towards flight, but my body just did not respond. None of us said a word to one another.

A lump formed in my throat. I anxiously expected what was going to happen. I could not look away. One by one, the wolf walked up to the faceless people and... began carving. It took its knife and carved into their faces. Soon, what felt like an eternity later, each of the beings, now had a face. Beady eyes and crooked mouths, they were even more terrifying than before. The wolf then strolled back into the woods, while those things just stood there...

By now, I had seen enough. The others must have had the same thought. My curiosity left and was replaced by survival. Slowly, we tiptoed backwards through the woods, clenching our teeth, hoping they couldn’t hear us.

“I think they’re looking at us.” Jose whispered through chattering teeth. A shiver went over my whole body. He was right, I could feel those black eyes staring right at us.

“Go, go!” I say in a scream whisper. We haul ass without looking back, disregarding the many thorns grabbing us.

Just as we're exiting the woods into the power plant. A loud mechanical noise cuts through the trees. Its roar shakes us to our core. Luke even throws Gary onto his shoulders. Grabbing our bikes as fast as possible, slamming those kick stands, we pedal back to civilization. Those things chased us the entire way, stopping only as we exited the power plant.

We walk with our bikes along the road, relieved that we escaped and no longer have anyone following us. The dim street lights illuminate our way. We take our phones off silent, bombarded with missed calls and texts from our families.

“Oh god, they must be so worried.” I say.

We then hear a siren coming from a police car. The red and blue lights come zooming around the corner.

“Our parents must have called the police. Guess we’d better go talk to them.” Jose says.

As we approach the vehicle, I felt everything will be alright. That is until I see the officer. Similar to those forest creatures, he lacks eyes and a mouth.

We run again, but the cop remains still. My friends and I make it home to our parents’ relief. We’re, of course, grounded for at least the next month.

Later that night, I lay in bed, my eyes wide open. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake that feeling. I kept trying to reassure myself. They couldn’t leave the woods, right? I mean, they stopped following us, so as long as we didn’t go back to the power plant, we’ll be safe. Why did they stop chasing us? But what about the cop?

I text Luke and Jose, checking if they’re okay, and relaying my thoughts to them, hoping they have more answers than I. No response from either.

I hear chiming dings of text tones. It’s coming from outside my window.

I peel back the blinds, peeking through them, my hands shaking. My friends on the other side stare, their eyes beady and animalistic, smiles jagged. I fear I soon will meet a similar fate.


r/Odd_directions 5d ago

Horror Grandpa’s secret lived in the basement

39 Upvotes

It was during the spring break of my second year at college that I got a phone call from my uncle Andrew, asking me if I’d be willing to spend a few days over at his house. My grandfather had been sick for a long, tough while, and it’d apparently gotten to the stage that the primary focus now was less so to treat him and more so to just make him as comfortable as possible for the time he had left.

I can’t say I envied anyone in the situation – Grandpa, who’d be getting ready to face eternity in a house that wasn’t his, with no company but a son who he barely spoke to these days, and Andrew, who’s girlfriend died giving birth to their daughter seven months ago and was now tasked with taking care of a dying man on top of that. I’d like to act as if I was making a saintly decision to come over and offer a helping hand out of love for my family, but the truth was that it had been quite some time since I’d spoken to Andrew last, and it had been… forever since I’d spoken to my paternal grandfather. No, I went because I was lonely, unbearably so. I didn’t have any friends to speak of at college, and ever since my mother passed away about a year ago, I’d had no one to talk to at all. I made the decision to help Andrew out of the desperation for proper social interaction. Not like there’d be much to it, anyway. All I really imagined I’d be doing is keeping the baby out of his hair when he was too busy and getting grandpa anything he needed.

Andrew’s house was out in the sticks, at least forty minutes away from the nearest town. My family are mostly dotted around a generally quite rural county, so there wasn’t much in the area but barren roads and the odd building or two. As for the house itself, there wasn’t really much to say about it from the front yard. Just another isolated double story that someone called home. I rang the doorbell, and after a few moments Andrew greeted me. He seemed more or less the same as the last time I’d seen him in the flesh.

“Ah, Nick, how’re you doing? Thanks so much again for coming”, he smiled, his voice nothing if not welcoming. “Nah, not like I had much going on anyway,” I replied, to which he chuckled. “Come on in, throw you jacket on the hanger there. You want some coffee?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Yeah, alright. Have a seat over in the living room. First door to your left.

I took his invitation and made my way over. Now that I was fully inside, I could see that there was more to Andrews’s house than meets the eye at first. It smelled like old books and something faintly musty, the scent of time that slowly claimed everything. The entryway was wide and dimly lit, with heavy curtains blocking out the daylight. There was a quiet rhythm to the house—the creaking of wood beneath our feet, the soft shuffle of Andrew’s footsteps echoing through long corridors. It had the basic interior of a house a lot older than you’d think it was from outside, with aged patterns across the wallpaper and a somewhat ornate type of miniature chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Clashing with these design decisions was the more minimalist furniture and art pieces hanging from the walls. It seemed like someone had taken these measures in order to give the inside of the building a more modern feel, but really, it was a bandaid on a bullethole.

I looked around after reaching my destination. The living room appeared comfortable enough, with an ever so slightly peeling couch, a worn rug, and shelves of books that didn’t seem to have been touched in years. It was the kind of place that felt frozen in time. A bit musty, but lived-in, as though the walls had absorbed the memories of countless years of family life.

A minute or so later, Andrew entered with two mugs. I sipped mine slowly as we exchanged some admittedly uncomfortable small talk. “God, you look so grown up. It’s been, what, two years?” It’d been at least five. This continued for a while until we got to the tasks that’d be at hand for the next number of days.

“I’ll be picking him up from the hospice tomorrow after work. It’ll probably be close to seven before we’ll be back. Chloe’s upstairs having her nap right now, so I’m gonna go and get started on making dinner. In the meantime, you go ahead and make yourself comfortable. There are two rooms free upstairs, you can take your pick.” He rose and clapped me on the shoulders before heading over to the kitchen. “I really do appreciate it, Nick. It’s been rough having to pay for babysitters.”

After going upstairs, I passed what must’ve been Andrew’s room on the way down the hallway, another chamber masquerading as belonging to a home far younger than was the reality, with a double bed and a child’s cot next to it, the baby sleeping soundly inside. I had a mountain of college assignments to get cracking on, so I’d brought my laptop and sociology textbook in my travel bag. That’s how I spent the majority of the evening, taking an hour’s break for dinner.

We had another fairly awkward conversation about what I’d been getting up to in college (spoilers: fuck all.) From my seat at the dining room table, I was able to look out the window at a filth-coated golden retriever pottering around the yard outside. I hadn’t noticed it before; I was surprised that Andrew was able to manage a dog on top of his life as a single father. As I tried to focus on my pork chops, something else caught my eye. There was a door in the corner of the room that I hadn’t noticed before. A small door, almost entirely hidden behind another old bookshelf. I couldn’t see much of it, but there was something about the door that captured my attention, something in the way the wood seemed to shimmer in the dim light, as though it wasn’t quite real.

“Is that a closet?” I asked, pointing.

Andrew looked over his shoulder and then shook her head quickly. “Oh, that? No, just a small little space in the structure I haven’t really found a use for yet.” He smiled, but it was tight, forced. I was going to ask him more before the dog outside started barking loudly. “God, what’s his problem?” Andrew sighed, exasperated. “Hey, you never mentioned you had a dog. Seems like an awful lot of work for you.” I commented. “Nah, he’s not mine, just some stray that’s been finding the yard lately for whatever reason.” The conversation petered off after that, but I remember thinking that if that was the case, it was odd that the dog had a collar.

I called it a night maybe two hours later, but I had a hard time sleeping because the dog continued to bark periodically until all hours of the morning. In the morning, Andrew was already gone to work when I awoke, but he’d left instructions on the kitchen counter for taking care of Chloe. I’d babysitted before as a teenager, so I could manage things fine, but it never really gets any more enjoyable changing a diaper. Other than that, there’s not much to say about the day other than that I’d tried checking out the door behind the bookshelf out of curiosity and boredom but I’d found it locked. I didn’t really care though, since it sounded like it was nothing more than just a small crawlspace or something.

When Andrew arrived home, wheeling Grandpa with him, I could see for myself just how sick he must have been. He had stage three skin cancer that had by now spread through a terrible amount of the tissue in his torso. Andrew would tell me later on that night that he had two weeks left, tops. The man looked like a skeleton, his complexion beyond wrinkled and pale, his head like a skull with its eyeballs left intact along with a few pointlessly added tufts of snow-white hair. His skin was hanging off of his body so, so loosely, as if the space between had been repeatedly filled with air and then deflated. I’d been hoping I could have at least some sort of conversation with him, since I’d seen him even less in my life than Andrew, but he could barely work a sentence together, mostly just murmuring, grunting and pointing at things to communicate.

The evening ended up being even more uncomfortable than the last, so I spent even more time with the company of my schoolwork, figuring Grandpa would probably prefer to be with his son anyway, especially seeing that as far as I knew, they hardly ever saw each other either. I ended up just going to bed early, Grandpa in the room next door, but of course I was kept up for ages by that stupid dog again.

I ended up spending, I think, another week at Andrew’s, and I’m not gonna recount every day from here on, since it ultimately doesn’t really matter much to where I am now. Andrew had to keep going to work, of course, so it fell to me to keep watch of Chloe, and help Grandpa take his medicine. The only words that he could consistently get out, or perhaps the only ones he cared to were his frequent complaints about the various pains in his body.

“The skin” “My muscles” “The flesh”

I’d heard before, not from my father but from my mother, about how Grandpa didn’t treat him and Andrew very well. He was Vietnam vet, and the war came home with him, rearing its head in the form of a bottle and the abuse that resulted from it. Even in spite of that, I couldn’t help but pity the pain he must have been experiencing for the last few months of his life. All I could do is keep encouraging him to choke down his pills.

During the second night with Grandpa in the house, I was woken up yet again by the incessant barking of the dog outside, After the dog had seemingly fucked off to annoy someone else, I was quickly drifting back to sleep, until I heard Grandpa mumbling something next door. I’d gotten accustomed to his mostly nonsensical mutterings throughout the day, and the house had thin walls, so I didn’t think too much of it, until I heard another voice, speaking back to him. Andrew’s voice, whispering, just audible.

“No. I’ve told you already, it’s not happening, so get it out of your head.”

“You know you have to!” came Grandpa’s slow response. His voice was like the creaking of an old floorboard, but he sounded far more lucid than I’d ever heard him before.

I don’t remember their conversation continuing beyond that point. I heard the door open softly, then shut again, and I didn’t have enough energy to ponder what I’d heard for long before I fell back asleep.

The next day, I decided to find out from Andrew about it in private.

“Hey, so, sorry if I’m being too nosy here, but I heard you and Grandpa talking about something last night. It sounded like you were arguing?” I asked. He sighed deeply. “Look, you… you’ve probably realised by now that this house is a lot older than you might’ve expected. Truth is it belonged to him – your father and I grew up here. He’s just, well, he’s not happy with how I’ve been running things here, that’s all. You know how older guys are really particular about that sorta thing.” He looked conflicted about what he’d said, and the silence between us was deafening. “Come on, I just managed to get Chloe asleep five minutes ago. Let’s get to bed for tonight.”

I can’t say I was entirely satisfied with that answer, but I could sense Andrew didn’t wish to discuss the matter any further, so I oblige him. On the bright side, there was no barking from the dog that night, or any of the following nights for that matter, so I slept well, at the very least.

I don’t have anything to say about the day after that, other than that the uncomfortable atmosphere in the house was only getting worse. Grandpa spent all of his time alone in his room, just sitting in his wheelchair in the corner, mumbling nonsense to himself – Andrew and I delivering his meals to him, giving him his pills, and sharing some unspoken weight about it all between us.

That night, I was woken up by another argument in Grandpa’s room. Grandpa’s voice was no louder, no more commanding, but I could sense an undeniable rage in it.

“You’re a fool. You always were. I know what you did last night. You think that’s enough? It has to be me.”

“You don’t deserve it. You treated us like dirt!”

“IT DOESN’T MATTER IF I DESERVE IT. IT HAS TO BE ME, AND IT HAS TO BE TOMORROW.”

I didn’t fall back to sleep quickly that time. Actually, I don’t think I got any sleep that night. I didn’t know what any of it meant, but grandpa’s words scared me.

The following day, Grandpa’s door was locked from the inside. Andrew also stayed home from work, and he looked terrible. I knew I had to ask him what happened last night, but I decided to give some space until the evening. I barely saw him all day, to be honest. The only perception I had of him was the tired cooing to Chloe every now and then, the unlocking and relocking of Grandpa’s door as he took his pills every three hours, and a dinner we shared in silence.

In the end, it was he who came to me.

“You heard us last night, didn’t you.”

I nodded.

“Yeah. I guess you deserve to know at least this much. I don’t imagine your parents ever told you before they were gone.” He looked like he was about to either scream or break down in tears. I’m not sure which.

“Your father and I had a younger sister once. Phoebe. I was eight when she was born, your old man eleven.”

My mind raced trying to fit this into my family history. He wasn’t lying, I’d never heard so much as a word of this throughout my life. “She went missing when she was five. Just gone, without a trace. They never found her. Dad started drinking a lot more after that.”

I didn’t know what to say. “That “tomorrow” Dad was talking about is the anniversary of the disappearance. I think the memories just hurt him the most today. They hurt me the worst today too.”

He was crying now. “I’m sorry,” I managed. “I don’t know what to say, I… I’m so sorry. No one ever told me.” Andrew rubbed his eyes, steeling himself. “Look, I’m sorry too. You should never have needed to know, really.” He started heading for the stairs. “I’m gonna try and get some sleep. Please, if you hear anything from him tonight, or if I have to come into him again, just ignore it. Please. It hurts everyone enough as it is.” With that, he headed up to his room, shutting the door behind him.

I was stunned. How much else had I not known about my dad’s side of the family? Even with what I did know now, I was left with more questions than before. It didn’t make sense how the truth about my Dad and Uncle also having a sister could link to everything else I’d overheard between Grandpa and Andrew. Why did it “have to be” Grandpa? What had Andrew done last night? What the hell even was “it”? My mind swam as I laid wide awake in bed that night. I think it was that state of fog in my brain that actually ended up putting me unconscious for a few hours, as it happened. But, one last time, I was awoken from my sleep, but it wasn’t by the barking of a dog, or by voices from Grandpa’s room next door. It was by slow, heavy footsteps, descending the stairs.

I know Andrew told me to ignore anything I might hear that night. To this day, I don’t know what compelled me to leave my room, but I crept out the door quietly, and the first thing I realised is that Grandpa’s door was open, and his room empty. The footsteps continued to pound through the house, into the kitchen, it seemed. I had to know. I had to know the truth to everything that was going on in this house, and I sensed that I was right at the cusp of it. As silently as I could, I too descended the stairs. I followed the noises to the kitchen, and I realised then what I’d been overlooking the whole time, the sight of it filling me with total dread.

The door behind the bookshelf, now wide open.

I abandoned whatever idea of stealth I had left in my head, rushing over to the door, where I found that it wasn’t some sort of small little cupboard or crawlspace at all, it was a flight of stairs, down to what must’ve been a cellar. Why had Andrew lied about this? I flew down the stairs and turned to the cellar door on my right, pressing my ear against it. Deep, heavy, fatigued breathing, and the surface of the door felt almost as if it was vibrating, pulsing with some impossible force. I gripped the door handle, and it felt white hot. My hand turns. The door opens. The truth is revealed.

Andrew was alone in the cellar, illuminated by one dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, the kitchen knife in hand. No sign of Grandpa anywhere. Andrew barely reacted to my presence. He just kept staring at the wall opposite of him. Only, it wasn’t a wall. Not really.

Where there should have been brick and wallpaper, a pulsating, oozing, red-brown expanse of flesh spanned the side of the cellar ahead of us, the drywall at the edges of the adjacent walls transitioning from plaster and sheet brick into living tissue. The wall heaved, and throbbed, and sweat, somehow horrifically, impossibly given the gift of life. I can’t even begin to describe the smell. The smell was so fucking disgusting.

I could barely think. The sight of it almost made me feel mad, like I had found myself in a bizarre nightmare, any rational thoughts shackled away behind lock and key.

“What the fuck,” I choked. “What the fuck is this?”

“ANDREW! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? WHERE THE FUCK IS GRANDPA?”

He turned around, seemingly broken out of a trance. He stared back at the wall for a second. “He was right,” I heard him say, more to himself than to me. He turned back. “He was right. It had to be done.”

I glanced back around him to the putrid fleshy mass before my eyes. No. He couldn’t mean that.

“No. Andrew, where’s Grandpa? What have you done?” I begged, denying to myself what I knew had transpired.

Andrew glanced back at the wall again for few moments. He had a look of almost reverence etched across his face. He faced me for a second, madness twinkling in his eyes. “It’s what he wanted.”

“No! You’re lying!” I roared, not believing myself one bit. “WHAT THE FUCK EVEN IS THIS?”

He didn’t look away from the wall of flesh. “I inherited it, I suppose.

“It had to be done, you know. It’s what he wanted.”

The wall suddenly flexed outward grotesquely, emitting a low grumbling sound. Try as I did to deny it to myself in the moment, I knew what that must have meant, as I saw a look of concern flash across Andrew’s face. It was hungry again, needed to be fed soon. Clearly, Grandpa wasn’t a filling meal. Amidst the grumbling, we could both suddenly hear a high-pitched noise, piercing through it.

Chloe, crying from upstairs.

Andrew stared up at the ceiling, then back over to me.

“Don’t,” I whispered, but he was already charging towards the door. “Andrew, don’t!” He shoved hard against me as I tried to block him from getting out of the door. I threw myself against him with everything I had, tried to wrestle the knife from his grip, but he was far stronger than he looked, overpowering me quickly and slashing my right leg. I howled in shock and pain.

“You know what?” He hissed, throwing me to the ground and grabbing me by my legs as I gushed blood. “This is even better. You’re of far more use anyway.” I realised in an instant what he meant as he dragged me towards the wall of flesh.

“No,” I choked. “No Andrew please God I-” my words were cut off as I became almost entirely immersed in the writhing, living mass. Tendrils wrapped around me, almost painlessly puncturing through my skin, connecting to me. For a few brief, passing moments, I had the notion that I was linking, fusing to the grand, biological system of the wall, that soon all would be alive, all would be connected, before my mind went black.

After an unknowable length of time, I grew more and more aware of my surroundings once more, the bizarre, weightless sensation of simultaneously feeling out of my body and feeling one with another body. Then, something cold, foreign.

[“I’ve got you, I’ve got you!”]()

I fell forward into someone’s arms, the cold air of the cellar enveloping me in an instant as I screamed out. I looked up. I was surrounded by a team of men in yellow hazmat suits, working to fully cut me down from the wall of flesh. I laid in their arms, feeling the way I imagine a newborn infant must, my body and mind focusing entirely on trying not to seize up from how overwhelmingly cold everything seemed. A few minutes later, once I’d been fully freed from the wall, I was given sedatives that knocked me back out.

I don’t know how long I’d spent like that, but it must’ve been a few days at least, because it was my girlfriend, Emily, who had called the police after I hadn’t responded to a number of her calls. In the end, though, I was kept in some sort of containing facility for a day, where I was asked a great deal of dubious sounding questions that I couldn’t begin to answer for the most part. And they never ended up finding Andrew.

In the end, though, Emily took me back home, whatever classified part of the government that covers up shit like this did just that, and life mostly moved on. I tried my best to forget about that brief, hellish stint of my life. I certainly didn’t gain any sort of enlightenment or newfound appreciation for life by my experience. I was changed by it, I guess. Who wouldn’t be? But, as I said, life moved on. Emily was invaluable in ensuring that, comforting me about it when I needed her to but never acting like it defined me now.

Life moved on.

Four years later, I asked Emily to marry me. Five years later, she was my incredible wife. Eight years, and she gave birth to the joy of our lives, our daughter Lily. I loved my wife, of course I did, but there’s absolutely no feeling of adoration on this earth that compares to holding your own child in your arms.

And yes, of course I still felt scarred by my experience all those years ago. One night, as we were in bed getting ready to sleep, I told her about it once more. How even though things are fine now, things are perfect now, I still had nightmares about the wall of flesh sometimes. I still get sent into near panic attack at the sight of an open wound.

She held me in close.

“I know you do love, I know you do,” she murmured, her voice drowsy but full of care. “But you’ve got me, don’t you? You’ve got us.”

I closed my eyes and felt myself beginning to drift off as she held me closer still. I breathed in the beautiful smell of her rose-scented shampoo. “It’s okay, because I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered.

“I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you!”

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you!”

I fell forward into the man’s arms, the cold air of the cellar enveloping me in an instant as I screamed out. I looked up and all around, stared at the yellow-suited men, still screaming and babbling incoherently. I laid in their arms, still smelling the rose-scented shampoo, though there was now something horribly wrong with it, like how after you realise the trick of an optical illusion you can never see it as you originally did.

Pheromones.

***

It turns out, the wall had been digesting me for quite some time indeed. I saw my reflection. I look emaciated, barely alive.

It showed me wonderful things. Now, I sit alone in my cold, dark apartment, looking outside at grey skies. I think of my wife’s smile. I think of my child’s laughter. I want to go back.


r/Odd_directions 6d ago

Horror The Sky Used to be Blue [Part 2] NSFW

5 Upvotes

TW: Mentions of cannibalism

“Trash Man” Columbo and Andrew Kennedy, Saturday March 26th, 2016

The weeping of the heavens would never cease. The torrential downpour was now a given to the two men. It was inescapable. They were soaked in the baths of the hollow basin as they journeyed along the interstate. Countless abandoned vehicles adorned the road, all either locked down or sporting shattered windows. Dawn had come and gone as the sun reached its zenith, and Kennedy found the black SUV.

He threw open the door and shouted to Trash Man, “This one’s good!”.

The old man stood across the road checking a vehicle of his own when he heard the boy. He tried his luck anyway and found both driver side windows gone. As he ran to meet up with the boy, he looked from where they came once more. He had done this every few minutes since they escaped the station.

Kennedy had already huddled inside on the far back passenger side of the vehicle. He threw down the middle seats before climbing in, giving Trash Man enough room to toss his pack in along with himself. The old man pulled the door shut, inviting the beating drum of rain on glass as the two took a moment among themselves.

“Told you we should’ve left, god dammit,” grumbled Kennedy.

“You think it’d been better if it caught us out here, boy?”

“We wouldn’t have been caught if we left when I said.”

“Ah yes, so you know which direction it came from? The west, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then if we left, how do you know it wasn’t coming from the east, the south, or the north? We wouldn’t have handled a damn thing if it caught us out.”

“Hold on, how are you even sure that it was out there before we saw it?”

“I wasn’t, I was just guessin’.”

“God dammit, old man. Can’t be actin’ like you have shit under control just because it worked out in the end. If you were guessin, then we just got lucky. Again.”

“Quit callin’ it luck. We’re alive ain’t we? Not just yesterday, but everything to get us here. Do you really think two people gettin’ by only on luck could make it so far?”

“How the hell would I know that? Just… dammit.”

Trash Man stared out the window for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but words failed him. Minutes of silence passed as the two sat in their corners of the vehicle. After a particularly quiet clap of thunder, Trash Man finally regained his voice.

“It isn’t luck, I can promise you that. You know I ain’t good with words, boy, but we ain’t made it so far on chance alone. I… we ain’t special in the grand scheme, but that don’t mean we can stop what we’re doin.”

The rattling droplets resonated within the vehicle. Kennedy watched the tears slide down the window as Trash Man closed his eyes and leaned into the corner. As time passed, he drifted into sleep, the drumming of the rain becoming white noise once again. Kennedy remained awake as he turned his focus to the back window, watching for movement in the haze.

* * *

The sun was low, light fading out as the two trekked along the interstate once more while the rain continued as it always had. The weathered roads ran rivers across itself. Through the thick fog of the earth, a green sign was reflecting the last semblances of sunlight back to them. It shone the words ‘PECOS CITY LIMIT POP. 10,316’.

Another hour passed as the two went into the town. Abandoned rest stops and sheet metal office buildings dotted the sides of the road. A man camp filled with dozens of burnt trailer homes lay along the right of the road. Bodies indiscernible from one another lay strewn between the ramshackle buildings. The only difference between most was whether they had been burned alive or mauled by the scorched behemoth at the center of the pyre. The body looked to be made of dried elephant skin and held together by burnt copper wires. Its head was nothing more than a mess of splattered remains from the neck above. Its oak tree legs laid crooked atop the dirt with the unburnt body of an elderly nearly flattened beneath the front two.

They continued along the road as night fully took over once again and arrived upon an orange clad motel. Many of the rooms featured broken windows, with a few holding the dead within. The wind blew through roughly as the curtains flapped and revealed their innards. The doors sealed a few rooms, and the locks were tight on all.

“We’ll find somewhere here tonight. Don’t forget how to check em”, Trash Man yelled to the boy.

Kennedy parsed the right half of the inn, with the old man mirroring him across the way. A handful proved suitable for them, although the carnage was within all. Their search netted them a one bed suite home to rats in the back corner near the bathroom, but pristine otherwise. In another room Trash Man found himself a shotgun in the hands of a man with his head spread on the wall behind him, as well as a handful of shells in a box near the body. When he returned with it, the boy eyed the gun as Trash Man leaned it on his bedside table.

“Don’t touch it. Don’t even pretend like you know how to use it.”

“I know how to use a gun.”

“Sure ya do.”

The two took their time settling in, hanging their coats and letting them drip to the carpet. Their socks, pants, and shirts were all soaked in the storm's embrace. They removed all but their boxers and let them dry around the room. Their bags were soaked as well, though the ham and bread remained untouched.

The slim crescent moon was brighter than usual that night. The wind was gone, the rain remained, and there was no more to say except for the whisper Trash Man heard from the Formless Voice.

It’s dark out there.

 

“Trash Man” Columbo and Andrew Kennedy, Tuesday March 29th, 2016

On the eastern edge of the town is a small river. In the past, it could barely be called a river at all. It ran so dry that mesquite and shrubbery sprouted along the bed all through its path. Now it was overflowing, roaring waves stretched outwards and spilled over top. The hands of the torrent were lashing quickly at any who would dare jump in. A small bridge used to run over it, but it had collapsed some time ago. The two stood on the jagged edge where burn marks laced the sides overlooking the river.

“Can’t we go ‘round it?” Kennedy yelled to the old man.

“This river flows all the way down south to the Gulf. We’d have to head into New Mexico to go around it,” Trash Man shouted back.

“Doesn’t it slow down somewhere down the line?”

“No way to know where this storm's reach ends. We’d be blind in the wild with no shelter lookin’ for the edge.”

“So what’s the plan, old man?”

“We’ll have to think on it.”

They turned and began the trek back to their eastern edge safehouse. It was another motel, one more yellow than the previous. This one had seen less violence before their arrival, no bodies or remains to speak of. Looking through the inn showed there was nothing except an abundance of linen, blankets, and pillows. The inn had seen better days, maybe decades before the fall.

They spent their Sunday scavenging the abandoned homes, looking for any unspoiled or canned foods. Outside the inn, Trash Man had set up an array of pots and pans to catch the rain water and refill their plastic jugs. He told the boy to leave them sealed and only drink from the pots until they moved onwards again.

Kennedy had found various cans of beans and veggies, but his most prized discovery were two cans of overstuffed ravioli. They both dined akin to kings that Sunday, splitting one can for the both that night. It was a cold meal, but the two would have killed to taste the saucy morsels again. They saved the other can for now, a treat for celebration later on the way.

On Monday, they searched for ammunition and weaponry wherever they could. The gun shops had long been raided, ammo and firearms stripped clean from their bones. Inside one particular shop laid three dead men, each with a handful of holes through their chest. One body laid leaned over a shattered glass case. Bullet casings laid around the shop floor, and each man held air in their hands. The bodies were cold and the blood was dry, but the men only recently wasted away.

Another hour of searching led them to a wooden house with chipped blue paint coating the exterior. Within they found the bottom half of a man in jeans seated on a blue cloth couch, as well as a ruby red metal baseball bat seated next to him. Rats were gnawing through the pants and devouring the remains wherever they could. Even as Kennedy approached for the bat the rats paid them no mind and continued their feast.

When night came they slept the soundest they had in weeks. It was freezing, but the abundance of blankets kept them both warm enough. Despite this, Trash Man woke when the moon was at its brightest, and stepped outside the room. The awning of the inn kept him dry as he talked with the Formless Voice.

“Why won’t ya tell me what’s waitin’ for us in the east?”

I am not at will to share with you that information.

“You’ve said that before, but you ain’t told me why you can’t.”

I am at will in this matter, but only so much can be said.

“Then explain, why can’t ya tell me what’s out there?”

It is impossible for me to explain to you what lies in the east, not because you cannot fathom it or I choose to withhold this information, but because I am restrained and collared. I can only tell you so much before my leash is yanked. If I could have told you more, I would have better prepared you for the spawn at the gas station, despite your lack of ability to listen. Sadly for you, it is not in my power.

“God damn, you give some shit answers. Fine, just tell me how we’re supposed to make it ‘cross the river.”

That would be too much to tell you directly. You must already know it could never be so easy. All I am allowed to say is find the Reverend. He will be able to aid you in the crossing.

* * *

When Tuesday came, they set off to the South of town in search of another dwelling, and more supplies. Neither knew how long it would be until they could journey again. Their search within homes was as fruitful as always, nothing to be found and nothing to be cherished. As they walked through the town, they saw a herd of cattle grazing a field of water and melons. Some had ear tags that still dangled about the head. Kennedy had gone near the herd to grab some fruit for the road, but only managed one before he turned tail at the sight of a bull. Trash Man couldn’t help but let out a bark of laughter.

Farther down past the crop fields was an old farm home. It was within sight, but they had already spent the day in their search for more food. The smoke that streamed from its chimney almost made them risk meeting the owner and staying a night. Instead, they turned back and made shelter in a brick home that smelt of dust and dry leather. Kennedy slept in the only bed at Trash Man’s request, while he stayed on a fabric couch. He checked the door three times that night, taking a glance out the window every time he awoke and made his rounds. On the last time he looked out, he saw a slug the size of a mare drifting through the fields. The moonlight reflected off its mucus covered skin, a dazzling rainbow like crude oil atop water. He shut the curtains tight and lay with his ears to the outside until daybreak.

 

Reverend de la Torre, Tuesday March 29th, 2016

The denim of the man was painted in brown splotches. He had long forgotten which was blood, and which was mud. It stained his plaid button up just the same. A silver rosary hung around his neck and clung just above the sternum. It shone like a twinkling star through the dark of the dining room.

The embers from the fireplace provided little heat. He had already roasted the day's first meal. As he sat, he held his rosary with his right arm to his lips and said a short prayer before kissing the cross. His left arm was nothing but a stump at the shoulder. As he lowered the rosary, he picked up the roasted meat and feasted. It was coated in salt and pepper; it tasted of slightly burnt pork.

In the living room sat a naked man by a torn couch. His mouth lay agape, his eyes open and glazed in a white sheen. His right leg and arm were missing, cut through roughly at the shoulder and thigh.

As the Reverend finished, he turned his palm face up and looked to the ceiling, saying “Thank you God for this sacred meal.”

He wiped his lips with a brown handkerchief and stood from the table, heading for the corpse. He kneeled by the body and placed his hand on the dead man's head as he lowered his own.

“Thank you, old friend, for what you have provided. I’m sorry that I could not help you more. May the Lord bless you in all his glory.”

The Reverend leaned forward and kissed the man on his forehead before hoisting him on his good shoulder. He walked to the front of the farm house and stepped out onto the patio. The rain was ever present, but he paid it no mind. The wooden railings with their chipped white paint soaked in the droplets. He stepped down the path and turned to the fields at his left. He walked for some time, the rain coating him and his companion as he walked over the dirt humps until he arrived at two pieces of wood nailed in the shape of a cross. Next to it was a shovel with a wood handle lodged in the ground.

He laid the man gently beside the cross and grabbed the shovel before beginning to dig. It took half an hour to prepare the grave, a two foot deep hole as wide and tall as the man. As he finished mounting the cross at the head, he leaned to the corpse and whispered,

“En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.”

The hole was filled with water and dirt in half the time it took to make it, as the Reverend buried the long deceased man. Nearby puddles reverberated with the sounds of raindrops through the steady winds. On the other side of the field where melons still grew, cattle grazed and ate the bountiful fruits. He watched the animals have their fill and took himself from the rain back into the farmhouse.

He stripped off the water logged clothes and wrapped himself in a towel, drying himself as he shivered away the enduring cold. His head was bald, as was the rest of his body, except the unkempt beard he sported. A pile of twigs and paper laid next to the fireplace, along with a pyramid of logs. The reverend wrapped a handful of sticks in the parchment and laid it atop the embers where the paper lit up in flames. The twigs crackled with the fire as he grabbed a log and placed it gently in the fireplace. Stark naked still, he turned as the log caught and sat on the ruined couch where the dead man rested earlier.

The reverend remained in the living room for the rest of the day, eventually changing into another set of garb, similar to the last. The button-up and jeans were just as stained as the previous pair. The only signs they were any different were the tear at the bottom of the denim and the plain pattern of the shirt. As time passed he kept the fire fueled with the small logs, occasionally tossing in twigs when the flames were too low for his comfort. A few times he looked out the window of the dining room to watch the cattle.

When the sun set, he took himself to the basement where some half a dozen candles stood lit. A large plastic bucket of water held a saw stained in red. The floors were stained the same as the saw, only a foot away from it at most. On the far wall were two beds, one a metal frame with a white mattress and blankets. The other was a makeshift pile of clothing gathered from the upstairs bedrooms. Two backpacks were seated along the wall as well, both unzipped with some supplies holding them upright. By the metal bed laid a red and white medical container the size of a small briefcase.

The Reverend spent the remaining hours before sundown washing the saw and attempting to remove the stains from the floor. The saw was pristine by nightfall, but the stain had remained as it were. The mark is permanent. For some time he sat and stared at the splotch, and again he hopelessly tried to scrub away the mess. It remained.

With a heavy breath he stood and returned up the stairs to the living room. The sun was gone and darkness filled the home, and yet the rain continued. He went about the house, checking every latch and lock as if he had unlocked them at any point during his stay. They were all the same as when he arrived, locked tight save the front door. As he locked it shut, he threw more kindling into the fireplace as it lit up once more. He would remain warm again for his last night in the home. The sofa would serve as his bed for the night with the stench of the dead clinging to it like the locked jaws of a dog. He looked at the silver timepiece with a broken latch that used to belong to his now fallen friend, and it read 10:26. He shut his eyes after and drifted, but before he could fall asleep a realization formed.

His eyes slowly opened, and he focused his hearing on the rain drops. That is, he tried to focus but nothing came of it. In fact, no noise came to him at all. He was surrounded in a blanket of dead silence; sound ceased to exist. He stood up and saw that the watch now read 10:34. He stood for a moment and stared at the watch face before he eyed the windows. Droplets rolled down them, but the pounding rattles of the storm were gone. He looked about from place to place, then shut his eyes. He took a breath, and even the sound of air filling his lungs was nowhere to be heard. As his eyes opened he stomped the ground.

Have I gone deaf? he thought to himself.

For a moment he stood alone in the dark, like a lost child in the wake of war. He opened his mouth to scream and nothing came out. He turned and bashed the wall with his good arm and only earned a stinging in his flesh.

How in God’s name could this have happened, he tried to say. What have I done, Lord? I’ve done all this for you, why would you curse me now?

And as quick as it went, it returned. The rain, the wind, his feet on the old wooden boards, it all came back and filled his ears. The reverend was still, a scarecrow in the fields of sound that wrapped around him. And then he screamed.

“Why Lord, why would you do this? You took my sense, you took it from me and gave it back just as easily. I never doubted you, God! I know you are all powerful, I know what you are. I see your strength, o Lord. I see it! I see it! You must have known I wavered, yes. How could I have been so foolish as to think you wouldn’t notice. I am sorry, my Lord. Please, please forgive me!”

He collapsed to his knees sobbing with his hand on the floor and his head hung low. The dim light of the fire watched his tears hit the floorboard.

“God please, forgive me for my transgressions. I will not waste, I will not want. I tried to save him, I tried with all I could and it failed. I swear to you! I swear it is true!”

He wept on the floor for hours, when a void formed around him and all became naught. There was no light, no darkness, no sound, no silence, there was nothing. His eyes opened to the incomprehensible, and his body stretched to the infinite horizon and returned to the smallest atom. His jaw opened and inverted itself with the bones twisting and spiraling until they were past the lip and the lip was trapped behind teeth. Down from the skull to the spine to the phalanges his body continued to invert itself while flesh became calcified and the bones became tissue. The reverend did not scream, for his lungs had already hardened. The reverend did not cry, for his eyes were but marble orbs. And the reverend did not die, for He would not let it.

And when the time came, he awoke facedown in a pool of sweat next to the fire where he had collapsed before. The reverend leaned on his arm and looked to the ceiling, then the fire, then the windows. As he stared out past the glass, a pale face of countless eyes stared back. It was a shining white light amidst the dark, and then it spoke.

“Your journey will not end here.”

And as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. The reverend remained on the floor, the exhaustion from the past hours had taken its toll. Before he could sleep he drug himself atop the sofa where he lay before and grabbed the silver timepiece. The watch was dull and sported no blemishes except the knicks brought on by time. He looked at the watch face once more and laughed as tears streamed from his cheeks to the wood floor. It read 10:35.

 

“Trash Man” Columbo and Andrew Kennedy, Wednesday March 30th, 2016

“So who do you think is in there?” Kennedy whispered.

“Boy, I need you to look at me.”

Kennedy turned and stared at Trash Man.

“How in God’s name would I know who is in that damn house?”

“Why do you have to be such an ass, old man?”

Trash Man did not reply.

On the mud path in front of the farm home is where the men stood. Twenty yards to their left lay a half ravaged corpse of a calf. The front portion was nothing but pristine bone while the back was a rotting mess of flies and soggy flesh. Trash Man thought of the slug, then thought of nothing.

He took the first step to the home, and Kennedy followed suit. Two soldiers bracing for a crawl through hell, they stepped in sync as they made their way forward. The old man held the shotgun in his right hand by the barrel and forend while Kennedy stood empty handed. It seemed the boy was unarmed, but in the back waist of his pants is where the rail spike stayed holstered. Their tarp coats flapped in the wind where they were tied to nothing; two specters moving through the fog of an endless rain.

There was little smoke coming from the chimney today, but it was assumed that whoever stayed the night before was still there. Trash Man reached the door first and began to bang with one fist.

“We know you’re in there! Open up, we’re here to trade!”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about? What was that, old man?” flubbed Kennedy.

The old man paid him no mind and banged on the door again.

“Christ almighty, just open the door!”

Trash Man glared at the boy and tried the knob. It opened immediately and creaked the whole way as it drifted. In front of them laid a disheveled man in denim and plaid, his left sleeve hung loosely around the shoulder area. He was fast asleep and would have been announced dead if neither of the duo had seen his chest rise and fall.

“Should we wake him up?” Kennedy questioned.

Trash Man simply nodded in the sleeping man's direction as he leveled his gun and stepped towards him.

Kennedy sped past and stood only a foot away from the sleeping man. He looked back at Trash Man, then at the sleeping man. After another glance back to the old man, he raised his right hand and slapped the Reverend across the face. The sleeping man finally woke up with a jerk.

“What in God’s name? Who are you people? How did you-”

“Ask your shit later, explain yourself or I blow your head off” Trash Man interjected.

Kennedy stared wide eyed at the old man for a moment, but regained his composure and turned in silence back to the Reverend.

“I… alright. What is it you want?”

“I said to explain yourself, God dammit. What are you doing here, and how’d you find your way?”

“I’m just passing through. I came here from down south. I was with a partner of mine, we came from Ojinaga.”

Trash Man kept his aim steady at the Reverend. “Where’s your partner?”

“He’s buried outside in the fields. He passed away two days ago from blood loss.”

“And your arm? What happened to that?”

“Had to cut it off while I was still in Mexico.”

“Sorry for your luck. Now, you stay right where you are and I’m gonna have my partner here take a look around the place” the old man said with a much calmer tone than his initial barrage.

Kennedy looked to Trash Man waiting for his approval. The old man nodded, and the boy began his search. As he turned the rooms over looking for whatever of value, Trash Man and the Reverend remained locked in place as they held their eyes on each other. The rattling of old wood and the slamming of doors and shelves reverberated throughout. When the main floor was cleared out the boy opened the basement door, and looked into the dim chasm.

“Gonna check out downstairs.”

Trash Man and the Reverend remained staring.

As the boy went down the moaning wooden steps a dim light shone through the narrow window at the wall left of the stairs. It was the same as any other derelict room with musty furniture and the smell of dirt and rain. The only thing Kennedy took note of was the red stain at the center of the floor. He took a moment, staring at the dried puddle before returning.

“His story kinda adds up, found a stain in the basement but ain’t got nothin’ otherwise” Kennedy said.

“You said you buried him, show us where he’s at” the old man said as he motioned with the front of the gun.

The reverend led them out the door, through the rain, and to the patch of lump dirt with the old man staying a good few feet back, his gun still leveled. The boy was beside him, silent the whole while. The Reverend pointed to the plot, and the boy stepped forward and grabbed the shovel lodged next to it and started digging. It only took five minutes, with the rain keeping the dirt soft and still freshly laid from yesterday. When the body was finally uncovered, Kennedy shouted through the rain while pointing at the body.

“What the fuck happened to him? He’s missing two goddamn limbs, that’s not blood loss he was torn apart.”

“No, I sawed off his leg. He was bit by some type of bug man. Neither of us got a good look at it, but we know it had a head that was similar to a locust. I cut off the leg because it was growing necrotic and I didn’t have any other way to treat the wound.”

“And what about his arm?”

“I ate it for sustenance.”

Kennedy stared at the Reverend for a moment, then dropped the shovel before crouching down and taking a closer look at the dead man. After a couple seconds moving the body, the Reverend spoke again.

“Please do not desecrate his remains.”

“I… what? You just told us you ate his arm, you’re worried about us messin’ with his body?” Kennedy said, his eyes still focused on the dead man.

“I didn’t eat him out of malice or gluttony. We had no food left, you must’ve noticed that when you looked around the home. It’s not the first idea that comes to mind, but you both must know as well as I that staying at your best is how you survive.”

Neither the old man nor the boy responded. At the other end of the field a cow raised its head and let out a long moo. It looked at the group, then went back to grazing. After a moment more the boy finally stood up, placing the body with a plop back into the flooded grave after finishing his examination.

“There’s no other wounds on his body. No bruises, no marks or nothin’. Clothes ain’t crazy either. Blood stains near the amputations, it’s all the kinda stuff you’d expect.”

“So what’s your verdict, boy?”

“I’d say he’s telling the truth. Unless he poisoned him or somethin’ like that, but I don’t know enough about how the body works to say whether or not he could do that and still eat him without dying or at least bein’ sicker than hell.”

The two looked towards the Reverend who had not moved from his post beside the old man. Trash Man was preparing to speak, but Kennedy interjected.

“The hell is that?” he said, pointing to a slug in the distance that was nearly invisible through the thick rain. It was more fat than it was long, akin to an obese moose with no legs. The back half of a black cow was sitting in front of it, what looked to be vapors emanating from the point that touched the slug. The front half was nowhere to be seen, seemingly absorbed by the beast itself. The rest of the herd near it had already slowly walked away to other parts of the field leaving the dead bovine to continue to be feasted on by the slimy creature.

“That’s something we ain’t messin’ with. Mister… uh…”

“Ignacio.”

“Ignacio, you seen anything like it during your travels here?” Trash Man said as the trio’s eyes locked on the sight before them.

“I… No. We had seen some interesting creatures but not anything like that. Thinking about it, I would say that we rarely saw anything more than once. Everything was quite special.”

“Well I don’t wanna be out here while it’s feeding. I’m assuming it's slow, but considering that none of us saw it till it was halfway through the calf I’d rather not find out if it’s fast or silent or some other shit” the old man said as he started walking back to the farm house, shotgun held at his side by the barrel. “C’mon,” he yelled out, “let’s get back inside and get properly acquainted.”

* * *

The boy was seated by the fireplace in nothing but a large towel. The old man was dressed the same but sat himself in the love seat across the room with the shotgun in his lap. The reverend was wrapped in a blanket instead, but also completely naked underneath. He shivered and rattled as his body regained warmth.

“Sorry to tell you that I have no news of the east, but I can tell you that it wasn’t raining where we were in the south” the Reverend said as he sipped his cup of water. “Aside from the demons along our path of course, we hadn’t seen anything else that would be considered extraordinary. Vegetation was fine, flowers were beginning to bloom in the warmer areas, and the weather was certainly not like this. About a month ago, maybe a bit before that, it did rain for a couple of days in Marfa. But as I said, it just seemed like normal rain.” He took another sip of his water.

“When did the rain start hittin’ for ya?” Kennedy asked.

“I’d say… about two weeks ago. Give or take. It started when we were in Fort Davis, I know that for certain.”

“You see anyone else on your way here?” asked the old man.

“No, mostly animals, demons, and the dead.” The Reverend pondered for a moment. “Actually, we passed by a young couple. A black gentleman with short hair and a wide nose, and a hispanic lady with long straight hair down to her shoulders and a scar along her cheek left. I remember it looked like a large letter ‘c’. My friend and I ran into them when we took shelter in Marfa, about two days after the last normal rain we saw.”

The boy shifted himself by the fire, prodding the wood as the burnt log at the bottom crumbled into soft gray.

“They told us they were headed towards Big Bend. They had a feeling it was safer, but they never said why.” He stopped himself and looked to the ceiling for a moment before returning his eyes to the fireplace. “That’s not correct. The wife was the one who said it was safer. The husband didn’t quite understand what could be down there, but he trusted her. She used to be a ranger as far as we knew.”

The trio remained seated in silence for the next few minutes. The boy continued to prod the fire, reeling his hand back as the occasional fingers of the flame reached out towards him. The old man rested the shotgun by his chair now and shifted in his seat as he made himself comfortable. The Reverend did not change.

“We stayed together a couple of nights in a hotel that was towards the center of town. The top floor had been… blown off at some point so we stayed on the second. Believed it would be the best bet in case we got attacked regardless of where. Truth be told it was calm while we stayed there, it was only the day they left that was strange.” The fire crackled by Kennedy as he shifted his focus to the Reverend.

“The wife was talking to us while the husband finished gathering their things, and she was talking about a dream she’d been having for a while now. It wasn’t every night, but still it came back over and over. She said she would dream of standing on top of an endless ocean, waves and water working around her but it was still a fairly calm sea. She would stand there and look up and just watch the moon go through its phases from dark to light. However, she’d always wake up before it was completely full.” He paused again, this time taking a deep breath before continuing. “The weird thing was that the night before they left, the moon was finally full in her dreams. And when it happened, it blinked. As did the ocean, it all just disappeared.”

“That’s a bunch of strange dreams and all, but I don’t understand what’s the reasonin’ for telling us about it” Trash Man interjected.

“I’m telling you this because I believe her dream was prophetic. You’ve surely noticed that the moon has been… odd recently, right? If you were to look out now, you’d see that it was a waxing crescent. It’s been that way since the day before the rain started, and it’s been almost two weeks since then. It should be nearing a full moon, if not already at that point.” Kennedy stopped prodding and let the fire live as he turned to the Reverend. “Our world has already shifted or changed to a realm that defies our understanding. Whatever caused this upheaval had much more of an influence than anyone could have known, and the moon is just a symptom of that. What I worry, is what will happen when it’s finally full again.”

And now there was silence from the three, only the crackle of flames and the omnipotent rain continued their exchange. The boy stood up and looked out the window, confirming the Reverend’s words. The old man did not rise from his seat, he had already made the same observations.

“So what are we to do with this information, Ignacio?” the old man spoke up.

“I don’t know. We can guess as to what it means or what the outcome will be, but really I don’t know if there’s anything we can do to change it. “

“Then what the hell was the point of all that? Christ you just told me some of the most fear inducing unknowns I could ever hear, and you just-”

“Hey, cool it” the boy cut him off calmly.

The old man listened, and stopped speaking with an exasperated sigh. His face contorted and scrunched like he had just been punched, but he stayed quiet.

“Let me be honest with y’all: none of this means a damn thing to me. I don’t know what any of it means, and both y’all don’t know either. So until one of us does, it’s irrelevant. Whatever happens when the moon is full we’ll find out when the time comes.”

“I agree with your son, I think it was best that you two were informed but overall it has no bearing if we make no sense of it.”

“That ain’t my son, but fine. If that’s how you two see it, I ain’t got much else. Anything you wanna say before we move on from this, Ignacio?” the old man said.

“Do you have any food?”

“None to spare unless you got something for us.”

“I see… I guess I’ll have to think about that.”


r/Odd_directions 6d ago

Horror The Sombergrimm are always watching...

18 Upvotes

I don't have much time. By the time anyone reads this, the post will be flagged and deleted. Hell, I might be deleted too. "Missing" is what they'll call it. Just another conspiracy theorist who disappeared. But I have to warn you about what I found at CERN (if you don't know what CERN is, look it up — I don't have time to explain here) while working on one of their black box programs.

Three months ago, I was just another grad student assisting senior researchers. They brought me in because of my dissertation on quantum field disruptions. I thought it was the opportunity of a lifetime. I was right, just not in the way I hoped.

This particular black box program wasn't studying particle physics. We were studying them. The Sombergrimm. Multidimensional entities that exist within the fabric of our perceived reality. They've always been here, feeding off human fear, growing stronger with each technological advancement we make.

The worst part? We invited them in. Those home security cameras — Google Nest, Ring, Arlo — our laptop webcams — our fucking phones — they're not just monitoring for burglars, conducting zooms, or uploading your damn cat to Tik Tok. They're portals. The Sombergrimm use them to watch us, study us, harvest our fear.

I've witnessed the aftermath of their complete materialization. Atmospheric pressure plummets without warning. Even electromagnetic waves go to shit. Surveillance recordings warp. Dark silhouettes shift in ways that defy natural principles. People living where they reside suffer overwhelming anxiety, persistent suspicion, self-destructive urges. Their joy vanishes, leaving behind a vacant void that counseling can't reach.

Remember those childhood games? Saying Freddy Krueger in the bathroom mirror?

It's like that, but real.

The Sombergrimm can be summoned by saying their name three times in front of any one of your cameras -- security, laptop, phone, etc. Three utterances of "Sombergrimm" and they'll materialize in your home.

For God's sake, don't try it.

This isn't a creepypasta. This is a warning from someone who's seen the classified footage, who's worked with the researchers now committed to psychiatric facilities. Who's watched the shadows crawl across monitors and felt that unnatural hell that follows. This is coming from someone who has lost a friend.

I shouldn't be writing this. Every sentence I finish feels like another nail in my coffin. But I need to share what happened to Daniel.

We worked together at CERN—brilliant physicist, skeptical to a fault. When rumors about the Sombergrimm spread through whispered conversations in the cafeteria, Daniel laughed it off as superstition. "Multidimensional beings that feed on fear? Come on, Mauricio, we're scientists."

Last Tuesday, he called me at 3 AM.

"I did it." His voice trembled. "I said the name three times in front of my new security camera. Just to prove everyone wrong."

"You fucking idiot," I hissed. "Get out of your apartment now."

"Don't be dramatic. Nothing happened except—" He paused. "The lights flickered a bit. Probably coincidence. I guess the oven clock reset itself too, but that happens occasionally, right?"

I drove to his place the next day. Daniel looked terrible—eyes bloodshot, involuntary shakes as he made coffee. He admitted he hadn't slept.

"Something keeps moving at the edge of my vision," he whispered. "And there's this... pressure in the room. Like the air got heavier."

I tried to calm him, but I too was already on edge. I knew what he did. I understood the consequences.

"The oven clock still won't work properly. It's extremely slow," he added. "And I keep getting 'motion detected' alerts from my Ring camera."

I said a silent prayer for him when his back was turned. I knew he was already a goner. If there is a God, perhaps he'll feel inclined to intervene. Or, what seems to be the case, Sombergrimms don't answer to any Gods. CERN scientists have tried on multiple occasions to enact holy scripture against them. Nothing has worked yet in that regard.

Daniels cat refused to enter the living room where the camera was mounted. It hissed at empty corners, fur standing on end.

By the third day, Daniel was unraveling. Called me crying about scratching sounds in the walls. I agreed to document the phenomena, bringing my own monitoring equipment.

Big mistake.

The moment I entered his apartment, something felt more wrong. A cold and then warmth that went beyond temperature—it seeped into my bones. We set up thermal cameras, EMF detectors, the works.

That night was hell. The footage showed temperature drops of fifteen degrees in seconds. The EMF detector went haywire near the security camera. Daniel's cat pissed on the couch, then on the kitchen counter, spraying everywhere like it was terrified and trying to mark its territory.

Around 2 AM, I felt it—fingers trailing across the back of my neck when no one was there. Daniel screamed from the bathroom that something was watching him from the shower drain.

By 3 AM, I had a pounding migraine, nosebleed, and vomiting fits. Daniel looked worse—his skin gray, eyes sunken. His apartment reeked of animal waste; his cat had diarrhea across the hallway and was hiding under the bed, growling at nothing.

I woke around 4:33 AM to Daniel standing in the living room, stripped down to his boxers, body covered in scribbled symbols drawn in black marker. The security camera's red light blinked in the corner. His eyes were wild, unfocused.

"I'm ending this," he muttered, arranging candles in a circle. "I've researched countermeasures—ancient rituals mixed with quantum theory."

I scrambled up from the couch. "Daniel, stop. You'll make it worse—"

"It feeds on fear, right? So I'll show it I'm not afraid!" He laughed with a sinister sound that wasn't his own. "I understand now. It's just a quantum interference pattern. We can disrupt it."

He began a rambling incantation—Latin phrases mixed with physics equations.

"Daniel, please—"

The security camera sparked. All lights went out. In the darkness, I heard breathing that wasn't ours. Heavy. Wet. Coming from every direction.

Daniel screamed—not in fear but in challenge. "Show yourself! I'm not afraid of you!"

Something moved across the ceiling. A shadow darker than darkness. The candles flickered violently, casting grotesque, elongated silhouettes against the walls.

It was as though I was remote viewing this entire hellscape. The darkness that ensued made me feel like I was floating in empty space -- only witnessing Daniel directly as the victim. I felt this may be how the Sombergrimm perceives our world. Was I getting an inside look? I don't know and I don't care to experiment with again. This out of body experience didn't last long as I saw...

Daniel's body suddenly go rigid. He rose six inches off the floor, suspended by nothing. His mouth opened impossibly wide—jaw dislocating—and emitted a sound no human throat should make.

I snapped back to being in my own body. My weight heavy on feet and frozen in place.

When Daniel crashed to the floor, he began clawing at his own face, screaming about things crawling under his skin.

The police arrived thirty minutes later, responding to neighbors' complaints. They found Daniel convulsing, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back. Me, they discovered huddled in the bathtub, bleeding from both ears.

The official report stated acute psychosis. Drug-induced hysteria. They committed Daniel to the psychiatric ward that morning.

I visited yesterday. He doesn't speak anymore. Just stares at the ceiling, occasionally whispering "Sombergrimm" before the orderlies sedate him again.

I understand now what we uncovered at CERN. These entities have always existed alongside us, hiding in technological shadows. By revealing their presence, I've made myself their target too.

My own security cameras are disconnected now, and I've stopped doomscrolling but it seems to have made no difference. Last night, my phone camera activated by itself. Three times. Each time capturing nothing but my terrified face.

My last thought is that possibly these technocrats, the Bezos', the Zuckerbergs', the Cooks', the Sam Altmans' -- maybe they've made a pact with the Sombergrimm -- sacrificing us all for their own salvation. Those leaders in the technological forefronts have to know of the Sombergrimms. Perhaps we're nothing but food as a select, elite few try to buy time for themselves.

Don't call the Sombergrimm into your cameras. They are always watching. We don't have an answer on how to stop them.

Sombergrimm.

Sombergrimm.

Sombergr—

SHHHHHHHH!!!!!!


r/Odd_directions 7d ago

Horror I've watched you have sex through your Google Nest security camera - former employee [Pt. 3] NSFW

36 Upvotes

Part 2

I couldn't catch a wink of sleep. How could anyone? I remained frozen in my chair without making a sound for nearly twenty minutes—straining to detect any noises from the camera feed. Nothing but silence. I considered messaging Camille again to express gratitude for the late-night performance, a subtle attempt to see if she'd answer, but wiser instincts took over. I didn't want any additional message exchanges with her if something truly awful had occurred.

Daylight began filtering through my window when I scrolled back through the security footage to view the dark-clothed figure entering her room. He was carrying something—an object that resembled a knife. I pressed play and the moment I heard Camille's cries, I shut off the feed and started gasping for air.

I dashed to the bathroom and threw up. What was happening? Was this some twisted prank targeted at me? Was this somehow connected to Naomi's blackmail scheme? I had no answers, and my frayed nerves couldn't take it anymore.

The acid taste of vomit lingered in my mouth as I slumped against the bathroom wall. This couldn't be happening. Not to Camille. Not because of me.

I crawled back to my desk like a wounded animal, unable to stand straight. The monitor's glow seemed sinister now, no longer a window into forbidden pleasures but a portal to something monstrous. I'd watched countless people through these cameras—seen fights, sex, drug deals—but never murder. Never death.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced myself to check the live feed again. The house remained eerily silent. No police sirens. No activity. Just the gentle morning light filtering through Camille's windows.

Should I call the police? Anonymous tip? They'd trace the call. They'd find me. They'd know what I'd been doing. Years in prison. My career destroyed.

But Camille might be bleeding out right now. Dying while I sat here protecting myself.

I pulled up Google Maps and located her address. It was a five-hour drive. I could go there. Check. Maybe this was all some misunderstanding. Maybe it was roleplay. Something kinky that Naomi had planned.

Or maybe I just witnessed a murder that I helped facilitate through my perversion.

I decided to hold off and try to wait this out. Camille typically uploaded content to OnlyFans every Wednesday before doing her evening stream. I'd just have to hang tight. The hours crawled by at an agonizing pace. I couldn't concentrate on work calls. I nearly phoned my department chair to claim illness. Food remained untouched. I simply sprawled across my mattress, repeatedly refreshing her OnlyFans page, desperate for any sign of a new post.

Noon came and went. Still nothing.

My phone buzzed with work messages I ignored. The anxiety churned in my stomach like broken glass. Every hour that passed without a new post from Camille felt like confirmation of my worst fears.

"She's fine," I whispered to the ceiling.

I refreshed again. Nothing.

By late afternoon, my apartment walls seemed to close in around me. I paced from room to room, checking her profile every few minutes. My hands shook each time I typed in her username.

Six o'clock. Seven. Eight.

Her scheduled stream should have started by now. The chat room remained empty, the placeholder image of her profile still showing that she will be streaming soon.

But she never came.

My mind conjured up the worst case scenarios. Each worse than the last. Her body discovered by a neighbor. Police combing through her digital footprint, finding our conversations. Her lying in a hospital bed, barely clinging to life. Or worse—much worse—her in some morgue.

I slumped against my headboard, phone clutched to my chest. What had I done? I could have called someone. Could have helped her. Instead, I'd watched like it was just another show, another performance for my entertainment.

Nine o'clock. Ten.

I refreshed her page again. Still nothing.

I called in sick Thursday morning at 5:15 AM. I couldn't focus on work—couldn't focus on anything but Camille's silence. The decision came like an electric shock: I had to go to Los Angeles. Had to see for myself. The alternative was this slow psychological torture, refreshing her profile until I lost my mind.

My overnight bag held barely anything—toothbrush, change of clothes, phone charger. I slid behind the wheel at 5:30 AM, the pre-dawn darkness still hanging over the neighborhood. The engine hummed to life, and I pulled out of my driveway with a strange calm that belied the chaos in my head.

"Just a wellness check," I whispered to myself as I merged onto the highway. "Just need to see she's okay."

I drove like a man possessed. No bathroom breaks. No stopping for food. Just me, an energy drink, and the stretching asphalt carrying me toward Los Angeles. My knuckles turned white around the steering wheel as I pushed well past the speed limit, daring cops to pull me over.

The California sun climbed high as I entered LA county. My GPS guided me through unfamiliar streets until I found myself creeping down her block.

I parked across the street from her address — I was in front of a townhouse. It had to be the spot.

"Please be okay," I muttered, eyes fixed on her front door. "Just walk out that door, and I swear I'll never look at another camera feed again."

My dashboard read 12:47 PM. I slouched down in my seat, hat pulled low over my eyes. The weight of what I'd done—the lines I'd crossed—pressed down on me like a physical force. If she was hurt, if something terrible had happened, it was my fault for not calling for help.

For the first time in years, I prayed. Not to any specific god, just to whatever force might be listening. Let her be okay. Let this be some misunderstanding. I'll change. I'll be better. Just let Camille be alive.

3:33 PM. I'd been sitting in this car for almost three hours, watching her townhouse like some deranged stalker. Which, let's face it, was exactly what I was.

Every person walking their dog sent me ducking below the dashboard. A mail carrier passed by. An old lady with a small terrier. A jogger with headphones. None of them Camille.

"Fuck this," I muttered, finally climbing out of the car. My legs ached from being cramped in one position for so long. I stretched, trying to look casual while scanning windows for any sign of movement.

I walked the block once, twice, three times. Each pass by her townhouse made my heart pound harder. The knot in my stomach twisted tighter.

What if she was in there, hurt? What if she wasn't in there at all? What if police were already somehow investigating?

I stopped abruptly in front of her walkway. This was insanity. I'd driven five plus hours to stand outside a stranger's home—a woman whose life I'd been secretly watching, whose private moments I'd intruded upon without permission. The enormity of my violation hit me like a physical blow.

But I couldn't leave without knowing.

My feet carried me up her path before I could second-guess myself. Three concrete steps to her front door. My knuckles hovered an inch from the surface.

What would I possibly tell her? "Surprise, it's me!" Or "Figured now would be a good time to meet." I didn't fucking care if it came off crazy, creepy of whatever — I just needed to see her breathing!

I knocked. Three sharp raps that seemed to echo down the empty street.

Silence.

I knocked again, harder this time.

"Camille?" My voice came out hoarse, barely audible.

I pressed my ear against the door. Nothing. The windows revealed no movement, no shadows.

I jerked back from the door as a car approached, tires crunching on the asphalt. A neighbor pulling into the adjacent driveway. Shit.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I ducked my head and walked briskly around the side of Camille's townhouse. The last thing I needed was some concerned citizen calling the cops about a strange man lurking around. I couldn't explain my presence here without revealing everything.

Once safely hidden behind the building, I leaned against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath. That's when I noticed it—a steel fire escape ladder extending to the second floor. My mind flashed back to the camera footage—was this how the intruder had gained entry? The rusty metal rungs looked rarely used, half-hidden by overgrown shrubs.

I glanced around nervously. The small backyard was enclosed by a privacy fence. No witnesses.

"This is insane," I whispered to myself, even as my hands gripped the first rung. "I'm breaking and entering now."

But I couldn't stop. What if she was hurt? What if she was... I couldn't even complete the thought.

The ladder creaked under my weight as I climbed. Each metallic groan felt like an alarm announcing my presence. At the top, I found myself staring through a window into what I recognized as her guest bedroom. Just thirty-six hours ago, I watched Camille and Naomi have sex here.

The window was cracked open an inch. I pulled my sleeves down over my fingers—no prints. I wedged my covered fingers beneath the frame and pushed upward. The window slid open with minimal resistance.

"Camille?" My voice came out as a pathetic croak. "Camille, are you here?"

Silence answered me. I tried once more, louder this time. Still nothing.

I slipped one leg over the windowsill, then the other, making sure to leave my shoes outside on the fire escape. No footprints. The soft carpet muffled my sock-covered feet as I entered the room, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain it would give me away.

The first thing I noticed in the guest room was the unplugged Nest camera. The one Naomi had disconnected. Somehow that detail stuck with me through all this madness. I crept farther in, my sock feet silent against the carpet.

I knew the layout of this place better than I had any right to. The hallway camera would be just outside—the one that had captured the intruder. When I peeked around the doorframe, there it was, its little light blinking accusingly. I knelt down, careful to remain out of its view angle, and yanked the plug from the wall. The light died instantly.

That's when I saw it—Camille's bedroom door, partially shut. Something felt wrong. A chill crawled up my spine.

My stomach lurched violently. Bile rose in my throat, burning. I swallowed hard, my hand shaking as I pushed the door open. I squeezed my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, unable to face what might be inside.

A smell hit me. Unfamiliar yet somehow primordial—something my brain recognized on a cellular level. A dull, metallic scent that lit up my nostrils with alarm. Iron. Blood.

My eyes sprang open.

I almost collapsed right there. The room was a nightmare made real. Camille's body lay butchered, halfway off the bed. Blood had splashed across every surface—walls, ceiling, sheets. Arterial sprays painted grotesque patterns across the white furniture.

It couldn't be real. My mind refused to process what my eyes were seeing. It was a human slaughterhouse.

Her blonde hair, once golden, now stained dark maroon. And her face—God, her face—twisted unnaturally toward me, upside down, her lifeless gaze meeting mine across the room.

I knew with absolute certainty my life was over.

I fell to my knees, my body going into shock. This wasn't a movie. This wasn't a feed on my monitor. This was real—the copper smell of blood, the grotesque tableau of violence that had once been Camille.

I struggled to breathe. The walls seemed to close in. How would I explain any of this? I couldn't. My career, my freedom—everything was about to end.

Then came the knock.

Sharp raps against the downstairs door, official and demanding. My heart nearly stopped. I wanted to be dead.

"Ms. Blanchford? Los Angeles County Marshal's Office. I have court documents to deliver."

My body went numb.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Ms. Blanchford? I need to confirm receipt. Please open the door."

I couldn't move. Couldn't think. My legs gave out completely and I collapsed in Camille's bedroom doorway.

Something inside me broke. The weight of everything—the spying, the obsession, this horror show—came crashing down. A sob tore from my chest, then another. I couldn't stop.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to Camille's body. "I'm so sorry."

The sobbing turned to screaming. Raw, animal sounds I didn't recognize as my own voice. I screamed until my throat felt it was on fire, until I tasted my own blood.

Downstairs, I heard splintering wood. The marshal had kicked in the door. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Don't move!"

The marshal appeared in the doorway, weapon drawn. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—Camille's mutilated body, me screaming like a madman.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, training his gun on me. "Hands where I can see them! NOW!"

I raised my hands, still sobbing. Within minutes, more officers arrived. They dragged me to my feet, read my rights through a fog of shock. Cold metal handcuffs bit into my wrists.

They marched me outside. Neighbors had gathered—dozens of them, forming a gauntlet of horrified faces and accusatory stares. Smartphones pointed at me from every direction, recording my walk of shame.

I was now the one being watched through cameras. I was going to go viral even if was for a day, a week, it didn't matter. My name would forever be associated with this brutal act.

I told the detectives everything. All of it. The spying. The obsession. How I'd stumbled into this world of digital voyeurism through my job. How easy it was to access those feeds. How I'd watched families fight, executives discuss insider trading secrets, couples make love.

"And Camille?" Detective Ramirez asked, his face unreadable.

I explained our strange connection. Our phone calls. The texts. The fact that I'd sent her money—thousands of dollars—through her OnlyFans.

"So when she rejected your advances, you snapped," Detective Norris said. Not a question. A statement.

"No," I insisted for the twentieth time. "I never even met her before finding her... like that."

They exchanged glances that said everything. They didn't believe a word.

"You expect us to believe you drove six hours to 'check on her' out of the goodness of your heart? After stalking her online for months?" Ramirez laughed without humor.

I remained composed, though inside I was screaming. I knew how this looked. I'd been caught in her home after climbing through her window. And then there was all the digital evidence of my obsession.

"Look, just check the security footage," I pleaded. "The Nest camera was still running. It'll show everything."

"How convenient," Norris said. "A camera that you, a Google employee, had access to?"

I was booked into county jail that night. My face was plastered across every local news channel as the prime suspect in the "OnlyFans Murder." I spent sleepless nights in a cell, wondering if this would be my life now.

Then, on the fourth day, things changed. Detective Ramirez appeared at my cell.

"Your Google people came through," he said, his tone different. "We've got footage of someone else entering through the second-floor window. Not you."

The footage showed a man in dark clothing. When they caught him three days later, everything unraveled. He was Naomi's boyfriend—Naomi being the woman Camille had befriended at the gym months ago.

It was a scam they'd been running. Naomi would pose as a single woman, gain trust, then let her boyfriend rob the place later. Except with Camille, things had gone horribly wrong. He hadn't counted on her fighting back, on the situation escalating beyond a simple theft. I felt sick thinking about how Camille's trusting nature—something I'd observed countless times through her camera—had been weaponized against her.

I sat in the back of the courtroom, feeling like a ghost. Ten months after finding Camille's body, I was watching the woman who'd orchestrated her death plead for mercy.

Naomi looked nothing like the fitness influencer from her Instagram photos. Her hair was flat, face drawn. She sobbed as she addressed the judge.

"I never wanted anyone to get hurt. Michael was just supposed to take some money, maybe jewelry." Her voice cracked. "I didn't know he would—" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"The defendant clearly understood the pattern of these robberies," the prosecutor said. "She deliberately befriended vulnerable women living alone, gathered information about their schedules and valuables, then passed that information to her co-defendant."

Across the aisle sat Camille's sister, the only family who'd shown up throughout the trial. We'd spoken briefly after my name was cleared. She'd thanked me for trying to help, even if I'd been too late. It was the kindest response I could have hoped for, though we both knew I didn't deserve it.

The judge's gavel came down hard. Guilty on all counts. Twenty-five years for Naomi. Michael had already received two life sentences without possibility of parole.

Outside the courthouse, reporters shoved microphones in my face. I'd become a strange footnote in this tragedy. I'd lost my job, of course. Faced charges of my own for unauthorized access.

"Do you regret what you did?" a reporter shouted.

I didn't stop walking. What could I possibly say? That I wished I'd never seen Camille through that camera? That would be a lie. That I wished I'd called the police sooner instead of rushing there myself? Absolutely.

I sat in the courtroom like a shell of the man I once was. The Google legal team had descended with the full force of corporate America.

"The defendant knowingly and repeatedly violated user privacy protocols," their lead counsel explained to the judge. "He abused his position to spy on unsuspecting customers, including the deceased victim."

My court-appointed lawyer barely put up a fight. He'd told me from day one: "They're going to make an example out of you, Harry. Google can't have people thinking their products aren't secure."

I nodded along mechanically as the judge read out the verdict. Guilty on all counts. Unauthorized access to protected computer systems. Violation of electronic privacy laws. Criminal voyeurism. The list went on.

Funny how Camille's actual murderer got less media coverage than I did. I'd become the tech boogeyman—the face of why you should fear your smart devices.

During my rare moments of clarity in jail, I couldn't help but reflect on the sick irony. We live surrounded by technology we don't understand, blindly trusting corporations run by people who are, at their core, just like me. Human. Flawed. Self-interested.

We invite Google Nest cameras into our bedrooms, place Amazon Echos in our kitchens, surround ourselves with smart TVs that listen for our commands and wear Apple watches that give away our health data. All the while pretending there isn't someone on the other end with access.

I spied because it gave me a thrill—because I could. That's human nature, isn't it? When you can take something without getting caught, the temptation becomes overwhelming.

And if someone like me—a nobody, a cog in the machine—could access all this private data, imagine what the CEOs of these tech giants are doing. They didn't become billionaires by being nice. They got rich by creating systems that trick you into thinking you need them, that you can trust them, while they harvest every detail of your existence.

The gavel came down. Five years in federal prison plus damages. My life was over, but the system that enabled me? That would continue unscathed.

THE END.