It’s about thirty minutes to midnight when my phone vibrates and starts to blare its ringtone. I jump off the couch and nearly have a heart attack. It’s just another night, one that’s been wonderfully quiet so far. After a chaotic Friday evening that lasted until five in the morning, it’s nice to spend this Saturday alone at home, watching whatever crappy movies are on TV.
I recover and answer it. It’s Mike, though I can barely hear him over the pounding music in the background. “We’re leaving the club now!” he screams. “The girls ditched us and Trent wants to get home early so he can go to church with his family.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Did you bring enough cash for a cab this time?” Mike’s stories of getting stranded downtown in the middle of the night have become legendary.
“Nah, Jason’s friend has a car. He’s driving us back.”
I frown. “Has he been drinking?”
“Like, one or two beers. He says he’s fine.” He says something to someone nearby, but I can’t make it out. “I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry about staying up for me.”
“Thanks, but I’m not tired. That, and mom and dad told us to always deadbolt the door, and if I do that you won’t be able to get in.”
He laughs. “I’m not sleeping in the front yard again! ‘kay, I’ll be home soon.”
He hangs up and I go back to my movie. There’s something about mindless violence and explosions that just seems so relaxing. Or maybe it’s the fact that school’s finally done for the winter holidays, and my parents wisely decided to go on a cruise with friends for a week before Christmas. Mike and I have the house to ourselves: for him, it means no stern looks when he staggers home reeking of alcohol; for me, it’s no constant reminders to start looking for a job in time for graduation.
The movie goes to its fifteenth commercial and I head to the kitchen for a snack. As I throw a bunch of eggs, cheese and vegetables into a skillet, I hear a loud cracking noise in the backyard. I press my face to the cold, frosty window and look out, but there’s nothing out there but a few bare trees and some fresh-fallen snow. Probably just an animal. It can’t be easy to survive the winter.
My cell phone rings again, so I wander back into the living room to grab it. It’s Mike. I can hear sirens in the background. “Uh, so Jason’s friend kinda, um, lost control of the car.” It sounds like he’s holding the phone half a foot away from his mouth.
“Oh God. What happened?”
“We hit a pole. Car's totaled, but we’re all okay. I think. Cops are here. They’re talking to the driver.” He laughs. “He’s definitely drunk.”
“No kidding.”
“They’re ignoring the rest of us, and there’s a bus here so I’m gonna on and get home.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I pause and grimace. “Wait. Do you know what bus to get on?”
“I’ll figure it out. Will call you when I’m close.” He’s gone, and I go back to the movie.
There’s a lull in the action, when attractive male protagonist and attractive female protagonist engage in an awkward sexual conversation, which might have worked if they had any sort of chemistry, and my mind wanders to my job hunt. A few of my classmates say they know great companies to work for—apparently mechanical engineers are invulnerable to the bad unemployment rate—but I’m really not sure if I just want to jump into things. Travelling would be fun. There’d be something immensely rewarding about sending Mike a photo of me on the beach while he’d be studying for midterms in the middle of October. Totally worth passing up on an easy job for.
A sudden blaring noise comes from the kitchen. I jump up into the thick smell of smoke. The omelette. Damn it. There’s about a foot of black smoke hovering in the kitchen. I run in, pull my burnt snack off the stove and open every window, letting the chilling air in. My creation is little more than ash, so I open the backdoor and throw it out for whatever animals are trying to get through the night. So much for that.
There’s some leftover pasta in the fridge. I’m happy to eat it cold; at this point, I’m better off not heating anything up. I settle down and continue the movie, but my mind’s going back to travelling. I've always wanted to go across the pond, check out Europe, maybe backpack through Germany, see the sights in France, practice my fake accent in Britain. What’s it like there in the summer? Hot, I’d bet, but not any hotter than it is here. Hopefully less humid.
Again, my ringtone snaps me back to the real world. “Now you pick up!” Mike’s shouting, but I can barely hear him. Wherever he is, the reception is terrible. “I’ve been calling for hours!”
I look at the clock and roll my eyes. “You last called forty-five minutes ago. Where are you?”
“I have no idea. The bus is going in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea where any of these stops are. Hell, I don’t even think they’re in English.”
I sigh loudly. Not this again. “How much did you have to drink?”
“Drink? I can’t even…” He trails off, replaced with a loud, harsh static. I pull the phone from my ear. A few seconds later, it disconnects. Whatever. He’ll find a way home.
The movie eventually ends, but it’s just past midnight and I’m hardly tired. Now I’m regretting allowing my roommate to convince me to leave my gaming console at school. This is the perfect sort of boredom for grabbing a sniper rifle and telling twelve-year-olds how great their moms are in bed. And then Mike could have joined right in. He probably spends more time playing than I do, and he doesn’t even live with me. I think my parents are relieved that we’re going to the same school. He’s been trying his absolute best to get his life back on track, and I’m able to be there in case he needs a shoulder to lean on.
A loud scream comes from the backyard. I go back into the now-freezing kitchen and grab a flashlight from the cupboard. I shine it around, but there’s nothing out there. The remains of the omelet are gone, and there are a ton of paw prints around the area. Racoons? Squirrels? Maybe coyotes? Whatever they were, they moved quickly.
The smoke in the kitchen’s gone. I close all the windows and lie back down in the living room. I guess I doze off, because when I wake up it’s one-thirty in the morning. There’s been no contact from Mike, so I give him a call.
“Hello?” Now it’s like he’s talking into a phone on the other side of the room. “Are you there? Please say something!”
“I’m here,” I say slowly. “Have you figured out the way home yet?”
“I can’t.” Despite the low volume, I can hear panic in his voice. “I’ve been riding for days. Maybe weeks, I can’t tell. Transferring from bus to bus. None of them are going anywhere.” I swear, I can hear him whimper. I can’t help but grin. I’m going to hold this against him for YEARS. “I don’t want to get off. There’s something wrong around here. Something dark. It’s waiting for me.”
“Yeah, it’s called the night, and it’s not very friendly to blackout drunks, now is it?”
“Stop it. Just stop…” He fades away.
“Hello? Mike?” I check my phone. It’s still connected. “If you can hear me, just get off and grab a cab, okay?"
He comes back, with a slightly-clearer voice. “We just passed Wedmore. I recognize this place!”
“That’s good, seeing as we drove by it nearly every single day when we were kids.” I sit up, and suddenly I’m feeling groggy. Time for bed. “Anyway, I’m gonna go—“
“No!” he shouts forcefully. “Please stay. Don’t hang up.”
“Okay…” Now I’m wondering if he took any substances beyond alcohol. It’s like he’s combined the hallucinations of shrooms with the depressants of beer. I grimace. It’s what the old Mike would have done.
“Just… just talk to me. How are things at home?”
“They’re good,” I say. “There’s a bunch of animals outside, making lots of noise. I think they’re racoons, but they could be bears. Might want to watch yourself.”
“Cool.” The connection’s even better. “Just went over the bridge. I’m a few stops away.”
“And there you go. Was there any reason to have been concerned?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” He pauses. “Man, I cannot wait to get home. I think I can hear my bed calling me.”
“Is it saying ‘Clean me?’”
He laughs, loudly and heartily. “I’m nearly there. Jesus, I’m glad the night is over. Thanks for not hanging up.”
“I’m always here. You know that.”
“It was weird,” he continues, “I couldn’t call or text anyone. I tried to get on Facebook, but it looked really strange. And as soon as you called, I realized where I was. It’s like it came out of nowhere." His voice rises. "And there’s our street! I’ll call you when I’m near the house. Holy crap, that’s dark…” He hangs up. I go to the front window and look out. All the street lights are on, casting their pale-orange tint on the road. I gaze as far down as I can. No sign of him.
I'm about to go and clean up the kitchen, but my phone rings. “Where the hell is our house?”
I throw my free hand up incredulously. “The same place it’s always been, you idiot?”
“I can’t see it. The street is way too dark. I don’t even know if I’m on the sidewalk or the road.”
“What are you talking about? It’s bright as day out there.” I go over to the front door and flick the outside light a few times, showing off our snow-covered driveway, the one Mike was supposed to shovel before heading out. “There. Can you see—“
“I saw it!” he screams. “The light! Turn it back on!” I do so, even though it adds nothing to the overall brightness of our neighbourhood. “I see it. Okay, yeah, I’m close now.”
I look out the window, but still can’t see him. There’s just a pair of headlights coming down the street. “How close are you?”
“Nearly there. Oh, thank God, I’m nearly there.”
The headlights slow down at my driveway. “Are you in a car?”
“No. Do you know how easy a car would have made all of this?”
I scoff. “I think there’s a lot of things that could have made this easier.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I swear, I only had a few drinks.” His voice lowers. “I’m done with that other stuff. I made that promise, and I’m going to keep it.”
“I know.” The car’s pulling into my driveway. It’s the police. What the hell is going on here?
“I’m steps away. The house has never looked so good,” Mike says. The car stops and two officers get out, both struggling on the slippery driveway. They take their caps off and hold them against their chests.
“No…”
“What is it?” Mike asks. “I’m at the driveway. Can you see me?”
The world stops around me. This was supposed to be just another night. Everything I’d done—the movie, the omelet, those animals outside, what I’m going to do when I graduate—had been so inconsequential. That was the point. That was the goddamn point.
The officers are walking up the steps. My throat is suddenly very tight, but I manage to get the words out. “Yeah, bro. I can see you.”
“Awesome. I’ll be there in a minute. Thanks for guiding me home.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” I take a deep breath. “See you soon.”
“Can’t wait.” He hangs up. A few seconds later there’s a knock on the door.
I open it.
Friday 25 April 2014
Saturday 23 November 2013
Wierd letter.
I got this letter from an old friend I haven't seen in a long time. I figure that this would be best place to ask for advice. Here's the transcript of the letter:
Hello, Daniel. Haven't seen you for quite some time now.
No time for formalities, though. I need you to do something. Remember that old house we used to hide out in down by the farm? I need you to go there. When you approach the house, try not to make any sound. Go up to the loft and you will find a trunk. In it you will find a small vial, a razor blade, and a folded piece of paper. Take the razor and prick your finger. Touch your forehead and make a dot of blood. DO NOT touch the vial before you do so.
Open the vial and drink it. When you do so your vision will go blurry, but you have to stay calm. Pick up the paper in the trunk and read the first paragraph. It's in German, but I know you won't have trouble with pronouncing it. At this point, you MUST stay calm. You will start to feel closed in and you will start hearing voices. DO NOT listen to what they have to say. Tear the paper into the smallest pieces you can and scatter them on the floor.
When that's done, go downstairs to the "kitchen". You will find a gas can and a lighter. Set fire to the house. No matter what the voices say, you HAVE to set fire to the house. After it starts going, the voices will go away. Then you need to get away from that house as fast as you can.
Good luck,
Tiffany
I'm really freaked out. What should I do?
Wednesday 13 November 2013
Never Sleep With the Door Open
My mom took the door to my
room/ nursery off soon after I was born. Her childhood home had burned
down, so she thought this a wise decision. When I was four or five, I
remember waking in the middle of the night and feeling anxious. My gaze
drifted to my open door frame, where I could clearly see the top of the
staircase. It was faintly illuminated by the little plug-in nightlight
in the hallway. Seeing the house dark and silent, I started to curl up
and go back to sleep when I heard a small pattering. Almost like a tiny
dog was trying to climb up the stairs. There was a slight pause in the
pattering. Then a face appeared.
An infant sized face, but with very adult-like features stared straight into my room. Its skin was stark white and where its eyes should have been were black, hollow sockets. It simply stood/ hovered at the top of the stairs, peering back at me with...I don't know. Curiosity? Indifference? I couldn't read its expression. Then it was gone. I still remember exactly what it looked like. But I never told my parents what I saw. I just asked for a door.
So many years later...jump to when I had recently turned 22.
I was fairly well off for someone in their early twenties - living in a small, cheaply rented house with two other roommates and my beautiful collie mix named Bella. Since adopting her from the shelter, I had made a habit of leaving my door open at night so she could sleep at the foot of my bed and still leave to get a drink or roam when she wished. Up to this point, I had always slept with the door closed. The event from 17 years before was just a bad memory that had led to paranoid habits. I thought it was about time I let it go. So at first, the occurrences began with what I believed was a mind trick.
In those dream-like moments before sleep descended, I thought I could see a tall shadow at the end of the hallway, watching me. I would fall asleep and not think about it again until the next night. This went on for weeks. At some point, I remember thinking that it was much closer to my doorway than it had been the night before. However, my beautiful Bella was right there, warming my feet every night and keeping her post vigilantly. I stopped looking at the doorway before I'd drift to sleep and dismissed the shadow as a product of before-bed delusions.
One night while my roommates were spending their nights elsewhere, I felt Bella jump off the bed to go roam. This was not unusual and I rolled over to go back to sleep. Sure enough, I felt her leap back on not but two minutes later. But her landing felt different. She kept crawling up towards my head then a heavy weight was on my back and I felt something holding my hands down. I gasped for breath while the air was slowly being pressed out of my lungs.
I thought I was going to pass out. I knew this wasn't Bella and I couldn't scream for help. A squeak escaped my mouth when I felt a breath of air near my right ear, brushing my hair to the side. Shaking from panic and the pain, I heard a deep, hoarse voice whisper in my ear, "You're mine."
The weight instantly lifted and I couldn't roll over fast enough. I took in gulps of air, trying to catch my breath. No one was in my room. The sound of Bella's bark made me jump, but take action - I grabbed the knife under my mattress and went to search the house. Slowly, I moved from each of the bedrooms to the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen and then the laundry room. Neither the shadow nor Bella were in any of them. I heard her bark again, making me jump and look out the sliding glass door that led to the back yard. There she was, tail tucked between her legs and looking up at me, whimpering softly. I dropped the knife, unlocked the door, and hugged her when she leaped back inside.
It was only then that it struck me - I had to unlock the door... I checked and then checked again, disbelieving what I was seeing. Both the back and front doors had been locked. I slept in a hotel room that night. But I was sure to sneak Bella in with me. That was over a year ago. Now, Bella sleeps in my room every night with the door closed. I keep her water dish and a box filled with newspaper in a corner of the room. I still haven't told my roommates what happened. And I don't plan on it. This doesn't involve them. This thing has been after me. But hell, if it decides to turn up again, I plan on fighting.
An infant sized face, but with very adult-like features stared straight into my room. Its skin was stark white and where its eyes should have been were black, hollow sockets. It simply stood/ hovered at the top of the stairs, peering back at me with...I don't know. Curiosity? Indifference? I couldn't read its expression. Then it was gone. I still remember exactly what it looked like. But I never told my parents what I saw. I just asked for a door.
So many years later...jump to when I had recently turned 22.
I was fairly well off for someone in their early twenties - living in a small, cheaply rented house with two other roommates and my beautiful collie mix named Bella. Since adopting her from the shelter, I had made a habit of leaving my door open at night so she could sleep at the foot of my bed and still leave to get a drink or roam when she wished. Up to this point, I had always slept with the door closed. The event from 17 years before was just a bad memory that had led to paranoid habits. I thought it was about time I let it go. So at first, the occurrences began with what I believed was a mind trick.
In those dream-like moments before sleep descended, I thought I could see a tall shadow at the end of the hallway, watching me. I would fall asleep and not think about it again until the next night. This went on for weeks. At some point, I remember thinking that it was much closer to my doorway than it had been the night before. However, my beautiful Bella was right there, warming my feet every night and keeping her post vigilantly. I stopped looking at the doorway before I'd drift to sleep and dismissed the shadow as a product of before-bed delusions.
One night while my roommates were spending their nights elsewhere, I felt Bella jump off the bed to go roam. This was not unusual and I rolled over to go back to sleep. Sure enough, I felt her leap back on not but two minutes later. But her landing felt different. She kept crawling up towards my head then a heavy weight was on my back and I felt something holding my hands down. I gasped for breath while the air was slowly being pressed out of my lungs.
I thought I was going to pass out. I knew this wasn't Bella and I couldn't scream for help. A squeak escaped my mouth when I felt a breath of air near my right ear, brushing my hair to the side. Shaking from panic and the pain, I heard a deep, hoarse voice whisper in my ear, "You're mine."
The weight instantly lifted and I couldn't roll over fast enough. I took in gulps of air, trying to catch my breath. No one was in my room. The sound of Bella's bark made me jump, but take action - I grabbed the knife under my mattress and went to search the house. Slowly, I moved from each of the bedrooms to the bathroom to the living room to the kitchen and then the laundry room. Neither the shadow nor Bella were in any of them. I heard her bark again, making me jump and look out the sliding glass door that led to the back yard. There she was, tail tucked between her legs and looking up at me, whimpering softly. I dropped the knife, unlocked the door, and hugged her when she leaped back inside.
It was only then that it struck me - I had to unlock the door... I checked and then checked again, disbelieving what I was seeing. Both the back and front doors had been locked. I slept in a hotel room that night. But I was sure to sneak Bella in with me. That was over a year ago. Now, Bella sleeps in my room every night with the door closed. I keep her water dish and a box filled with newspaper in a corner of the room. I still haven't told my roommates what happened. And I don't plan on it. This doesn't involve them. This thing has been after me. But hell, if it decides to turn up again, I plan on fighting.
Tuesday 12 November 2013
What is the scariest thing a kid has said to you?
Two years ago, I was looking through my elementary school yearbook with
my 5 year old cousin, when we were at a page with a 2nd grade class, she
pointed to a boy's photo and said " that looks just like Nicolas!".
When I asked who Nicolas was she just said " The boy in my closet" and
kept on looking through the pictures. I almost died.
Op.
Op.
Smile to the camera.
I was living with my parents and sister in Brisbane, Australia at the
time (2008, which means I was 19). I remember my dad had just got
Foxtel (cable TV in Australia) but only the TV in the lounge room could
use the cable box, and I really wanted to somehow get the cable in my
room without paying $99 or whatever for a new box. So dad one day went
out and bought an AV transmitter/receiver. It was basically a two piece
bit of hardware where you would plug this tiny box into the cable TV in
the lounge room and it would transmit a video signal to the receiver,
connected to the TV in my room. So one Saturday, I decided to connect
it.
My younger sister (16 at the time) was the only other person home at the time, upstairs in her room (my room was downstairs). I opened the box, and connected it up. At first I was going back and forth, trying to get the cables right, trying to get the channel right etc, but no luck. Until I finally got something. I remember just sitting there and something started fuzzing in (this is where things start to feel like a horror movie). I remember thinking "oh here we go" and waiting to see the picture come in clearly. As it started fuzzing in, I remembered that this whole time the cable set top box wasn't even on, and that's why it wasn't working this whole time. "But then why was I getting a signal?". It seemed to all hit me at once. As I realised the box was off, the picture fuzzed in, and I saw a bed.
I FREAKED the fuck out, as at first I thought it was my bed. I had recently seen Saw 2, and remembered that scene where she turns on the TV and its a camera filming her in her apartment. That was the first thing I thought of. I sprinted upstairs to my sister, absolutely terrified. I told her to come down and take a look. She came down and we both realized it wasn't my bed. We didn't know who's bed it was, or how I was getting the signal. Obviously it was the Av receiver picking up a camera signal, but we were just so confused as to who/what it was for?
Eventually my parents came home, and we concluded that it would have to be a neighbor, or someone living close by, for us to be receiving the signal. We waited around until about 6pm, and then someone came into the room.
My dad recognized it as one of our neighbors. We still didn't know what the camera was for, but we assumed it had something to do with fidelity. Either his wife or he had set it up to watch the other and see if they were cheating. Either this, or it was to tape themselves having sex. We entertained the idea that he was a murderer and would film himself murdering people in his room, but just to freak eachother out. We'd always make jokes about how one night we'll turn it on and itll just be his face with clown make up on staring at the camera waving, and then him walking out of the bedroom with a knife. This never happened. But what did happen was still super creepy.
We connected to this signal for over a week, but after a few days the novelty kinda wore off. We felt a bit weird watching it, and just resigned to the explanation that it was to catch his wife cheating. Until one day, we turned it on, and realized what we had discovered.
Our neighbors were having a bunch of renovations done to their house. During weekdays they would be out, and there would be workers at the place pretty much all day. It had been like this for over a month. We started watching the feed and saw a man walk into their room. It was the plumber that had been there regularly for the renovations. We didnt think anything of it, until he start opening drawers. I called out to my mum (only person home at the time) and we started watching it. He started getting the wifes underpants and sniffing them, doing all that creepy shit. At first we were like "oh my god, how embarrassing, he's being filmed. will the neighbors see this somehow?" but then what happened next what truly terrifying.
He slowly walked over to the camera and look right down the fucking lens. We were CONVINCED that he knew we were watching. Mum immediately called dad. I kept watching. He started fiddling with it and then put it back down. I told mum that I don't think he knew we were watching, but he's definitely the guy that put the camera there. Dad came home, and by this time the plumber had left. Much to mums pleading, dad went over to the neighbors to tell them what we saw. Mum wanted to completely stay out of it and was terrified, understandably. When we told the neighbors, they had NO IDEA what we were talking about. They allowed dad to go up to their room, and what he found (that was holding the camera) was an installed device in the wall that was designed to monitor water usage (which was completely normal, at the time, as Brisbane had been hit with a drought recently and there were lots of water restrictions, still is now I think). The plumber had installed this into the wall, but had fitted a camera behind it in the wall to watch the bed.
Immediately they called the police, who came over and conducted an investigation. For the next week or so we didn't hear much about it. I spent most of this time just telling my friends, showing them pictures, but truthfully my whole family was scared every night. It was just very creepy thinking that we could have stuff like that hidden in our house. Chances are we didn't, but it was still really scary. After a couple of weeks my mum was speaking to the wife next door and asked what happened with it all. The wife said that the police found out he would, at nights, come to our street and sit in his car (which had really tinted windows) and watch them on his laptop. When mum told me this I got the BIGGEST shivers. The reason was (besides the obvious of a creepy dude sitting his car watching people through a hidden camera) was because on multiple nights, when I had driven home late from my girlfriends or walked home drunk after a night out, I remember seeing a station wagon (don't know if thats what theyre called outside of Australia, but its like a big hatchback car) always about 30m down the street from our house. It was never there during the day, always at night. I'd always walk past it and look at my reflection in the windows, assuming no one was inside. I was always so confused by whos car it was but literally never thought it was anything.
It still scares me so much that it was just this creepy fucking plumber sitting back in there on a laptop watching a hidden camera stream of my neighbors.
Anyway, that's my story. It's all true, and still creeps me out to this day, but my friends and I have a good laugh about it.
Op.
My younger sister (16 at the time) was the only other person home at the time, upstairs in her room (my room was downstairs). I opened the box, and connected it up. At first I was going back and forth, trying to get the cables right, trying to get the channel right etc, but no luck. Until I finally got something. I remember just sitting there and something started fuzzing in (this is where things start to feel like a horror movie). I remember thinking "oh here we go" and waiting to see the picture come in clearly. As it started fuzzing in, I remembered that this whole time the cable set top box wasn't even on, and that's why it wasn't working this whole time. "But then why was I getting a signal?". It seemed to all hit me at once. As I realised the box was off, the picture fuzzed in, and I saw a bed.
I FREAKED the fuck out, as at first I thought it was my bed. I had recently seen Saw 2, and remembered that scene where she turns on the TV and its a camera filming her in her apartment. That was the first thing I thought of. I sprinted upstairs to my sister, absolutely terrified. I told her to come down and take a look. She came down and we both realized it wasn't my bed. We didn't know who's bed it was, or how I was getting the signal. Obviously it was the Av receiver picking up a camera signal, but we were just so confused as to who/what it was for?
Eventually my parents came home, and we concluded that it would have to be a neighbor, or someone living close by, for us to be receiving the signal. We waited around until about 6pm, and then someone came into the room.
My dad recognized it as one of our neighbors. We still didn't know what the camera was for, but we assumed it had something to do with fidelity. Either his wife or he had set it up to watch the other and see if they were cheating. Either this, or it was to tape themselves having sex. We entertained the idea that he was a murderer and would film himself murdering people in his room, but just to freak eachother out. We'd always make jokes about how one night we'll turn it on and itll just be his face with clown make up on staring at the camera waving, and then him walking out of the bedroom with a knife. This never happened. But what did happen was still super creepy.
We connected to this signal for over a week, but after a few days the novelty kinda wore off. We felt a bit weird watching it, and just resigned to the explanation that it was to catch his wife cheating. Until one day, we turned it on, and realized what we had discovered.
Our neighbors were having a bunch of renovations done to their house. During weekdays they would be out, and there would be workers at the place pretty much all day. It had been like this for over a month. We started watching the feed and saw a man walk into their room. It was the plumber that had been there regularly for the renovations. We didnt think anything of it, until he start opening drawers. I called out to my mum (only person home at the time) and we started watching it. He started getting the wifes underpants and sniffing them, doing all that creepy shit. At first we were like "oh my god, how embarrassing, he's being filmed. will the neighbors see this somehow?" but then what happened next what truly terrifying.
He slowly walked over to the camera and look right down the fucking lens. We were CONVINCED that he knew we were watching. Mum immediately called dad. I kept watching. He started fiddling with it and then put it back down. I told mum that I don't think he knew we were watching, but he's definitely the guy that put the camera there. Dad came home, and by this time the plumber had left. Much to mums pleading, dad went over to the neighbors to tell them what we saw. Mum wanted to completely stay out of it and was terrified, understandably. When we told the neighbors, they had NO IDEA what we were talking about. They allowed dad to go up to their room, and what he found (that was holding the camera) was an installed device in the wall that was designed to monitor water usage (which was completely normal, at the time, as Brisbane had been hit with a drought recently and there were lots of water restrictions, still is now I think). The plumber had installed this into the wall, but had fitted a camera behind it in the wall to watch the bed.
Immediately they called the police, who came over and conducted an investigation. For the next week or so we didn't hear much about it. I spent most of this time just telling my friends, showing them pictures, but truthfully my whole family was scared every night. It was just very creepy thinking that we could have stuff like that hidden in our house. Chances are we didn't, but it was still really scary. After a couple of weeks my mum was speaking to the wife next door and asked what happened with it all. The wife said that the police found out he would, at nights, come to our street and sit in his car (which had really tinted windows) and watch them on his laptop. When mum told me this I got the BIGGEST shivers. The reason was (besides the obvious of a creepy dude sitting his car watching people through a hidden camera) was because on multiple nights, when I had driven home late from my girlfriends or walked home drunk after a night out, I remember seeing a station wagon (don't know if thats what theyre called outside of Australia, but its like a big hatchback car) always about 30m down the street from our house. It was never there during the day, always at night. I'd always walk past it and look at my reflection in the windows, assuming no one was inside. I was always so confused by whos car it was but literally never thought it was anything.
It still scares me so much that it was just this creepy fucking plumber sitting back in there on a laptop watching a hidden camera stream of my neighbors.
Anyway, that's my story. It's all true, and still creeps me out to this day, but my friends and I have a good laugh about it.
Op.
Monday 11 November 2013
A quiet cabin deep in the woods.
My wife was shaking me quietly. I looked around the cabin. The girls
must have gone to bed. The fire had burned down to embers. My glass of
scotch was still in my hand.
"Something is tapping on the porch." Then I heard it too. I grabbed my ax and lit the lantern. I opened the door expecting a racoon or a skunk, but instead found a boy of about 10 years old.
He stared at me petrified for a moment, then bolted down the path through the woods. I gave chase. He was losing me but I heard him tumble to the ground. I leapt on top of him in a rage.
"Why were you knocking on my porch?" I screamed. "My uncles told me to." He stammered.
I was no longer angry, but confused. "But why?" I asked. "To get you out of the cabin."
Op.
"Something is tapping on the porch." Then I heard it too. I grabbed my ax and lit the lantern. I opened the door expecting a racoon or a skunk, but instead found a boy of about 10 years old.
He stared at me petrified for a moment, then bolted down the path through the woods. I gave chase. He was losing me but I heard him tumble to the ground. I leapt on top of him in a rage.
"Why were you knocking on my porch?" I screamed. "My uncles told me to." He stammered.
I was no longer angry, but confused. "But why?" I asked. "To get you out of the cabin."
Op.
Thursday 10 October 2013
October 29
I am the youngest of five
girls. You'd think that living in a small house with five girls would be
difficult, and you would very, very correct. Being the youngest, I
missed out on a lot of sibling rivalry growing up. I was just born when
three of the five of us were already in their early teens. Being the
youngest also means I didn't really connect with any of them - none of
them but the oldest, Anne.
Anne always liked to talk about how she practically raised me. She liked to tell me about how she would go get me while I was crying in my crib and watch cartoons with me. She says she was the only sister that was truly excited when Mom told them she was pregnant with me. It's true, the other four were more or less uncaring, or jealous.
Over the years, despite how close we were growing up, Anne started to change. She was laid off of the first good job she had when she was 23 and ever since it was like she was in a downward spiral. She was in an abusive relationship, but she argued that they loved each other. She stuck with him until one particularly bad incident and then moved back home.
When all of this was going on I was only about 9. At that age no one tells you stuff like that. No one said to me, "Anne just lost her job, and was depending on an alcoholic shit to provide for her while he beat her up." So instead, Mom made it seem like Anne coming home was a good thing. I was excited and it meant I got to spend more time with her.
Fast-forward to high school. I meet my future husband, and I've become a different person than I was when I was 9. Anne is working a shitty job and dating and breaking up with multiple guys. I don't talk to my sisters ever at this point. I'm shy, I'm different, and talking on the phone just isn't my thing.
A little after graduation Anne has nearly cut off ties with the family. She's with a divorced man who has three kids. She's taking care of these kids while he uses her car to get back and forth to work. And he beats her. She only calls us when she's drunk. Other than that, she doesn't answer her phone, and tries very hard to cover up any foul-play between the two of them.
When Anne calls me at one in the morning, I'm afraid to answer. She's always weepy and she talks on a loop. She says the same stuff over and over again about how much she loves me, how she was always there for me even when Mom wasn't... These calls lasted for hours. I would lock myself in the bathroom so that my now-husband wouldn't hear how unwell my sister was, but you can't hide four-hour long phone calls that early in the morning.
My sister was very ill. There were a lot of things no one could fix for her. We did the best we could, and even now I can't really come to grips with the idea of Anne not being here anymore. I'm convinced that there was no one in this world she loved more than me, which makes me feel accountable...
On July 7th this year Anne committed suicide. She didn't leave a note for someone to find because she knew her abusive boyfriend would find her first.
Our family quickly got everything ready for her funeral and set the date for that following Tuesday. We were in shock, but we knew there were things that needed to be done. Specifically, we needed to collect her things from their apartment. Mom got the four of us and Dad together for that Saturday to bring boxes and go through her stuff together.
That was when I found the letters she left me.
I'm not sure if this was our family's thing, or if other mothers and fathers do this, but any time we would go on a trip -like summer camp or a sleepover- Mom would buy us cheap cards from the store and write a date on the envelope. The date was when we were supposed to open it. Inside it would be a sweet little note saying "hope you're having fun! miss you!" or something along those lines. It helped with any homesickness and was kind of like a mini Christmas.
That was how Anne fashioned the letters. They had been stacked neatly together and bound with a piece of yellow yarn. The first one said Open on Monday, July 8. I guess she had assumed we'd go through her things the day after.
Tearfully, and with my parents and sisters with me, I opened the letter with shaky hands. I remember how my stomach felt like there were butterflies in it, and I thought I might throw up. I pulled the card out and smiled. It was one of those blank cards with no specific occasion, and it had a cat tangled up in a ball of yellow yarn on the front.
I'm so sorry, it read, I hope you can forgive me. I was so sad, and so unhappy. I know that you're going to live a long and happy life. Love you forever, little girl. Anne.
I was a wreck. Mom couldn't console me, my sisters were speechless, and I was wracked with guilt. I looked through the next few letters that were each dated for Mondays. All of the following Mondays had a letter. Each letter got happier, and more light-hearted than the one before it. It was as if Anne was conveying to me how her life had improved in death. It was strange, but comforting.
I had a letter for every Monday up to August 12th. The following week my letter was dated for that Wednesday. I'd gotten into such a routine that I almost opened it that Monday before my husband pointed it out. It was dated for August 21, our dad's birthday.
It was a birthday card for Dad. It was written and signed just like Anne would have done if she were alive, and it made our father cry.
The next card is where everything changes. The next card was dated for September 11th.
So much death... their faces are so scarred. I've never seen anything like it. So much sadness and mourning. They weren't finished, little girl. They weren't ready.
The card left me shaken and upset. It didn't make any sense. After the sweet and beautiful notes she'd written in all the others, where had this come from? What was she talking about? I had so many questions, but no one to answer them.
My next letter said to open on Wednesday, September 27. I didn't have the chance to open it that morning when I usually opened them because I got a phone call. For months I'd been unemployed and had been looking for a job to help my husband out. That morning our local vet's office called me for an interview. It was the best news I'd gotten in a long time, so I honestly forgot about Anne's letter until I was eating lunch after my interview. I'd gotten the job and was set to start the following Monday.
When I opened the envelope I pulled out a Congratulations! card. The inside was printed with a bunch of cheesy "You did it! Great job! Take a bow!"s and in the corner Anne had written, I'm so proud of you. You'll do great!
I felt elated. This was my first real job. I wasn't a waitress anymore and I was excited to celebrate. It wasn't until I was washing off my plate from lunch that I realized what that card said. There was no way. It didn't make any sense. How could Anne possibly have known?
Coincidence. There was no other explanation.
The most recent card was dated for Monday, October 7. This past Monday. I was relieved after the last two to be going back to the normal Monday's.
This Monday morning was hell. Both my husband and I woke up half an hour late. I was in a huge rush getting ready and shoved the letter into my purse along with a cereal bar. My husband drives a lot for work so instead of going into work his boss assigned him a place near home to drive over to quickly.
I was at the computer in the lobby about to open my letter when my cell phone rang. My husband never calls me during work, since I'm not allowed personal calls, so seeing his number made my heart drop.
It was the city hospital. They said he'd been rushed in from a bad wreck and that I was under his emergency contacts. I told them who I was and told them I would be there in less than fifteen minutes.
At the hospital the receptionist couldn't allow me back. My husband was undergoing intensive surgery after the damage from the wreck. She couldn't provide me with any more details of what had happened, except that there was some head trauma, and that he'd been "pinned in".
I was hysterical, but I managed to calm myself down and take a seat. I knew the doctor would come to me with any information as soon as possible. In the meantime, I needed to let my mother-in-law know, and my own mom.
I reached into my purse for my cell phone and felt Anne's letter. I pulled it out. I opened it.
It was a get-well soon card. There was a bunny with a bandage wrapped around its head. My hands were shaking as I opened the card.
It's going to be fine, baby sister. Sometimes bad things happen in life that you aren't meant to understand. It will only hurt more if you try to make sense of these things. It's not his time yet. I've always taken care of you, and I always will. I promise you that when the time comes, I'll be there for you.
I haven't shown my husband. I haven't mentioned any of this to my Mom, or my sisters. I'm not sure what she means by "when the time comes", but the letters stop on October 29th.
Source
Anne always liked to talk about how she practically raised me. She liked to tell me about how she would go get me while I was crying in my crib and watch cartoons with me. She says she was the only sister that was truly excited when Mom told them she was pregnant with me. It's true, the other four were more or less uncaring, or jealous.
Over the years, despite how close we were growing up, Anne started to change. She was laid off of the first good job she had when she was 23 and ever since it was like she was in a downward spiral. She was in an abusive relationship, but she argued that they loved each other. She stuck with him until one particularly bad incident and then moved back home.
When all of this was going on I was only about 9. At that age no one tells you stuff like that. No one said to me, "Anne just lost her job, and was depending on an alcoholic shit to provide for her while he beat her up." So instead, Mom made it seem like Anne coming home was a good thing. I was excited and it meant I got to spend more time with her.
Fast-forward to high school. I meet my future husband, and I've become a different person than I was when I was 9. Anne is working a shitty job and dating and breaking up with multiple guys. I don't talk to my sisters ever at this point. I'm shy, I'm different, and talking on the phone just isn't my thing.
A little after graduation Anne has nearly cut off ties with the family. She's with a divorced man who has three kids. She's taking care of these kids while he uses her car to get back and forth to work. And he beats her. She only calls us when she's drunk. Other than that, she doesn't answer her phone, and tries very hard to cover up any foul-play between the two of them.
When Anne calls me at one in the morning, I'm afraid to answer. She's always weepy and she talks on a loop. She says the same stuff over and over again about how much she loves me, how she was always there for me even when Mom wasn't... These calls lasted for hours. I would lock myself in the bathroom so that my now-husband wouldn't hear how unwell my sister was, but you can't hide four-hour long phone calls that early in the morning.
My sister was very ill. There were a lot of things no one could fix for her. We did the best we could, and even now I can't really come to grips with the idea of Anne not being here anymore. I'm convinced that there was no one in this world she loved more than me, which makes me feel accountable...
On July 7th this year Anne committed suicide. She didn't leave a note for someone to find because she knew her abusive boyfriend would find her first.
Our family quickly got everything ready for her funeral and set the date for that following Tuesday. We were in shock, but we knew there were things that needed to be done. Specifically, we needed to collect her things from their apartment. Mom got the four of us and Dad together for that Saturday to bring boxes and go through her stuff together.
That was when I found the letters she left me.
I'm not sure if this was our family's thing, or if other mothers and fathers do this, but any time we would go on a trip -like summer camp or a sleepover- Mom would buy us cheap cards from the store and write a date on the envelope. The date was when we were supposed to open it. Inside it would be a sweet little note saying "hope you're having fun! miss you!" or something along those lines. It helped with any homesickness and was kind of like a mini Christmas.
That was how Anne fashioned the letters. They had been stacked neatly together and bound with a piece of yellow yarn. The first one said Open on Monday, July 8. I guess she had assumed we'd go through her things the day after.
Tearfully, and with my parents and sisters with me, I opened the letter with shaky hands. I remember how my stomach felt like there were butterflies in it, and I thought I might throw up. I pulled the card out and smiled. It was one of those blank cards with no specific occasion, and it had a cat tangled up in a ball of yellow yarn on the front.
I'm so sorry, it read, I hope you can forgive me. I was so sad, and so unhappy. I know that you're going to live a long and happy life. Love you forever, little girl. Anne.
I was a wreck. Mom couldn't console me, my sisters were speechless, and I was wracked with guilt. I looked through the next few letters that were each dated for Mondays. All of the following Mondays had a letter. Each letter got happier, and more light-hearted than the one before it. It was as if Anne was conveying to me how her life had improved in death. It was strange, but comforting.
I had a letter for every Monday up to August 12th. The following week my letter was dated for that Wednesday. I'd gotten into such a routine that I almost opened it that Monday before my husband pointed it out. It was dated for August 21, our dad's birthday.
It was a birthday card for Dad. It was written and signed just like Anne would have done if she were alive, and it made our father cry.
The next card is where everything changes. The next card was dated for September 11th.
So much death... their faces are so scarred. I've never seen anything like it. So much sadness and mourning. They weren't finished, little girl. They weren't ready.
The card left me shaken and upset. It didn't make any sense. After the sweet and beautiful notes she'd written in all the others, where had this come from? What was she talking about? I had so many questions, but no one to answer them.
My next letter said to open on Wednesday, September 27. I didn't have the chance to open it that morning when I usually opened them because I got a phone call. For months I'd been unemployed and had been looking for a job to help my husband out. That morning our local vet's office called me for an interview. It was the best news I'd gotten in a long time, so I honestly forgot about Anne's letter until I was eating lunch after my interview. I'd gotten the job and was set to start the following Monday.
When I opened the envelope I pulled out a Congratulations! card. The inside was printed with a bunch of cheesy "You did it! Great job! Take a bow!"s and in the corner Anne had written, I'm so proud of you. You'll do great!
I felt elated. This was my first real job. I wasn't a waitress anymore and I was excited to celebrate. It wasn't until I was washing off my plate from lunch that I realized what that card said. There was no way. It didn't make any sense. How could Anne possibly have known?
Coincidence. There was no other explanation.
The most recent card was dated for Monday, October 7. This past Monday. I was relieved after the last two to be going back to the normal Monday's.
This Monday morning was hell. Both my husband and I woke up half an hour late. I was in a huge rush getting ready and shoved the letter into my purse along with a cereal bar. My husband drives a lot for work so instead of going into work his boss assigned him a place near home to drive over to quickly.
I was at the computer in the lobby about to open my letter when my cell phone rang. My husband never calls me during work, since I'm not allowed personal calls, so seeing his number made my heart drop.
It was the city hospital. They said he'd been rushed in from a bad wreck and that I was under his emergency contacts. I told them who I was and told them I would be there in less than fifteen minutes.
At the hospital the receptionist couldn't allow me back. My husband was undergoing intensive surgery after the damage from the wreck. She couldn't provide me with any more details of what had happened, except that there was some head trauma, and that he'd been "pinned in".
I was hysterical, but I managed to calm myself down and take a seat. I knew the doctor would come to me with any information as soon as possible. In the meantime, I needed to let my mother-in-law know, and my own mom.
I reached into my purse for my cell phone and felt Anne's letter. I pulled it out. I opened it.
It was a get-well soon card. There was a bunny with a bandage wrapped around its head. My hands were shaking as I opened the card.
It's going to be fine, baby sister. Sometimes bad things happen in life that you aren't meant to understand. It will only hurt more if you try to make sense of these things. It's not his time yet. I've always taken care of you, and I always will. I promise you that when the time comes, I'll be there for you.
I haven't shown my husband. I haven't mentioned any of this to my Mom, or my sisters. I'm not sure what she means by "when the time comes", but the letters stop on October 29th.
Source
Wednesday 9 October 2013
Wednesday 2 October 2013
Hunger
As a doctor, I’m bound by
doctor-patient privilege to not disclose the specifics of what I’m about
to tell you. But as a human being, I feel compelled to share. This is,
without a doubt, the most horrific story I've ever had the displeasure
of being a part of.
It was 2009, and my schedule that day was light. I was just finishing up my lunch when I got a call from a friend and colleague who had his own practice in the same building as me. Sometimes we would send work each other’s way when we knew the other could use it. I was a bit elated at the prospect of him calling me because I had just been going over my books and stressing a bit.
“Are you busy right now? I’d like to send someone up to you,” he said.
“No, my afternoon is barren. What are the details?”
“It’s a walk-in. From the look of it, an eating disorder. Her mother is concerned.”
Eating disorder. Those can be unpleasant. I’d actually had a bulimic throw up in my office once when I stepped out momentarily to check my calendar. Still, I needed the work.
“Alright, send her up.”
I tried to tidy up my desk to make my office look more presentable and professional while I waited. Ten minutes ticked by and no patient showed up, so I stepped out to go looking for her. When I got to the hall, there was a small contingent of people standing around the elevator. They were talking amongst themselves.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The elevator’s broke,” someone said.
Shit, I bet she’s on there, I thought.
“What floor is it stuck on?”
“The tenth and eleventh.”
Yeah, that would be about right. My colleague’s office was on the tenth, three floors down. I knew from experience that it could be anywhere up to an hour before they got the elevator working again. I hoped she wasn’t claustrophobic. Returning to my office, I called downstairs.
“What’s up?” my colleague asked after picking up.
“She’s stuck in the elevator.”
He laughed. “Really? Poor thing.”
“What’s her name?”
“Amelia.” he paused. “Amelia D-something.”
“Alright, thanks. If you got any impressions on her from your brief visit, maybe you can share them later, over drinks?”
“Sure, I--”
“Don’t tell me. I want to form my own opinion first.”
“Okay.”
True to form, an hour and ten minutes later, I heard a loud cheer from the hallway, indicating the elevator had started working again.
I should go make sure she’s alright, I thought to myself, and went out to join the throng of people standing around in the hallway.
There were a lot more people by then, and I couldn’t make my way to the elevator doors or even see them from where I was, but I could hear it when the elevator dinged indicating it was stopping on our floor and the rolling mechanical sound of the doors opening.
There was a loud gasp from the crowd of people, followed by a lot of jabbering.
“Holy shit!” someone said quite loudly.
People started hustling away from from the elevator, shoving past me. I struggled against the tide and made my way to where a number of people were standing around, staring into the elevator cab. As I approached, I could smell this stench... it was like stumbling into the apartment of a recluse who hadn’t come out or bathed for years. It rolled like a wave out of the elevator and cascaded over everyone in the hallway. A young man in a business suit who looked dressed for an interview was covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I skirted around him to see into the elevator.
The woman in the elevator was not at all what I was expecting. Massively obese, she looked like she weighed somewhere around 500-600 lbs. Her face was so puffed up, her eyes were barely visible, just two dark dots above her cheeks. She had frizzed-out, brown hair that still had curlers in it. The notion that I was smelling a recluse seemed all the more plausible at the sight of her.
Her mouth was covered with what looked like greasy barbecue sauce. There was even some sort of gristle at the corners of her lips. There was more of it all over her hands and wiped down the front of her shirt. It looked like she had come straight from an all-you-can-eat rib buffet. Clenched tightly in one of her hands was a big, black trash bag that sagged full of something that seemed to slosh around inside it. The smell coming out of it was nauseating.
The woman stepped out of the elevator, her eyes and nose runny with tears and mucous. I stepped forward while everyone else backed away, horrified.
“Amelia?” I asked her.
She looked at me through her beady, little piggy eyes, her cheeks covered with that vile, red gunk and streaking with tears and opened her mouth. For about three seconds, I had the horrible notion that she was going to vomit an entire barbecue on me.
“I... I was hungry,” she stuttered with a thick, Southern accent.
The young man in the suit heaved involuntarily at the smell of her breath and then strode away, trying to maintain his demeanor.
“That’s okay,” I said, reaching out to help her. “Do you want to talk about it in my office?”
Seeing me reach out to her, she clenched her black trash bag tightly and hugged it to her chest. The contents of it made a sickening squish sound. I could taste my own lunch in the back of my throat.
“Is that, yours?” I asked. “I’m not going to take it.”
She started sobbing. This horrible, almost hob-like squeal of a sob. Honestly, I didn’t want to touch her. I wanted to go back into my office, lock the door and pretend I was glad my afternoon was completely empty. The smell wafting off her and off that bag of spoils was going to be permeating every crevice of my office for days, I just knew it. Still, this was a human being that had come seeking my help, and I was not about to turn her away.
“My office is right down the hall. Why don’t you come with me?” I started walking. In my head, I said, If she doesn’t come with me, fuck it. She can go back to her apartment that’s probably filled with roaches and feces and who knows what other ungodly things, and I’ll find someone else to help.
But she followed me, lumbering on legs that stretched the limits of the sweatpants she had on. I held the door open for her and she waddled in, kneading the contents of that trash bag in her thick sausage fingers, making it belch and splurch. She stopped and just stood there in the middle of my office.
“The elev-v-vator got st-stuck,” she mumbled.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I hope you were all right. Thank goodness you brought something to eat, yes?”
She started crying again, squeezing her trash bag and I was afraid it was going to explode and leave god knows what all over my office floor. She nodded as her face turned red and tears poured out of seemingly every pore of her head.
I went and got her a box of tissues and handed her a couple. She tried to take them while still holding onto the bag with both hands.
“Would you like me to hold that?” I offered, praying she’d say no.
She shook her head.
“What do you have in there?” I finally decided to ask.
She huffed and snorted, trying to inhale all the fluid back into her face. Using one of the tissues, she mopped her eyes and mouth, getting blotchy red smears all over the place.
“L-l-left... leftovers...” she stuttered, then her chest started heaving and she threw her head back and started bawling again. Her face was like a fountain. She was so utterly miserable, and I really started to feel bad for her.
“Look,” I said, “getting stuck in that elevator was obviously pretty traumatic.”
Her wailing hit a crescendo.
“So why don’t we postpone things until you’ve calmed down a bit.”
She struggled through her sobbing, “Y-you wanna m-m-meet with me?”
“Well, yes... but not today. Why don’t you go home and try to relax. I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind right now to talk. But I want to help you. So let’s schedule an appointment for later this week. How does that sound?”
I walked back to my desk and got out one of my cards. Her mouth was quivering and she looked ready to collapse into a pile of screaming phlegm, but she was calming down a bit, just nodding more than anything, and she took my card with the same sticky fingers holding several drippy tissues.
“Th-thank you.” she said quietly. I couldn’t read her face at all. Her features were so red and swollen and wet that she seemed almost blank and expressionless.
“Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby?” I asked, “In case something happens with the elevator again? It should be alright, but I don’t want you to be nervous.”
She shook her head. “That don’t s-seem like a g-g-good idea.”
“Okay.”
And with that, she turned around and waddled out of my office, slowly, sobbing slightly every now and then. With her went that sloshy, black trashbag and with them both went that putrid aroma of filth and squalor. I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door click shut.
She never called me back.
It was a week later that I finally got around to having drinks with my colleague from downstairs. We were relaxing, having a couple beers, and I suddenly remembered her.
“Oh, thanks by the way.” I said.
“For what?”
“For Amelia.”
“Who?”
“Amelia. Eating disorder? Last week you sent her up to me, remember?”
“Oh, right.” he sipped his beer. “The one who got stuck in the elevator. How did that go?”
“She was a wreck.” I said. “Sobbing and practically hysterical. I talked her into rescheduling, but she hasn’t called me to make an appointment.”
“Did you talk to her mother?”
“No, I didn’t get any information from her. I gave her my card.”
“What did you think?” he asked.
“Classic food dependency.” I said. “Definitely a binge eater. Her face was just all--”
“No, not the mother, I mean Amelia.”
“What?”
“What did you think of Amelia?” he said again.
“I’m telling you what I thought.”
“Amelia, the scrawny twelve year-old girl, you think is a binge eater?”
“What? No, that’s not--”
And then it hit me.
“Was her mother with her?”
“Yeah, I sent them both up to you.”
“They were in the elevator together?”
He looked at me, and the same dawning realization came over his own face.
Needless to say, she never rescheduled. Amelia D-something. Nor did her mother: the nameless, obese woman I met that day at the elevator, smelling like death, covered in gore and carrying her trash bag of sloshing leftovers.
Source.
It was 2009, and my schedule that day was light. I was just finishing up my lunch when I got a call from a friend and colleague who had his own practice in the same building as me. Sometimes we would send work each other’s way when we knew the other could use it. I was a bit elated at the prospect of him calling me because I had just been going over my books and stressing a bit.
“Are you busy right now? I’d like to send someone up to you,” he said.
“No, my afternoon is barren. What are the details?”
“It’s a walk-in. From the look of it, an eating disorder. Her mother is concerned.”
Eating disorder. Those can be unpleasant. I’d actually had a bulimic throw up in my office once when I stepped out momentarily to check my calendar. Still, I needed the work.
“Alright, send her up.”
I tried to tidy up my desk to make my office look more presentable and professional while I waited. Ten minutes ticked by and no patient showed up, so I stepped out to go looking for her. When I got to the hall, there was a small contingent of people standing around the elevator. They were talking amongst themselves.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The elevator’s broke,” someone said.
Shit, I bet she’s on there, I thought.
“What floor is it stuck on?”
“The tenth and eleventh.”
Yeah, that would be about right. My colleague’s office was on the tenth, three floors down. I knew from experience that it could be anywhere up to an hour before they got the elevator working again. I hoped she wasn’t claustrophobic. Returning to my office, I called downstairs.
“What’s up?” my colleague asked after picking up.
“She’s stuck in the elevator.”
He laughed. “Really? Poor thing.”
“What’s her name?”
“Amelia.” he paused. “Amelia D-something.”
“Alright, thanks. If you got any impressions on her from your brief visit, maybe you can share them later, over drinks?”
“Sure, I--”
“Don’t tell me. I want to form my own opinion first.”
“Okay.”
True to form, an hour and ten minutes later, I heard a loud cheer from the hallway, indicating the elevator had started working again.
I should go make sure she’s alright, I thought to myself, and went out to join the throng of people standing around in the hallway.
There were a lot more people by then, and I couldn’t make my way to the elevator doors or even see them from where I was, but I could hear it when the elevator dinged indicating it was stopping on our floor and the rolling mechanical sound of the doors opening.
There was a loud gasp from the crowd of people, followed by a lot of jabbering.
“Holy shit!” someone said quite loudly.
People started hustling away from from the elevator, shoving past me. I struggled against the tide and made my way to where a number of people were standing around, staring into the elevator cab. As I approached, I could smell this stench... it was like stumbling into the apartment of a recluse who hadn’t come out or bathed for years. It rolled like a wave out of the elevator and cascaded over everyone in the hallway. A young man in a business suit who looked dressed for an interview was covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. I skirted around him to see into the elevator.
The woman in the elevator was not at all what I was expecting. Massively obese, she looked like she weighed somewhere around 500-600 lbs. Her face was so puffed up, her eyes were barely visible, just two dark dots above her cheeks. She had frizzed-out, brown hair that still had curlers in it. The notion that I was smelling a recluse seemed all the more plausible at the sight of her.
Her mouth was covered with what looked like greasy barbecue sauce. There was even some sort of gristle at the corners of her lips. There was more of it all over her hands and wiped down the front of her shirt. It looked like she had come straight from an all-you-can-eat rib buffet. Clenched tightly in one of her hands was a big, black trash bag that sagged full of something that seemed to slosh around inside it. The smell coming out of it was nauseating.
The woman stepped out of the elevator, her eyes and nose runny with tears and mucous. I stepped forward while everyone else backed away, horrified.
“Amelia?” I asked her.
She looked at me through her beady, little piggy eyes, her cheeks covered with that vile, red gunk and streaking with tears and opened her mouth. For about three seconds, I had the horrible notion that she was going to vomit an entire barbecue on me.
“I... I was hungry,” she stuttered with a thick, Southern accent.
The young man in the suit heaved involuntarily at the smell of her breath and then strode away, trying to maintain his demeanor.
“That’s okay,” I said, reaching out to help her. “Do you want to talk about it in my office?”
Seeing me reach out to her, she clenched her black trash bag tightly and hugged it to her chest. The contents of it made a sickening squish sound. I could taste my own lunch in the back of my throat.
“Is that, yours?” I asked. “I’m not going to take it.”
She started sobbing. This horrible, almost hob-like squeal of a sob. Honestly, I didn’t want to touch her. I wanted to go back into my office, lock the door and pretend I was glad my afternoon was completely empty. The smell wafting off her and off that bag of spoils was going to be permeating every crevice of my office for days, I just knew it. Still, this was a human being that had come seeking my help, and I was not about to turn her away.
“My office is right down the hall. Why don’t you come with me?” I started walking. In my head, I said, If she doesn’t come with me, fuck it. She can go back to her apartment that’s probably filled with roaches and feces and who knows what other ungodly things, and I’ll find someone else to help.
But she followed me, lumbering on legs that stretched the limits of the sweatpants she had on. I held the door open for her and she waddled in, kneading the contents of that trash bag in her thick sausage fingers, making it belch and splurch. She stopped and just stood there in the middle of my office.
“The elev-v-vator got st-stuck,” she mumbled.
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I hope you were all right. Thank goodness you brought something to eat, yes?”
She started crying again, squeezing her trash bag and I was afraid it was going to explode and leave god knows what all over my office floor. She nodded as her face turned red and tears poured out of seemingly every pore of her head.
I went and got her a box of tissues and handed her a couple. She tried to take them while still holding onto the bag with both hands.
“Would you like me to hold that?” I offered, praying she’d say no.
She shook her head.
“What do you have in there?” I finally decided to ask.
She huffed and snorted, trying to inhale all the fluid back into her face. Using one of the tissues, she mopped her eyes and mouth, getting blotchy red smears all over the place.
“L-l-left... leftovers...” she stuttered, then her chest started heaving and she threw her head back and started bawling again. Her face was like a fountain. She was so utterly miserable, and I really started to feel bad for her.
“Look,” I said, “getting stuck in that elevator was obviously pretty traumatic.”
Her wailing hit a crescendo.
“So why don’t we postpone things until you’ve calmed down a bit.”
She struggled through her sobbing, “Y-you wanna m-m-meet with me?”
“Well, yes... but not today. Why don’t you go home and try to relax. I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind right now to talk. But I want to help you. So let’s schedule an appointment for later this week. How does that sound?”
I walked back to my desk and got out one of my cards. Her mouth was quivering and she looked ready to collapse into a pile of screaming phlegm, but she was calming down a bit, just nodding more than anything, and she took my card with the same sticky fingers holding several drippy tissues.
“Th-thank you.” she said quietly. I couldn’t read her face at all. Her features were so red and swollen and wet that she seemed almost blank and expressionless.
“Do you want me to escort you down to the lobby?” I asked, “In case something happens with the elevator again? It should be alright, but I don’t want you to be nervous.”
She shook her head. “That don’t s-seem like a g-g-good idea.”
“Okay.”
And with that, she turned around and waddled out of my office, slowly, sobbing slightly every now and then. With her went that sloshy, black trashbag and with them both went that putrid aroma of filth and squalor. I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the door click shut.
She never called me back.
It was a week later that I finally got around to having drinks with my colleague from downstairs. We were relaxing, having a couple beers, and I suddenly remembered her.
“Oh, thanks by the way.” I said.
“For what?”
“For Amelia.”
“Who?”
“Amelia. Eating disorder? Last week you sent her up to me, remember?”
“Oh, right.” he sipped his beer. “The one who got stuck in the elevator. How did that go?”
“She was a wreck.” I said. “Sobbing and practically hysterical. I talked her into rescheduling, but she hasn’t called me to make an appointment.”
“Did you talk to her mother?”
“No, I didn’t get any information from her. I gave her my card.”
“What did you think?” he asked.
“Classic food dependency.” I said. “Definitely a binge eater. Her face was just all--”
“No, not the mother, I mean Amelia.”
“What?”
“What did you think of Amelia?” he said again.
“I’m telling you what I thought.”
“Amelia, the scrawny twelve year-old girl, you think is a binge eater?”
“What? No, that’s not--”
And then it hit me.
“Was her mother with her?”
“Yeah, I sent them both up to you.”
“They were in the elevator together?”
He looked at me, and the same dawning realization came over his own face.
Needless to say, she never rescheduled. Amelia D-something. Nor did her mother: the nameless, obese woman I met that day at the elevator, smelling like death, covered in gore and carrying her trash bag of sloshing leftovers.
Source.
Tuesday 16 July 2013
Jordan is typing... (part 1)
I don’t use Facebook a lot. At most, I may check my page about two
times a week, if that. Recently, my best friend from college had a baby
and I’ve been trying to follow the pictures and updates, so I’ve started
to use the site a bit more.
A few days ago, I was talking to my friend on the chat. Bored, I was browsing through my contacts with the little green dot beside their names. Most of them were people I had known from high school, the small few I had picked up during college, and the even smaller group I worked with. There was one name that stood out to me, though. Jordan.
I knew Jordan from my freshman year of college. We were in the same history class. Through the course of the semester, we became fast friends. During our time in undergrad, the two of us slowly drifted apart. At the end of last year, however, Jordan was killed in a car accident. He was a great guy.
When I saw that his profile was online, I didn’t think much of it at first. I had a cousin that passed away a few months ago due to cancer, but his wife keeps his profile up for some reason. I think she’s still grieving the loss.
I clicked on Jordan’s name, and immediately I could see a small message history we both shared from over a year ago. His profile picture was of him wearing a birthday hat at my ex-girlfriend’s party. I’m pretty sure he was drunk.
The last message I sent him was from April 6, 2012:
“I’m going to bed….talk to u tomorrow.”
But I didn’t. Even though Jordan and I became estranged, we still had lunch when we could and kept up with each other via Facebook. But life took over. I graduated last May and moved out-of-state to take a job. Jordan stayed behind, and he died in December just after Christmas. I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral.
As I scrolled through our messages, small font appeared at the bottom of the chat window:
“Jordan is typing…”
My heart skipped a beat. I thought maybe I was imagining it, but I heard the message alert sound. I watched the text appear.
“Jordan: Hey”
I froze. My brain went into overdrive. It took me a moment to get my fingers working.
“Me: Who is this?”
Jordan began typing.
“Jordan: its me lol”
My pulse was racing.
“Me: Who? Is this Jordan’s sister?”
There was a pause.
“Jordan: It’s me man”
Jordan was typing.
“Jordan: how are you doing?”
I went to Jordan’s profile to make sure that it wasn’t spam. The only thing I saw were posts from Jordan’s friends from a year ago, saddened by his death.
A new message popped up.
“Jordan: u still there?”
I clicked out of the window and stared at my computer screen for a few moments. After thinking about it, I opened the chat window back up.
“Me: is this someone who has hacked Jordan’s profile?”
“Jordan: no its me lol”
I thought it over.
“Me: prove it.”
For a few minutes, the chat was silent. I thought that maybe I had spooked the person enough to get them to leave me alone.
Then a new message appeared.
“Jordan: in our history class freshman year you had a crush on the girl sitting in front of us but u were too scared to talk to her so you tried to invite her to a party and she said no. you swore me not to tell anyone and I didn’t…”
I almost threw my computer out the window. There was an icy chill that stabbed me in the gut. Jordan was right; I swore him to secrecy in the face of my brutal rejection, and he never told anyone. As far as I know.
“Me: You’re lying.”
“Jordan: I swear I’m not.”
“Me: Jordan died.”
Jordan began typing. Then stopped. I waited.
Jordan never replied.
I unfriended Jordan’s account and put it out of my mind. Frankly, I was a little pissed that Jordan had actually told someone about my incident in history class after all.
That was a few days ago. This morning, I woke up to a friend request. When I opened it up, it was from Jordan’s old profile. I ignored it.
An hour later, (1) New Message:
“Jordan: hey…”
Getting pissed, I replied:
“Me: leave me alone or I will report you.”
“Jordan: it is me I swear”
“Me: Jordan died a year ago!”
Nothing. I was about to block him, just as the new message appeared:
“Jordan: yes I did…i need to tell u something”
Something about those words made me uneasy. I blocked the profile anyway and erased the messages.
A few hours ago, I was video chatting with a friend, when the connection started to fizzle out. Expecting it to be my webcam, I logged in and out and started it back up. When I did, the grainy screen took on a life of its own. I was staring at Jordan’s face. It was a pre-recorded message that I had never seen.
Jordan was sitting in his messy apartment. I could make out the ratty carpet I had spent many drunken nights on. There was a Christmas tree in the background.
“I know we haven’t talked much lately, Peyton, but I hope you get this.” My chest felt tight. Peyton. That’s me. My name.
“You’re probably off in the big city doing your own thing, and I know you’re busy, but you should come down for a visit—”
There was a crash off to the side of the screen. Jordan turned around. I watched his front door fly open. Jordan stood up. The video was shaking. It froze. Raised voices cut in and out. In pixelated frames, I watched a shadow enter Jordan’s apartment. Then the screen went blank and my webcam shut off...
Original post.
A few days ago, I was talking to my friend on the chat. Bored, I was browsing through my contacts with the little green dot beside their names. Most of them were people I had known from high school, the small few I had picked up during college, and the even smaller group I worked with. There was one name that stood out to me, though. Jordan.
I knew Jordan from my freshman year of college. We were in the same history class. Through the course of the semester, we became fast friends. During our time in undergrad, the two of us slowly drifted apart. At the end of last year, however, Jordan was killed in a car accident. He was a great guy.
When I saw that his profile was online, I didn’t think much of it at first. I had a cousin that passed away a few months ago due to cancer, but his wife keeps his profile up for some reason. I think she’s still grieving the loss.
I clicked on Jordan’s name, and immediately I could see a small message history we both shared from over a year ago. His profile picture was of him wearing a birthday hat at my ex-girlfriend’s party. I’m pretty sure he was drunk.
The last message I sent him was from April 6, 2012:
“I’m going to bed….talk to u tomorrow.”
But I didn’t. Even though Jordan and I became estranged, we still had lunch when we could and kept up with each other via Facebook. But life took over. I graduated last May and moved out-of-state to take a job. Jordan stayed behind, and he died in December just after Christmas. I wasn’t able to make it to his funeral.
As I scrolled through our messages, small font appeared at the bottom of the chat window:
“Jordan is typing…”
My heart skipped a beat. I thought maybe I was imagining it, but I heard the message alert sound. I watched the text appear.
“Jordan: Hey”
I froze. My brain went into overdrive. It took me a moment to get my fingers working.
“Me: Who is this?”
Jordan began typing.
“Jordan: its me lol”
My pulse was racing.
“Me: Who? Is this Jordan’s sister?”
There was a pause.
“Jordan: It’s me man”
Jordan was typing.
“Jordan: how are you doing?”
I went to Jordan’s profile to make sure that it wasn’t spam. The only thing I saw were posts from Jordan’s friends from a year ago, saddened by his death.
A new message popped up.
“Jordan: u still there?”
I clicked out of the window and stared at my computer screen for a few moments. After thinking about it, I opened the chat window back up.
“Me: is this someone who has hacked Jordan’s profile?”
“Jordan: no its me lol”
I thought it over.
“Me: prove it.”
For a few minutes, the chat was silent. I thought that maybe I had spooked the person enough to get them to leave me alone.
Then a new message appeared.
“Jordan: in our history class freshman year you had a crush on the girl sitting in front of us but u were too scared to talk to her so you tried to invite her to a party and she said no. you swore me not to tell anyone and I didn’t…”
I almost threw my computer out the window. There was an icy chill that stabbed me in the gut. Jordan was right; I swore him to secrecy in the face of my brutal rejection, and he never told anyone. As far as I know.
“Me: You’re lying.”
“Jordan: I swear I’m not.”
“Me: Jordan died.”
Jordan began typing. Then stopped. I waited.
Jordan never replied.
I unfriended Jordan’s account and put it out of my mind. Frankly, I was a little pissed that Jordan had actually told someone about my incident in history class after all.
That was a few days ago. This morning, I woke up to a friend request. When I opened it up, it was from Jordan’s old profile. I ignored it.
An hour later, (1) New Message:
“Jordan: hey…”
Getting pissed, I replied:
“Me: leave me alone or I will report you.”
“Jordan: it is me I swear”
“Me: Jordan died a year ago!”
Nothing. I was about to block him, just as the new message appeared:
“Jordan: yes I did…i need to tell u something”
Something about those words made me uneasy. I blocked the profile anyway and erased the messages.
A few hours ago, I was video chatting with a friend, when the connection started to fizzle out. Expecting it to be my webcam, I logged in and out and started it back up. When I did, the grainy screen took on a life of its own. I was staring at Jordan’s face. It was a pre-recorded message that I had never seen.
Jordan was sitting in his messy apartment. I could make out the ratty carpet I had spent many drunken nights on. There was a Christmas tree in the background.
“I know we haven’t talked much lately, Peyton, but I hope you get this.” My chest felt tight. Peyton. That’s me. My name.
“You’re probably off in the big city doing your own thing, and I know you’re busy, but you should come down for a visit—”
There was a crash off to the side of the screen. Jordan turned around. I watched his front door fly open. Jordan stood up. The video was shaking. It froze. Raised voices cut in and out. In pixelated frames, I watched a shadow enter Jordan’s apartment. Then the screen went blank and my webcam shut off...
Original post.
Friday 12 July 2013
Last Call
“Can you hear me?”
An old woman’s voice. Rushed, nervous, maybe even panicked. I thought it would be on of those calls.
“This is...”
She interrupted me.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Connor, can you hear me?”
Probably senile, I thought.
“Madam, I think you dialled the wrong...”
“Connor, please come down. Please come down. There is somebody at the back door.”
With every sentence her voice seemed to grow more panicked.
“Madam, you dialled...”
“Connor, he is at the door! He’s wearing a mask. I’m scared. Please come down.”
I pressed the ‘help’ button to call my supervisor.
She kept whispering something but I spoke over her, careful to increase the volume to ‘max.’
“Madam,” I said. “This is not Connor. But if you give us your address we can contact the police for you.”
“Connor, I’m scared.” She paused. “Oh, if this is you Elana, please tell your daddy to come down. This is your grandma. Please tell daddy to come down. Please, this is important. This is really important. Please send your daddy down. Tell him there is somebody here. Tell him that please, quickly Elana!”
My supervisor, a young man that went by the name Frazer, arrived and picked up the second set of headphones.
“Madam,” I said. “Please give us your address and...”
“Elana, please, please tell your daddy to come down. Please do that, okay? You know I can’t hear you, please just tell daddy to come down. Please, Elana! Please!”
The screen only showed her city, the local weather, and her name. Mrs. Ansh.
Frazer clicked the ‘caller ID’ button.
The sound of shattering glass rang through the phone.
“Oh god, he broke the door! Connor, he broke the door! Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you do something?”
A number from the other side of the country appeared on the screen. Below it, in red letters were the name and address of a frequent customer.
“Mrs Ansh,” I said. “Please lock yourself...”
I heard footsteps. She shrieked.
A door was slammed shut. A key turned.
Frazer pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and called the police.
“Connor, he’s inside now. He’s inside!”
I saw Frazer speaking into his phone.
The woman’s voice got more shrill.
“Why don’t you come? Please, why don’t you come?”
“Madam,” I said. “Please stay calm, we called the police for you! They will come soon!”
A loud thud.
Mrs. Ansh sobbed.
“Why don’t you come?” she whispered.
Another loud thud. It sounded like wood breaking.
Mrs. Ansh screamed.
Frazer set his mobile down and picked the headphone up again.
“The police will come,” he said.
“He’s in the house,” I said.
“I don’t have anything! Please, I don’t have anything valuable.”
Thud.
“You can have the TV and the jewelery and anything. Please, just...”
Thud.
“My son will be here...”
Thud.
“My son is strong, he knows how to fi...”
A thud. Then a loud crack.
“My son will hurt you! Go away! Leave me...”
Another loud crack. The sound of falling wood.
Mrs. Ansh screamed.
The sound of hollow plastic falling on a hard ground.
Static.
Frazer and I looked at each other with wide eyes.
Then the sound returned.
Her voice was now faint, distant.
“Please don’t hurt me. I don’t have anything.”
Slow, heavy footsteps.
Her voice was high-pitched, almost cracking.
“Why do you do this? Why?”
A loud smacking sound followed. Mrs. Ansh screamed. Something soft and heavy hit the floor.
For at least three minutes there were only three types of noises:
Sobs, thuds and, after every thud, something between a moan and a scream.
Then the sobs stopped.
Then the moans stopped too.
A male voice.
“Why?” he asked.
Then he laughed.
Frazer and I were frozen in place.
“You really ask ‘Why?’”
Another thud.
“You overstayed your welcome in this world.”
Thud.
“You ruin my every day and night with your goddamn helplessness.”
Thud.
“I have to do everything for you. And what do I get in return?”
Thud.
“Elana likes you more than me.”
A louder thud was followed by the distinct sound of shattering bones.
He laughed.
Then footsteps slowly walked away.
Original Thread.
An old woman’s voice. Rushed, nervous, maybe even panicked. I thought it would be on of those calls.
“This is...”
She interrupted me.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Connor, can you hear me?”
Probably senile, I thought.
“Madam, I think you dialled the wrong...”
“Connor, please come down. Please come down. There is somebody at the back door.”
With every sentence her voice seemed to grow more panicked.
“Madam, you dialled...”
“Connor, he is at the door! He’s wearing a mask. I’m scared. Please come down.”
I pressed the ‘help’ button to call my supervisor.
She kept whispering something but I spoke over her, careful to increase the volume to ‘max.’
“Madam,” I said. “This is not Connor. But if you give us your address we can contact the police for you.”
“Connor, I’m scared.” She paused. “Oh, if this is you Elana, please tell your daddy to come down. This is your grandma. Please tell daddy to come down. Please, this is important. This is really important. Please send your daddy down. Tell him there is somebody here. Tell him that please, quickly Elana!”
My supervisor, a young man that went by the name Frazer, arrived and picked up the second set of headphones.
“Madam,” I said. “Please give us your address and...”
“Elana, please, please tell your daddy to come down. Please do that, okay? You know I can’t hear you, please just tell daddy to come down. Please, Elana! Please!”
The screen only showed her city, the local weather, and her name. Mrs. Ansh.
Frazer clicked the ‘caller ID’ button.
The sound of shattering glass rang through the phone.
“Oh god, he broke the door! Connor, he broke the door! Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you do something?”
A number from the other side of the country appeared on the screen. Below it, in red letters were the name and address of a frequent customer.
“Mrs Ansh,” I said. “Please lock yourself...”
I heard footsteps. She shrieked.
A door was slammed shut. A key turned.
Frazer pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and called the police.
“Connor, he’s inside now. He’s inside!”
I saw Frazer speaking into his phone.
The woman’s voice got more shrill.
“Why don’t you come? Please, why don’t you come?”
“Madam,” I said. “Please stay calm, we called the police for you! They will come soon!”
A loud thud.
Mrs. Ansh sobbed.
“Why don’t you come?” she whispered.
Another loud thud. It sounded like wood breaking.
Mrs. Ansh screamed.
Frazer set his mobile down and picked the headphone up again.
“The police will come,” he said.
“He’s in the house,” I said.
“I don’t have anything! Please, I don’t have anything valuable.”
Thud.
“You can have the TV and the jewelery and anything. Please, just...”
Thud.
“My son will be here...”
Thud.
“My son is strong, he knows how to fi...”
A thud. Then a loud crack.
“My son will hurt you! Go away! Leave me...”
Another loud crack. The sound of falling wood.
Mrs. Ansh screamed.
The sound of hollow plastic falling on a hard ground.
Static.
Frazer and I looked at each other with wide eyes.
Then the sound returned.
Her voice was now faint, distant.
“Please don’t hurt me. I don’t have anything.”
Slow, heavy footsteps.
Her voice was high-pitched, almost cracking.
“Why do you do this? Why?”
A loud smacking sound followed. Mrs. Ansh screamed. Something soft and heavy hit the floor.
For at least three minutes there were only three types of noises:
Sobs, thuds and, after every thud, something between a moan and a scream.
Then the sobs stopped.
Then the moans stopped too.
A male voice.
“Why?” he asked.
Then he laughed.
Frazer and I were frozen in place.
“You really ask ‘Why?’”
Another thud.
“You overstayed your welcome in this world.”
Thud.
“You ruin my every day and night with your goddamn helplessness.”
Thud.
“I have to do everything for you. And what do I get in return?”
Thud.
“Elana likes you more than me.”
A louder thud was followed by the distinct sound of shattering bones.
He laughed.
Then footsteps slowly walked away.
Original Thread.
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