Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to the channel.

And today we're getting into some horrifying Reddit horror stories.

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So comment down below if you'd like to see more long videos in the future.

And these stories we're getting into today are terrifying, weird, and like the title says, horrifying.

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And yeah, this video, like I said, it will be long enough already.

So without further ado, let's get into some horrifying Reddit horror stories.

There's something seriously wrong with my family's new home.

I knew something was off the moment I saw the place.

It turned out to be worse than I could have possibly imagined.

I first laid eyes on the House after my parents had closed the deal.

We've been driving through a fancy neighborhood that a rusty Honda CRV felt out of place in.

After a final turn, the house appeared at the end of a lane, far enough away from the other homes to feel somehow separate from the rest of the community.

It was tall and old, yet well kept, earning a vintage boldness that I appreciated.

Nestled into an Evergreen wood, it seemed like the last bit of civilization before a wilderness that stretched ever on.

That is our new house.

I gasped, leaning forward to poke my head between the front seats.

Taking by the majesty of it, I paid little mine to the locals who stared at us as we passed.

My dad chuckled heartily.

It is Ari, how I was only 17, but old enough to know that we couldn't have afforded such a place.

It was a steal.

My mom chirped, glancing at my father.

We got so lucky.

It's been how long, dear, that we've been house hunting?

Two years.

My dad sighed.

Well, patience does pay off.

My mom went on, gesturing at the house.

Wait long enough and search hard enough and you might just write gold.

Smelly gold that is, out of my dad with another torto.

I nodded acidly, gopping at the building.

I didn't need any better explanation.

I was in no position to complain.

That monument at the end of the lane was to be my new home.

I want my own room.

Exclaimed my younger sister Lena.

My younger brother Kai pouted a little at that.

She was 8 and he was 4.

They've been sharing a room since Kai was old enough to be away from our parents.

You'll have just that, honey.

Answered my mom.

Linus squealed in excitement, grinning ear to ear.

She couldn't have known that she'd soon come to regret this and never wish to sleep alone again in her life.

Things were fine for the first few days, as you'd expect.

The interior of the house was as old and proud as is exterior, and twice as spacious as our former place.

It was smelly though, as my dad had mentioned.

The sour reek that seemed to permeate the place was the main reason we got such a discount, my mom explained.

Our dogs, Chiefy and Miss Bear, loved it.

Even with their extra sensitive nose.

They were running up and down the halls barking all day long, unbothered by the stink.

They left plenty of dirt on the floors, drawing complaints for my parents.

It was unsettling when the dogs growled at the house come night time, but that was easy explained as the old building moaned and creaked plenty when the winds of the wilderness pushed against it.

The dog goes would need a week to adjust.

That was all.

The first thing that really rubbed me wrong was the way Kai was talking to himself in his room.

My brother and sister were in their bedrooms on either side of my own, and it was easy enough to hear them through the old woodwork.

Lino was singing along to the K Pop Demon Hunter soundtrack.

On one side, that was nothing new, but on the other side my typically quiet little brother was mumbling and I couldn't hear anyone else with him.

I didn't think much of it at first, but this behavior continued, and he'd even be talking to himself around the house.

My mom was the ones who confront him about it.

Hi sweetie, what are you saying?

Are you talking to yourself?

Kyle looked up at her, confused.

No, mommy, I'm talking to my friend.

Oh, creepy, I thought, smirking a little.

My mother tried a strange glance at my dad, one that meant more than I could have known, then turned back to Kai.

Well, who's your friend, Kai?

He shrugged, eyes fixed on the toy blocks he was stacking on the carpet.

I don't know.

My parents whispered to one another for a while after this, deliberating, and seemed to ultimately decide that it was OK for a boy of four to have an imaginary friend.

Fair enough, I supposed, and we carried on.

A week passed then, too, and still the dogs would not settle when it came to the houses creaking.

They would growl and even bark far too often throughout the night.

What really got to me was the time Miss Bear was sleeping at the foot of my bed and started growling seemingly yet nothing.

I couldn't hear any creaking.

It wasn't a windy night, but she was growling at the wall of my room the 1 shared with Kai.

Enough.

I hissed.

Miss Bear looked at me for a moment, then back at the wall and let out a sharp bark.

I opened my mouth to protest, but abruptly.

She yelled backing away, tail between her legs.

Her sudden fear shot my own feeling of EW creepy right up to oh fuck oh God oh hell no, what is a girl?

I whispered.

Miss Bare hackles were raised, her tail still between her legs, she maintained a low growl.

Then all at once she shot out of my room, veering towards Kai's door.

I jumped out of bed and followed her into my brother's room.

Kai was awake, he was sitting on his bed facing our shared wall.

It's OK.

He said to her dog.

It was just my friend.

I looked from Kai to the dogs chief, he had come as well to see what the fuss was about, then threw my hands up and left.

It was OK for a boy of four to have an imaginary friend, right?

The next day, on a whim, I took a closer look at the wall my brother and I shared.

I swung the curtains open to let in the daylight, then ran my hand over the wooden planks in the ivory paint that covered them.

I couldn't sense anything off.

There are a couple of paintings hanging on the wall, a dresser pushed up against it, and an air intake vent at its base.

Unsatisfied, I decided to lay my shoulder into the dresser and push it away from the wall.

The cool draft from the air vent caused goosebumps to break out of my legs as I peered behind the dresser.

It was subtle, but at the bottom of the wall, just above the baseboards, there was a stain.

It was old and brown, but might have once been red.

The stain ran down the walls and revolts as if a thick liquid had splattered there and dribbled down.

Scrunching my nose in disgust, I took a quick sniff.

The same sourness that the house was notorious for filled my nostrils, but nothing else.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, really.

Like I said, the stain was old.

It was probably nothing.

With an aggravated huff, I shoved the dresser back in place and got on with my day.

Later that day, I was in the living room with Lina, who was unusually quiet.

My mom was complaining to my dad that we were out of groceries again and that she was going to run at the store.

She asked Lina if she wanted to join her, and to both me and my mom was surprised.

Lina said no.

Once my mom had gone, I asked my little sister what was up.

You always go with mom, is everything OK?

She shrugged but didn't answer.

Hey, Lina?

I pressed.

What's up?

You can talk to me.

She slowly looked at me and said this house is scary.

Frowning, I asked her to elaborate.

For a time, she considered how to explain.

Finally, she said it feels like we aren't the only ones living here.

I explained to her that this wasn't true and that we just weren't used to living in such a large and old home.

She didn't seem all that convinced.

And why should she have?

The place was damned creepy.

The incessant creaking and moaning, the stink, the dogs always growling, Kai's awful imaginary friend, strange stains on the wall, hell, even the way the neighbors always stared at us was weird.

That night I woke to one of our dogs sniffing my feet.

This obnoxious new habit woke me up as often as the growling.

I assumed it was to deal with the small the fireplace.

It probably clungs my feet as I walked around during the day, and the dogs are infamous for sniffing, linking, and even eating anything that smells funky.

I pushed the dog back with my heel and grumbled.

Stop, go.

The dog, which I assumed was chiefy by the heavy footfalls, obeyed and left.

I was halfway sunken back into sleep when Lena's shrill shriek sent my heart into my throat and I scrambled out of bed, terrified that my sister had badly hurt herself.

Somehow.

This wasn't a little scream, it was the type of scream that you told you something was really wrong.

I was the first to enter a room, though I could hear my parents bumping around down the hall.

Lina.

I cried.

Are you OK?

She was sitting up on her bed, back against the wall.

The blanket scrunched up to her eyes and how bright those wide, petrified eyes were, even in the dark.

Lina whimpered something unintelligible.

I stepped closer, noticing that she wasn't really looking at me, but beyond me, at the corner of her room.

She whispered.

Someone's behind you.

I can hear my parents stumbling out from the room.

They weren't here yet.

I was petrified, nearly unable to move.

Lina kept staring past me, her eyes glistening in the gloom.

Slowly, I turned around.

In the darkness that dominated that corner of the room, I thought I saw the figure of I'm not sure what.

To this day, I'm not sure if I really saw anything or if I just imagined it, but I think it was a woman or a girl wearing no clothes and blood stain, faceless but for the shine of two piercing irises.

I screamed.

Lana joined me.

My father snapped the light on as he stepped into Lana's room.

The darkness is gone and with it they figure.

What the hell happened?

He bellowed in tandem.

Lina and I pointed at the corner.

My sister mumbled.

There there was.

There was someone in the corner.

I finished for her, my arm trembling.

As unsure as I am in hindsight of what I saw in that moment, I was not.

I was mortified.

As someone who had never believed in the supernatural, I found myself feeling it differently all at once.

My father frowned at the corner, which was unoccupied.

It was entirely normal, and except I noticed it then, old stains similar to those behind my dresser, low on the wall.

By then, my mom had joined us, and the look she shared with my dad sent ice down my spine.

Somehow, the expression on her face scared me more than even the thing I'd maybe seen in the shadows.

There's nothing, My dad announced after a moment.

Tyson, dear, My mom said.

My dad held up a hand as if to say don't.

He turned back to my sister and I.

Girls, it's normal to get spooked in a new house like this.

Happens to your mother and me too.

But don't let it get to you.

You here, it's just an old house.

It'll take some getting used to.

He gestured at the dogs, who had hurried in at some point amid the confusion.

Even these two get spooked here and there, It's normal.

We spoke a little longer, until Lina and I had calmed down a little, then decided to go back to bed.

Lina asked if she could sleep in my room.

I said yes, more for myself than for her.

She joined me on my bed and quickly drifted off, assured by her big sister's presence.

I lay there for a while, wondering how it was that Kai hadn't woken from the earlier screaming.

Then, just as I fell asleep, I thought I heard my brother in the other room speaking to his imaginary friend.

The next day we all carried on as though nothing had happened the prior night, though there was a tension in the way we moved through the house and spoke to each other.

Lionel was the worst of us in this regard.

She spoke very little and more concerningly did not play or sing along to her K Pop soundtrack a single time.

I was in the midst of mopping the floor.

The dogs had gone in that dirt stand again when the false normalcy of the day broke.

Kai approached my mother in the kitchen as she was chopping vegetables.

My dad had just returned from the store with two bags of groceries and was orbiting my mom as he unloaded them.

Kai Toffley said Mom.

Yes, Hun, what is it?

Can we go back to our old house?

My dad seized his motion, facing away but listening keenly.

I did the same, pausing with the mop pushed halfway across the landing.

Mom looked worriedly at Kai.

Why do you want to go back, sweetie?

I don't.

I don't want to talk to him anymore, Whispered Kai.

A horror passed over on my mother's features.

It was the same expression that had shaken me the night before.

My father placed his hands on the countertop, bowing his head and letting out a long, grizzly sigh.

Shit, he muttered.

Tyson, my mom, Murberg.

We ought to discuss this with Ari.

At least she's old enough she's ought to have a say.

I dropped them off with a clatter and rushed into the kitchen.

Have a say about what?

I demanded.

Damn it, my dad said.

Kai, buddy, go watch a show with lineup, will you?

But Kai started.

I'll answer your question soon, but I promise for now, go join Lina.

Somberly, my little brother obeyed.

A moment later, the rashest sound of SpongeBob SquarePants carried down the hall.

I looked at my parents and crossed my arms.

Ari, love, my dad started.

We weren't totally honest with you when we first moved in.

I frowned, waiting.

My mom said.

The smell isn't the only reason why we were able to afford this house.

She spoke as if the words hurt to say.

What are the reason?

I asked impatiently.

Dad's out again.

Something, something happened to the family who used to live here.

Something awful.

That image of the blood stained girl in the corner flashed through my mind.

I hugged myself, feeling the sting of tears at the back of my eyes.

I'll be blunt.

My dad continued, because there's no better way to say this.

The family who last lived here, they, they died.

They were killed right here, right here in this house.

I looked at a hand in my mouth.

The tears were here now, their warmth running down my cheeks.

Tyson, tell her the whole thing.

Mom insisted.

Damn it, fine.

My dad looked me square in the eyes.

The father of that family, he was the one who killed him, after which he committed S word.

I sank into one of the dining chairs, shaking.

I thought of the brown stains on the wall, how they looked like they had been once Crimson.

And you bought this house anyway, I cried.

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, dear, my mother said.

Then she added, though perhaps it perhaps it was a mistake.

No, rebuked my father, there's nothing wrong with this house.

It's a little creepy, a little creaky, but that's it.

Living here still a once in a lifetime opportunity.

And that was the end of it.

For the moment at least, my dad refused to entertain the notion that our wonderful new home was haunted.

And honestly, I wasn't quite there yet myself.

Again, I'd never believed in that sort of thing.

And the girl I thought I saw, I could have.

I could have imagined it.

My sister told me there was someone there.

When you look into the dark, often you'll just see what you're expecting, or worse, what you're fearing that that doesn't make it real.

So we carried on.

Kai was told to ignore his imaginary friend.

Lina needed a few days, but eventually she got back to her K pop demon Hunter's obsession.

The dogs even settled down somewhat.

Nothing else would happen for a while that suggested her house was haunted, and I tried my damnedest not to dwell on the fact that a family had been murdered within my home's walls.

At least I finally understood why the neighbors got that us so much.

What sort of family would want to live here, they were surely thinking.

The peace we maintained for a while was broken by my brother's crying one day.

Despite Kai's age, he was not one to cry easily.

So when I heard him weeping and I sent my textbook and notes aside and went to check on them, I knocked gently and opened his door.

He was sitting on the floor in the middle of his room with his legs crossed, crying into his palms.

Haya Kai, I said, approaching him and kneeling.

What's wrong?

Did did something happen?

Kai's lower lip quivered as he spoke.

He came back.

My stomach sank.

Who came back?

My my friend, He started, but hesitated.

That the scary man?

I thought he was your friend?

I asked, as confused as I was frightened.

No, no, no, no, no.

Kai whimpered.

He's bad.

I looked warily around the room.

Swallowing.

I asked my brother.

Where did you see this man Handshaking, Kai pointed at our shared wall, and I quivered.

As I looked at it, It was much like my side.

There was a small desk pushed up against the surface of wooden planks, painted ivory white.

A couple paintings hung on to it, and an air vent was built into its base.

There was no brown staining that I could see here, though.

Mercifully, I saw it as I hugged my little brother.

It'll be OK.

I fumble.

Unsurprisingly, Kai did not seem assured.

I tried again.

Hey, do you want to, do you want to sleep with me tonight?

His eyes lit up.

Really.

Yes, really?

I answered with a smile.

I hadn't invited him into my room much in the past couple years, and seeing how much it meant to him, what warmed me, it made me feel a little bad.

That night he pranced into my room, pillow clutch in his arm.

close the door, I told him with a smirk, or Chiefy is going to be licking our feet tonight.

We got cozy in bed and I read him a bit of his book he loved about a boy and a dragon.

Once we were done with that, I asked him if you wanted to tell me anything about his former friend, the so-called scary man.

He pouted and shook his head.

Fair enough, I thought, regretting that I'd even asked.

I shifted the subject to one of his favorite shows, earning back his precious smile.

We spoke for a while about similar things that brought him comfort, and eventually he dozed off after tucking them in, and I got back to studying for another hour and then turned off the bedside lamp and went to sleep.

It was a few hours into the night when one of the dogs started sniffing my foot.

I was mildly aware of that in this state of half sleep and tried to ignore it.

Then the hound started licking, making it impossible to shrug off.

Stop.

I moaned, nearly delighted now an involuntary giggle at the tickle of the tongue on my sole foot.

Cut it out.

Go.

The dog listened, panting for a moment longer than stepping away.

I was starting to drift back to sleep when I remembered that I had asked Kai to close the door earlier, specifically so the dogs wouldn't get in.

Abruptly, I sat up.

My heart quickened as I turn to look at the door.

It was closed.

I swung off the bed, taking care not to wake high and whispered.

Chiefy Miss Bear are you in here?

There was no response, there was no dog.

I stood in the middle of my room, heart hammering, unsure what to do or think.

I lifted my foot and felt it, it was damp but then I was sweating.

Surely that's all it was, a little sweat on my foot, the sniffing and licking with a.

It was a weird dream, that's all.

I'm too old to be getting spooked like this, I told myself, frustrated.

I got back into bed with a huff and tried to get back to sleep.

It took some time and as I laid there I thought I saw a figure standing in the shadows past the foot of my bed.

A blood stained girl.

Perhaps I'm too old for this.

I repeated, exhausted and frustrated.

Stop imagining things, Ari.

I turned away and closed my eyes.

The following days were normal.

Thankfully, Kai went back to sleeping in his room and didn't have any more visits from the scary man.

I didn't have any more creepy foot dreams.

And As for the aberrations I continue to see in the shadows of the house, well, once I smartened up and saw them for what they were, figments of my childish imagination, they bothered me less.

Life carried on.

A few normal days turned to weeks in the surety of that routine.

I couldn't have known that the worst of my family's ordeal was yet to come.

I couldn't have fathomed just how dark this home's secrets truly were.

The turning point arrived during one of my daily walks.

Chiefy and Miss Bear were pulling on their leashes like usual, propelling me down the street when I caught one of the neighbors staring at me.

He was out by his mailbox closer than I'd ever caught any of them.

They usually stared from their windows and porches.

The calm weeks had made me confident my family's choice to purchase the house, and so I let my anger get the better of me as I glared back at this man.

Excuse me, Sir.

I called.

He glanced at me the way a child would look at a ghost.

Yes, you and others in your home are always staring at us.

It's rude and exhausting.

What is your deal?

He fidgeted with the letters he drawn from the mailbox.

Uh, well.

He mumbled, then after a moment he looked up, seeming to gather his resolve.

Call it rude, but we can't help but wonder what sort of folks would want to buy a house like that.

The dogs were restless.

Sit, I commanded.

Sit and stay.

As I met the man's gaze again.

I said.

What sort of folks you ask?

The sort who aren't taken by superstition.

I smiled, inwardly pleased with my delivery.

The man made a face halfway between a frowned and a grimace.

Superstition, He managed.

You do know what happened in that house, right?

I told them, my chin up and answered without hesitation.

The father killed his family.

Horrible, no doubt about it, but not any reason to pass up on a once in a lifetime deal.

Unless you're superstitious that is.

The father Whispered the man.

His eyes widened and he looked over my shoulder at the house.

What?

I demanded.

You don't know.

He said under his breath, his worried gaze falling back onto me.

I don't know what chief who pushed his head into my leg.

Miss Bear whined a little.

The man explained.

There was a lot of confusion when the when the when that horrible thing happened to the family who lived there.

The official reports claimed the whole family had died because that was the convenient conclusion for the investigators.

But that was only a rotten bit of negligence and cowardice.

He swallowed.

The truth is that the wife and the two children were butchered and the father was never found.

Thoughts laced in fear raced through my mind.

My dogs continued to whine.

Bastard got away.

Continued the man.

No one knows where he went.

All of us around here upped our security after, you can bet on that.

Reinforced windows and doors, alarm systems, cameras, the whole suit.

And then comes along a seemingly nice little family eager to move into that God forsaken place.

Imagine our shock.

He shook his head.

Call it rudeness, but you can't quite blame us for gawking, can you?

I licked my lips, which stung with dryness.

Where, where did he go?

The man shrugged.

Like I said, no one knows.

Then he looked around as though he was expecting an ambush.

Leaning closer, he whispered.

Sometimes, though, our cameras catch footage of what looks like a ragged man ambling around the shrouded dark of the neighborhood.

You've shown this to the police?

I asked.

Of course.

We've done all we can to get the investigation reopened.

It was a terrible thing those investigators did, but all our efforts fell on deaf ears.

I glanced over my shoulder at the house.

My parents had gone out for groceries again.

Kai and Lina were home alone.

I, I have to go.

I cried and started running back home.

Was the man lying?

Were my parents the ones lying?

I tried to make sense of it as I ran back, and slowly, in the depths of my intuition, A suspicion began to form.

I burst through the front door, calling out for my siblings.

They appeared a moment later, confused and a little scared.

Stay with me.

I told them to stay close.

I LED them up to Kai's room and asked him to show me where the scary man had been.

As he lifted his arm to point, nausea swept over me.

He wasn't pointing at the wall, he was pointing at the vent.

I should have called the police right then and taking my siblings over the neighbor's place, but a delirious need to know took hold of me without me having much say in it.

I lurched towards the vent and grabbed it by the sides.

I pushed and pulled.

It didn't budget.

I pushed harder.

Suddenly a groan passed through the wall and the vent gave way.

No, not only the vent.

A square section of the wall went inward, about 3 feet wide and tall with the vent at its base.

Cobwebs and dust puffed out.

What I thought was a solid wall separating my room and my brothers turned out to be a gap wide enough for someone to squeeze through.

A sour reek wafted from the place.

Stay here, I told my siblings, and in my delirium I called through the opening.

Laina and Kai protested, but I waved them off.

I shimmied along the space and tells behind the vent leading into my own room.

I pushed hard, and as I expected, the wall gave way, another crudely cut square open to my room.

Peering out from there, the first thing I saw was the foot of my bed, and I imagine my feet poking out from the edge as I slept.

A sign sound carried from the far end of the crawl space.

I froze in place, listening.

The sign was mixed with a sort of humming it wet.

It grew louder, a slow rolling noise, feeling as though my heart would burst from my chest.

I slowly twisted my head.

It was awfully dark at the far end of the gap.

I squinted into the shadows till I could make out a solid, a vertical line in the dark.

The end of the wall, a corner where the crawl space turned and continued out of view.

The sound became more excited.

I leaned forward a bit, just a bit narrow in my eyes, trying to make sense of what I saw.

Half a face picking out from the corner, one bloodshot eye, pallid withered skin, a twisting unnatural grin of rotten teeth, a scraggly Bony hand clutching the wall.

The creature that might have been a man started to laugh again.

Ho ho.

I screeched as I threw myself back in a Kai's room.

It was such a scream that my throat would hurt for days to come.

I grabbed my siblings hands and ran downstairs.

The ugly walls and furnishings of the house passed me by in a blur.

That horrible laughing chased us all the way, and I swear I heard scurrying footsteps in our wake.

We burst outside and ran straight to the neighbors.

No creature followed us there that I could see with the neighbor's phone.

I called the police and then my parents.

Within 20 minutes, our lane was crammed with emergency vehicles, dozens of lights flashing the late afternoon dim.

We didn't know.

Ari, I swear, insisted.

My father, the realtor, told us.

They all died.

My family and I were standing huddled by our car, waiting anxiously as the authorities searched our house.

Well, they didn't, I snapped back.

I saw him.

My mother covered her face with her hands.

My father shook his head, cursing to himself.

Sometime later, one of the policemen approached us, wearing a grim expression.

Whoever your daughter saw, he said to my parents, is gone.

The house is empty.

That said, your daughter definitely did see someone, my mom wailed.

My dad just stared.

Follow me, the policeman said.

You'll want to see this.

Mom stayed with the kids while my dad and I went back into the house.

The cop LED us into an opening on the main floor, much like the ones I discovered upstairs.

The passages on the floor grew wider.

Danker.

Moist dirt.

At least I hope it was.

Dirt squelched under foot and I finally understood why our floors were always so muddy.

The spaces between the walls eventually led to a cave of sorts dug out of earth below the house.

There were used up cans of soup, beans and soda, and rotting bits of meat and fruit laying all about the place.

With that, I finally understood why our groceries were so quick to run out.

And the sour reek.

It reached its pinnacle here, in this atrocity of a den hidden beneath my house.

The father would slain.

His family had not died.

He had lived on here in this cave, leeching off of and tormenting my family.

I thought about everything my family and I experienced leading up to that moment and shudder, nearly vomiting right there.

We moved out immediately, not only to a new house, but a new city.

We have reinforced windows and doors in our new place, and we watch anyone who passes by our house the same way our former neighbors used to look at us.

But it's not enough, because the man who had haunted us was never found.

He is still on the loose today.

The five of us live as though we're waiting for that thing to reappear.

We try to lead a normal life, but Kai continues to imagine the return of his imaginary friend.

My mother checks our pantry in fridge daily, often freaking out thinking we're running out of food faster than we should.

My dad loses it anytime he spots even a bit of dirt on the floor, and I wake up in the middle of the night at least three times a week with that awful sense that something has been licking my feet.

My roommate is too normal and he's scaring me.

It's hard to know where to begin with something like this.

Start at the beginning.

Well yeah, no shit, that's obvious.

But how do you know where the beginning is?

Life isn't neat.

It isn't broken down into little plots with defined starts and ends.

It's one big message, choices and coincidences that merge and weave together to make what is normally a very boring story.

So I'll perface this by giving you what you need to know about me.

I'm not smart.

Ask anyone who knows me these days.

They'll say I'm reliable, responsible, personable, and lots of other ables and ables that mean nothing.

But I've been very stupid at times, made some very dumb mistakes and choices that I still pay for, but I'd say nearly everyone has at some point.

So second, I want you to know I'm not a bad guy.

To say I'm a good man would be a stretch, I'll agree.

But I'm not cruel or unkind or even particularly hateful.

I don't even hate my mother, however much you might deserve it.

Anyways, here goes.

My roommate is normal.

That might not sound bad, almost sounds like a compliment even, but it's terrifying.

He's just left, gone to do something.

I really couldn't say, but it feels like when you're in the deep end of a pool and come up for air, or when you've been lost in the woods for hours and just found a trail you recognize.

It's that kind of relief.

And all because this guy is seriously screwing with me.

Somehow.

No one notices him.

He just blends in.

And yet he's ruining my life.

Let me rewind to this particular story's beginning, as all stories probably should, except the Super weird or time travel related.

It was summer a month or so ago.

I had just been promoted to a full time job, assistant manager of a Whataburger.

I was hoping to finally follow in my big sister's tiny shoes and find a place of my own moving out of her spare room.

I live in a pretty big city, not Austin or Dallas or anything, but big enough.

Rent is pretty crazy if you want to own your own pad that isn't in a ghetto or between 2 crack dens.

I found the perfect place, about a 20 minute drive for my Whataburger.

Not too central, but central enough, $770 a month, 2 bedrooms I could survive just but in the long term I need a roommate going halves on that and I'll be able to save, invest, that sort of shit.

So I hit up social media, tried to find someone to fill my gap.

Didn't take all that long, maybe a week or two screening out of the weirdos.

My cyst helped me vet the guy.

His name was M26, same as me.

Worked an entry level white collar type office job somewhere in the city.

Typical hobbies.

Didn't smoke, drink or do drugs which was good for me.

We decided to meet him.

My sis Jen came up towards the end of my shift.

It was nearly three in the afternoon so playing quiet and we mostly just shot the shit while I wiped a few tables and looked busy.

Not that the main manager was in.

Then he came.

I'd said I finish at 3, so maybe come around then.

And I could swear the moment that the clock struck 3, he came through the doors.

We recognized him from the app we found him on.

I can't remember what exactly it was now.

Either way, neither of us found anything odd then When we first met Mike, he was civil, good posture, fairly well spoken, with a normal smile, sets in a normal face.

What did you think?

I asked Jen, She shrugged.

Better than a crackhead dude seems normal.

What did he say he does for fun again?

I could remember then and I sure as hell have no idea now.

He only walked out maybe 10 minutes ago, but if you asked me for the specifics I think I'd struggle.

He had one of those faces like an extra from an old TV show.

The kind of guy who's there somewhere in every episode but you never even notice until someone points them out.

He just blends in.

He isn't ugly and he isn't handsome.

He has no notable scars or marks, and if you put a gun to my head and really force me, I'd guess his hair and eyes were brownish.

But I wouldn't want to be in a position where I'd stake my life on it.

For the first week or so he was great.

Well, average.

He normally cleaned up after himself OK and wasn't too loud.

We didn't really talk, didn't hang out at all.

He just didn't seem the type.

He had his life and I had mine, or so I thought.

My job involves some pretty long hours.

The head manager of my restaurant is also the franchise.

Mr.

Dixon, or Dick as we all call him.

He takes what he calls a hands off approach that means he's basically never in and I'm stuck doing almost everything.

Some days I work as long as 12 hours.

I don't mind though, keeps my mind off things and the overtime pay is pretty sweet.

Most mornings Diggle stick his head and it's many chins in the door and say something's come up.

I got to go downtown.

You got this, champ.

Sure, I'll say good man, good man, keep this up and you'll go far and that'll be the last I see of them.

Sometimes he might turn up at close, grab a diet Doctor Pepper and sit there sucking at it while we shoot the shit and I sort the kitchen.

On a Saturday night he might occasionally take me to some bar, catch a game or something.

He always pays too.

I don't mind.

I kind of like the responsibility.

If you've never worked in fast food, it's pretty tiring.

Physically, you're on your feet all day keeping track of 100 things at once.

As a manager, I should probably be doing more well managing, but invariably at least one or two of the high schooler stoners we employ won't show, so I have to jump on the grill.

It's fine.

Makes me tired enough I can just go home and collapse at the end of the day and don't have to think about anything too hard.

If I'm not working on Sunday, I might get out of my battered old Honda Civic and visit my sister.

She's got a good job receptionist at a fancy Golf Club about an hour South of town.

We don't talk to our parents much, not anymore.

It's always been US against the world.

When I was younger, a lot of my friends never really understood how I could be so close to Jen.

I heard all sorts of horror stories about siblings fighting, constantly stealing pocket money from each other, spreading each other's secrets all over school and that sort of thing.

I never got it.

My big sis was always the only person I could rely on.

I wish she was here now.

Everything changed a couple of days ago.

It was a pretty normal Saturday.

I left around 7:00 AM and Mike was already up, sat in the living room, eyes fixed on the TV facing away from me.

I'm heading out, I said as I pass through.

I'll be here, he replied, as always.

It was just after the lunch rush had been and gone and I was sitting pretty behind the counter talking with one of our new hires.

The moment the clock struck 3, there Mike was.

I don't think I even heard the door open.

It was a weird feeling.

One moment I'm talking with this kid, he's telling me saving for a car and everything feels normal.

Then there was this pressure, this feeling like the entire world is watching me.

I cut myself off, felt my hair is on my arms rise and there was this embarrassment, a gut wrenching sensation like when your parents have found your weed stash and you know you're about to have all your secrets laid bare.

I turned and there he was, cargo shorts, white T-shirt, looking for all the world like the most average customer you could have.

And he was staring at me hard.

So I pushed down that feeling greeted him as warmly as I could muster, being that he is my roommate, and took his order.

He did nothing and it was the most intense moment of my life.

He ordered normally, a double meat meal.

The kitchen beeped and employees moved around me and I was stuck, Trapped like a deer in the headlights as my roommates continued to stare at me.

A cold sweat ran down my face in my arms and I blurted out the rest of my lines, telling him to wait by the side, but I'm pretty sure I jumbled it all up.

The beeps from the kitchen drowned out everything but the blood rushing in my head.

He moved over though, never taking his eyes off me.

I was shaking as I packed up his box, keeping my head down, looking only into the sauce trays under the counter.

I couldn't bring myself to ask which he wanted, so I just threw a few of each in.

Dick would kill me if he was there.

I was feeling dizzy, light headed, borderline nauseous as I handed over the box.

I didn't want to look, I really didn't, but I couldn't stop myself and I took a quick glance into his normal face.

His eyes burned and scalded my soul.

That embarrassment returned 100 times stronger, and those night terrors you have about being naked at school felt like nothing in comparison.

It was as if he could see every secret, every part of me being laid out like a dissected animal.

My heart beats so loudly in my ears.

Even the kitchen beeps fell away, and for a second I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out or something.

I'd never felt anything like it, never felt so known, so judged.

Just as I could take no more, he thanked me for his meal and he left.

My shirt was stuck to me, even with the AC on full blast.

I had to run to the bathroom, and I probably sat there for 10 minutes once I was done, just waiting for the shaking to subside.

When I came out, I went over to the kid who'd been at the counter with me.

Hey, you good man?

He said, giving me an odd look.

Yeah, sure why?

He shrugged and made a face.

You look kind of rough, dude.

You, you sick?

I shook my head, trying to place a reassuring smile on my face that probably came out as a grimace.

All good, just a just a little hot in here, don't you think?

The employee made a noise that could have meant anything.

Anyways, I started that guy who came in just now.

He seemed, he seemed kind of off to you, huh?

He looked perplexed.

Which guy?

I tried to recall anything visually that stuck out about him, but it was like trying to find words to describe the taste of water.

That, that guy right now, the, the cargo shorts, white teeth.

You're right here with me, man.

I said, trying to keep the edge desperation out of my voice.

The employee's eyes flicks with recognition.

Oh, oh, that guy.

Nah man, he's, he's even normal.

I barely even noticed him.

Why I struggled to find anything to reply with, I don't know.

He was almost like too normal, you know?

The new hire just looked puzzled.

Sure I guess I dropped it real quick.

It's like I say my roommate is just normal.

It's a weird paradox.

He's so normal no one even seems to notice him but like that just makes him to normal.

It was that effect he had on me.

I'd never seen him before at home.

All he really did when he wasn't in his room was maybe watch TV or eat something.

Before.

Now, I don't think he ever really looked my way at all.

In fact, now that I think about it, he almost blended in with the beige wallpaper and the Gray couch.

I couldn't say I'd ever even noticed that before.

He was like a lamp or an unused chair that happened to pay half the rent.

By the end of my shift, around 10 that night, I was still feeling pretty shaken.

In fact, I wasn't feeling like going home, he was always in bed around midnight.

So when Dick turned up and hit me with that coming to the bar sport, I said sure, I'm sure you know the kind of bar it was.

FA wood paneling on the walls, tacky neon signs, pool tables with ripped up felt, floor always slightly sticky and Creed blaring on the jukebox.

A real dive.

The sort of place Dick seemed to like, for some reason, couldn't even figure out why.

He had money, lots of it, but he seemed to like the dreary miasma of rundown bars.

Dick was spilling over his stool, gulping at his bud.

And I was nursing mine over the bar.

So anyways, he goes on.

I always wonder how you managed to stay thin.

I mean, I mean, shit, you build like a crackhead.

That elicited an ironic smile for me.

Just jeans, I guess.

Man, that got to chuckle out the big man.

Well shit, I don't remember the last time I fit in a pair of jeans.

I laughed along with him, but today's encounter was eating at me and a few beers had done a lot to loosen me up.

Hey look, Dick.

I began struggling to find what to say.

I had.

I had a real weird customer today.

Kind of freaked me out.

Dick's glaze expression snap serious.

Was it that damn tweakers always on the 16th the Dallas.

I told that fuck he weren't welcome since his last OD in the shitter.

No, no, it it wasn't a tweaker.

It was it was this guy.

He was like normal too normal you know?

No, can't say I do.

I kept pressing though what answer I wanted.

I didn't know he looked normal as hell, but he stared at me.

It was super intense, like he could see into my fucking soul.

But Dick's eyes were glazing over as he sank what was left of his beer.

I remember when the ladies gave me that kind of look.

Maybe you had a little crush on you?

And he started giggling.

I came back to my senses a few hours later, maybe 2.

AMI was staggering back towards the apartment.

I say that I was still drunk.

Just this part I can remember.

I assume I'd shared Dick's Uber and was only about a block away from the apartment.

The world was spinning and I was trying to keep upright whilst shuffling and vaguely the right direction.

I don't drink much anymore, not more than two beers usually, but today had shaken me and I'd pounced on that warm feeling that booze gives you.

Like everything's going to be fine and damn whatever comes tomorrow.

Tomorrow hit me as hard as I rounded the corner.

One minute I was in the reassuring embrace of a drunken stopper, then I was standing stone cold sober, looking at the unsuspecting 2 story building that was my home.

It was cold, I realized, despite my jacket.

Yet the sweat came anyway.

There was some sense, something prehistoric, primordial.

I knew I was prey, being stalked, watched by the ultimate predator, and I knew there was nothing I could do in the face of such overwhelming power.

He was watching me.

My roommate.

He was standing at the window, had been standing there maybe for hours.

I couldn't see him, not from this far, but I felt it with utter certainty.

The adrenaline was flowing, I could feel my heart banging in my chest, and I took a step forward, and another.

I was drawn in.

What the hell else could I do?

It was 2:00 AM, and that was my home.

Slowly, I kept moving forward, every atom of my being the sole focus of that presence I felt watching me.

There was that small, logical voice in my mind.

I'm surprised it was still there, thought it had died off long ago, absent as logic was from nearly all my prior decisions.

But still, a part of me said there was nothing to fear.

It's just a guy, a normal mortal man with a weird stare.

Now, as I said, I've been pretty stupid in the past.

I know what it's like to drive yourself into paranoia.

Some part of me wondered, as I staggered down the street, if I was just freaking out, If maybe I'd had something other than a beer and shots, if I was high.

But I knew I wasn't, and I know I was right to be afraid.

I didn't look up at the 2nd floor window when I approached.

I didn't want him to know I was scared.

But I could feel his gaze beating down on like the summer sun, could almost feel it singe my flesh.

I shuddered, but then I moved around from the side of the building and his presence left me towards the worn steel stairs.

Ascending them, caged by solid steel that rang under foot, I felt safer.

Next came the door, A plain white door, marked with a 3B and plain black.

I stood there, the automatic light throwing a sulphurish orange glow around me.

And in the middle of the door, beneath the plain glossy number, was the peephole.

I couldn't tell you how long I stood poised with the key, looking into the beady little hole.

It must have been 2 minutes.

Might have been two hours.

In some way, it was worse than the certainty of knowing he was watching.

Maybe he was on the other side, watching my warped form.

Or maybe he was already asleep.

Standing there, adrenaline leaching from my system, probably still way too drunk.

I made the decision, unlocked the door and entered.

The apartment was almost as I'd left it in that morning.

TV and PS4 were in their place.

The fan had been left on a jumble of wires.

Chargers in the router sat on their little end table.

Great couch with miscellaneous stains, fridge covered in tacky magnets from Jen's trips and old receipts.

Everything was normal except the window.

The window was open.

The curtains billowed lethargically in the night's breeze.

I stepped up to it and putting my hands on the sill, I could look out and see exactly where I'd rounded the corner and felt his gaze.

I could look and see how I would have been spotlighted by the street lamp.

I felt my skin crawl and I turned to look at my roommate's door.

It was closed and hopefully locked.

The apartment was still.

He either wasn't here anymore or else was asleep.

The day was starting to catch up with me, and all the tension and adrenaline have been draining since I came in.

I felt unsteady as I closed the door, drew the curtains, staggered through to my room, closed and locked the door as gently as I could, pushing the deadbolt home as quietly as I could imagine.

Then I collapsed on the bed.

The next morning I woke sticky, reeking, with a miserable pounding in my head and a mouth that tasted like crap.

I passed out without turning on my AC, and the hot Texan morning was doing a number on me.

I dragged myself from the salt crusted puddle I'd left, having taken my clothes off some point in the night.

A glance at my phone told me it was 1149 and I had 2% battery left.

Shit, I thought.

I put the thing on the charge and crawled through to my bedroom.

Luckily both rooms had their own, but I wasn't thinking about my roommate just then.

I quickly showered, rinsing away the grime of the stifling night and pissing while I was in there.

A quick brush of the teeth and I felt somewhat more normal.

close on.

I closed my hands around my door handle, determined to make some coffee and start my morning when yesterday hit me in a flash.

The encounter at the Whataburger and him watching me stagger home in an instant, I felt scared again.

Scared and angry.

What the hell was I so afraid of?

In the cold light of day, with an aggressive hangover and things to do, it seems silly to be terrified of my own damn roommate.

I unlocked the door with viciousness and grabbed my keys and wallet.

As I stepped out, I was greeted with blaring laughter from the TV.

Mike was there, facing away, ostensibly watching an old repeat of The Big Bang Theory.

His back was straight, unnaturally so.

He sat stiff and immobile.

Some character quipped in the laugh track erupted, but my roommate wasn't laughing.

He was statue like my roommate, unflinching at the laughter on the TV, sitting still as a taxidermy, not looking back at me.

I could barely bring myself to speak.

Hey, I got out, yes, He said, and for the first time it struck me how flat his voice was.

Not even emotionless, but flat.

As if someone had taken a recording and screwed with the levels and balancing and left a voice devoid of anything.

My mouth moved and no sound came out.

Some big punch line went off on the TV in the lav track, howled and shrieked, and my roommate didn't move or make a sound.

Look, I got out.

I'm going to be out for the day.

The hall of voice came back.

I'll be here.

That was what he always said, and for the first time it registered in my brain not as a friendly affirmative, but as a threat.

I all but ran out of the apartment.

I was in my shit box Honda and halfway down the street before I realized that I'd forgot my phone.

I was half tempted to turn around but decided I wouldn't need it.

As I was driving I realized I was still really pretty drunk, so I stopped for an early lunch at a Burger King.

Nothing good, just a double whopper with cheese and I felt that big slab of meats and bread like that plus a crappy coffee might help me sober up.

Whether it help me or not, I don't know.

I didn't crash on my way to Jen's place, at least once I'd arrived.

It was hard to knock normally rather than bashing the shit out of the door, but I restrained myself.

Now I'm kind of a scrawny guy, tall but thin, built as Dick said like a crackhead.

My sister is quite the opposite, short, a bit chunky and covered in tattoos.

I said hey, trying to not look too insane when she opened the door.

Hey yourself, you could have called.

She started.

I smiled and shrugged.

Forgot my phone had a crazy morning.

Right, You coming in?

Sue won't be home for a few hours anyway.

I nodded and followed her in.

It was nice, Jen's apartment.

Far nicer now that I moved out.

White, modern, minimalist besides for the amp and cables that strewn across the floor with a big kitchen and a huge TV we'd both pitched in for.

How's the spare room coming along?

I asked, trying to seem casual as I poked my head into the room I've lived in since I was 17.

It was barren, empty, all my crappy posters and other crap I'd left to long gone.

That hurt a little, like my sister had ripped a part of me out of her life.

Not that I could blame her.

It's coming, it'll be cool to have an office.

She said, coming over to peer in besides me.

I nodded.

Yeah, I'm sure Jen is more the creative type than me.

Her and Sue wanted the place to work on her music for ages.

It's just a hobby, really, but she's always talking about it, and she always needed a special place to work properly.

Back in high school, she never did any homework until our dad set up a little study area in a spare room.

So she said.

What's this visit all about?

I sighed hard, crossing my arms as I threw myself on her couch.

I sat for a moment, biting my lip as I tried to think of something to say.

There weren't any secrets between us, except maybe one of mine, but it was hard to frame it.

It's my roommate.

Oh, right, what's his name again?

I hesitated.

Mike, I.

I think.

Jen snorted.

You think some roommate you are?

Don't you talk with the guy?

No, no.

I looked at her, feeling embarrassment rising once again.

I'm scared of them.

Immediately, her expression sobered.

Why?

He's not into drugs, is he?

No, I started.

No, it's it's not drugs.

He's.

There's something just real off about him.

Off how?

Jen pressed.

Something we should tell the police.

I shook my head.

There's nothing to tell them.

His behavior is just strange as hell.

Was he snooking off in the living room?

No.

I took a breath.

Look, I never speak to the guy.

I don't even notice him.

But the other day he came into work and he stared at me.

Jen looked unsure.

Well, yeah.

You live together.

Not like that.

He he's scary, Jen.

Terrifying.

He came in and stared at me like he could see into my soul.

I watched her face fall at my words.

I saw the pity in her eyes, that sudden hard edge of accusation.

Are you on anything?

She asked my sister, my rock, and the one person I could trust.

She thought I was having a relapse.

It broke my heart.

People do stupid things.

It started in high school, my girlfriend at the time.

She got into it through her older brother's friend, and I wanted her to think I was cool.

Stupid shit.

I won't get into it here.

I've been clean for five years now, all thanks to Jen.

But her reaction made it all come back.

I talked longer.

I explained as well as I could, told her about last night, about this morning.

Finally she was coming around and he wasn't laughing.

He was just sitting there.

She asked.

Yeah, well, it was The Big Bang Theory.

I don't know anyone who laughs at that.

I kept my frustration buried, yeah, but he was just completely emotionless, not moving, not blinking.

OK, now I can see why you're freaking out of bed, she said.

Thank you.

I said sardonically.

What the hell should I do?

She leaned back into the couch, looking sidelong at me.

I guess I'll have to mediate.

What do you mean?

I mean I'll talk to him, figure out if he's got something against you or why he's so weird.

She explained.

OK, Jen, Thanks.

I'm glad you believe me.

It was a weight off my chest, having my sister back on my side.

She always was, even when my own parents threw me out.

She done a lot for me and here she was coming to my rescue again.

It's isolating, going through things alone.

Just having a single person to share these things with brought a sense of peace and security I've been missing for a day.

We've been talking for nearly an hour at this point, and Jen agreed to come back with me, talk to my creepy ass roommate, and help me sort all this shit out.

I was standing, grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter when I looked out the window.

What the fuck?

It slipped out of me, along with every shred of hope I'd gained since I left that morning.

What?

Said Jen, peeking around my elbow.

He was there.

The other side of the road, standing watching.

Jen tensed as she saw him.

He isn't moving.

She said, an edge creeping into her voice.

Nope.

OK, wait here I guess.

I guess it'll make it easier.

Jen said as she slung into her room, coming back out with her purse.

Makes what easier?

I asked as she began digging through all the receipts and crap in her bag.

Not laughing at shit.

Sitcoms I get, but no one stalks my little brother.

She merged from her bag with a spray bottle.

I blinked.

What's that?

She rolled her eyes at me.

Deodorant dipshit.

She only called me that when she was super pissed.

What do you think?

It's fucking Mace.

You're right, this guy's a fucking creep following you out here and now he knows where I live too.

She gave me a look as she strode to the door.

I'm sorry I ever doubted you, bro.

She said.

In that instant, a flicker of my old hope returned.

At least I could always count on my sister.

She stormed out the door in a fury, pepper spraying hand, shoulder set.

She might be short, but she could be terrifying in her own way at times.

My roommate, however, didn't move.

He just stood rooted to the sidewalk in front of the apartment block opposite, and he was still staring at me, not noticing 411 of protective older sibling marching towards him.

She was right on him when he turned, it was slow.

She was shouting, bringing up the spray can.

When Mike began to speak, he turned and looked at Jen and her shoulders fell.

I couldn't hear them, not from in here.

I had no idea what they were saying, but Jen seemed to fall inwards on herself.

Together, she and my roommates turned, facing me.

Mike kept speaking, and Jen looked down at her feet.

He put a hand on her shoulder, almost reassuring.

She dropped the can, and my gut dropped with it.

I have no idea what happened, what he said, but next thing I knew, Jen was coming back over.

Mace picked back up at the door.

She stopped, and I saw the tears on her cheeks.

Her voice wobbled.

Get out.

I couldn't understand what what's wrong with him?

Is he?

Is he going to let Jen points the pepper spray in my face?

Get the fuck out.

Never talk to me again or I'll call the fucking police.

My mind raced and I felt sick as she slammed the door on me.

With nothing else to do, I looked about the street but my roommate was gone.

I was shaking, probably in shock as I walked back to my car.

I was breathing hard, I didn't even know I was driving until I pulled into my parking spot just as the sun was going down in a big splash of orange.

What the hell did he tell Jen?

What could he have told her?

And why the fuck would Jen believe my weird roommate?

I couldn't make sense of any of it.

I shut my eyes and pounded on my dashboard, probably making the cracks and it worse, but I didn't care.

I tried to tell myself that it was an act, that Jen was doing something to get rid of Mike, I just needed to trust her.

But part of me knew.

There are mistakes I've made, ones I've only told Jen about, sure, and also one I've never told anyone.

If my roommate somehow knew it, if that's what he told Jen, I could see that leading to a reaction, but I couldn't see how he could know, or why she'd ever believe him.

I looked up on my apartment.

He might have already been back, probably was, but I needed my phone at least.

I figured that I might as well take all my crap, leave town for a few days until this is all sorted out.

I think I could sort shit out with Dick, not lose my job.

Besides, I was going to have to deal with Mike.

I came up, he was there, standing in the kitchen with his back to me.

It was like being in a room with a temperamental nuclear bomb.

I felt so tense.

I don't know if I was trying to speak, that'd be pathetic, but I kept my breathing shallow and stepped as lightly as I could across my room.

If anything, I think he kept turning, kept his back to me.

As soon as my door was locked, I grabbed my gym bag and stuffed it full of every piece of clean clothing I could find.

Then went toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant.

Then came a knock on my door.

I froze, heart smacking my ribs.

Then came his voice, still and terrible.

You want to leave?

It wasn't a question.

That wouldn't be a very smart choice.

It continued.

I wasn't sure what I could have done.

No words came to mind.

Everything was blank.

There was nothing I could do but listen to that still dispassionate, almost artificial voice.

You should have been honest with Jen years ago.

I clenched my fist, my teeth, my whole body tightened against my will.

It weighs heavily, the voice stated, so very heavy.

I felt hot, flushed, every muscle tensed as I sat and listened.

It's important to talk.

There was nothing I wanted more than to be somewhere else, anywhere.

I almost considered diving through the window.

It would be best if you confess.

I shut my eyes, willing my roommate to leave, to give me a chance to get to my car.

Then I will go now.

I have some things to see too, but I'm very willing to listen when you return.

The outer door slammed suddenly.

I jumped, almost cried out as all the tension suddenly bled away.

I have no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

He's been gone a while now and I finished packing my stuff.

I'm going to leave now, get as far as I can tonight, then I'll give Dick a call, sort out work.

Looks like Jen's blocked me on everything.

I guess I might have to go talk to my parents.

And now on to Part 2 of the story titled My roommate has turned my family against me so I'm going to kill him.

It's been a day, maybe two, I'm not sure anymore.

As soon as I'd finished writing my last bit, I'd grabbed the laptop, throwing all my stuff in the car and got as far as I could as fast as I could.

Some of y'all have said I shouldn't fear Mike, my weird roommates.

But you weren't there, trapped in my bedroom as he made his demands through the door.

You didn't see him destroy my closest relationship?

In a few choice words, he's a monster and he's trying to destroy me.

After the events of today, I've decided I'm going to kill him first.

I'm staying at some crabby motel about an hour and a half north, right up near the Oklahoma border.

I'm still not sure why I went north.

My parents have a house about 1/2 hour E, though I promised myself I'd never go back to them, that I'd stay away from this area as long as I lived.

But with Jen having cut me off completely, I guess my parents was the only place I'd left to go.

The conversation with Dick had gone smoothly, or so I thought.

I called him that first night when I stopped.

Hey, Dick.

Hey there sport, better not be calling out sick for tomorrow.

It's looking like we might have a no show.

Look man, I'm really sorry, but I'm dealing with some heavy personal stuff at the moment you know?

Dick's voice returned after a distant grumbling.

Well champ, that ain't exactly being a team player is it?

It's about trust.

If I can't trust, I cut him off.

Look Dick, my mind race looking for an excuse.

I don't want to do this, but it's my roommate.

He's, he's deep into some serious shit, a drug dealer or something.

He's tried to kill me.

I already called the cops, but I need to lie low for a few days.

I paused as I cast my mind About you say it's about trust.

Well, I trust you, Dick.

You can't tell anyone where I am or that I called you.

Just give me a few days and keep quiet and I'll have this all sorted out.

I swear, man, silence for nearly a minute.

Well, God damn sport.

There was a surprise in his voice, but no doubt Ali's through the phone.

Look man, I knew you had a rough pass when I hired you.

I know man, but I'm out of that life.

I haven't done anything wrong.

This new roommate has brought it all back down on me.

All I want is to work hard, be successful.

Like you, Dick.

The lie came with sickening ease.

There was a supportive edge to Dick's voice, almost a pride.

You've come a long way.

I dare say you're about the best assistant manager I've had.

You deal with everything.

I'll, I'll keep shit locked down here.

I sighed in relief, some shred of pressure finally letting me go.

At least I'd have a job to go back to when I sorted that out this nightmare.

Thanks, Dick.

That really means a lot, man.

I won't let you down anytime, son.

He said.

And thanks for choosing Whataburger.

And that was the end of that.

By this point it was nearly 10 at night.

Luckily there was a crummy diner still open just a few minutes walk down from the motel.

The land was flat and barren under the black shroud of the night inner space with the sickly amber glow of humming streetlights.

Nothing accompanied me on the walk.

Cars pass, occasionally heading through onto places brighter and less lonely.

No doubt a wind howled across the scrub land, and approaching the diner, I turned my head out of the wind and saw that opposite was a little church.

A humble place, just a brick building with a peaked roof and a big white cross on the side, lit by some floor lights.

It stuck out to me though, as I ducked into the empty diner and settled in a booth with peeling red vinyl on the seats.

Resting my hands on the sticky tabletop as I ordered.

There was nowhere to look but that church, standing by its lonesome on the wrong side of the nowhere highway, in an arid and unwelcoming part of the world.

I've never believed, not really.

My parents do, of course, but I was always more influenced by Jen.

Her aloofness just made the whole concept seem so childish.

Who needs stories and belief when you can just be sensible and life will work out?

When I was younger, I'll admit I wasn't sensible.

I made dumb mistakes to impress a girl and I lost her anyway.

Gained nothing but a few months in rehab and an end to my formal education.

We went to church, our family.

I've heard the sermon sat through Exodus in the Psalms when I was a kid, looking over to my big sis, arms folded in a smirk on her face.

It was reassuring.

It made the good book seem like nothing but a scary story to get little boys and girls to obey their parents and their preachers.

Now I wonder, all that stupidity I did, those regrets.

I have that secret.

The chicken tenders arrived lukewarm and under seasoned, dry as the arid waste around the diner.

I choked them down to the Diet Coke as I choked down my fears with cold reason.

If there's someone up there judging me, then that's his business and it's for later.

Maybe not much later.

I couldn't help but look back across the church and there he was, still as the grave, standing at the bottom of the cross like Longinus himself.

My roommate, he was watching me and it almost made me itch.

The Honda was parked at the motel, basically next door.

Just a few seconds Sprint.

It might as well have been on the moon.

I dropped a few crumbled notes on the table and bolted for the door.

If there have been anyone at the counter, they might as well have been invisible, so focused was my vision his.

Even across the street I could feel it, how our gaze was locked.

To describe his eyes as unnatural would be an understatement, like describing the fires of damnation as uncomfortably warm.

He could see me.

And with his scene of the body came the scene of the soul.

I felt exposed, like a hair in an empty field with eagles above.

My legs were carrying me backwards towards the motel, and he was just standing, Gray hoodie in cargo pants.

Most normal fellow you've ever seen, except those piercing eyes.

My calves touched something behind me and I was free, the connection broken.

I was in the parking lot of the motel, backed up against the bumper of my trusty rusty Civic.

And right then I felt I would have fallen to my knees and kissed the scuff spot where it's H badge had been stolen.

But I was still panicked.

Hurrying, I instead dove into the driver's seat and slammed it into drive.

As the two liter roared to life, I flicked on the lights and there he was, at the end of the motel parking lot, just after the speed hump and before the main road.

He was looking my way, still eyes fixed on me.

I didn't make eye contact, instead I focused on his mouth.

I couldn't hear it, but I could see it.

Confess, he said over and over again.

He was saying it as I dropped the parking brake.

Still, he said it as I shot down the parking lot, barreling towards him.

Confess, he said as I bounced high off the speed bump, momentarily lose inside of him as my headlights ramped up, and when the front end bounced down at nearly 50 miles an hour when I should have smashed into him and shattered his bones, he was gone.

I nearly understeered into the church as I speed off E out of town like a man being chased by the devil himself.

My parents lived in a big old ranch and I made the trip in less than 22 minutes.

It was dark, there was no one around, and I drove with my lights off just in case I was being followed.

Parking the Civic up beside my dad's F-150 made it look comically small.

The whole ranch had that effect.

A big three story house with a wrap around porch, the old stars and stripes hanging by the Lone Star of Texas, as typical as could be.

It wasn't an actual farm, hadn't been since long before my mom and dad bought it and moved in.

I had to sit there for a while, engine off, breeze rattling through the night, hands resting on the cracked old dashboard.

The lights were on in the living room, but the curtains were drawn.

I was reflecting.

Maybe he just dropped down next to the speed hump or threw himself aside at the last second.

There had to be a sensible, non mystical answer for all of this.

I was still reflecting when my phone buzzed.

11:54 PM An e-mail from Whataburger Corporate.

My heart was doing its rib beating routine as I read through the e-mail.

I was fired.

In short, panic started to fill me as I flicked through apps and there in my texts I found it.

A few messages I'd missed under the name Dickhead Boss.

10:22 PM Call me, it's urgent a few minutes later.

You lied to me champ.

Call me now.

Urgent.

A few minutes later, he's told me everything.

I've already called the police, told them all that crap.

He told me a minute later.

You ever show your face around here?

You're dead.

Thumbs up emoji.

Didn't mean to send that.

That was it.

That fucker had taken my apartment, my sister, and now my crappy job.

He wouldn't even let me eat bland chicken in peace.

I might have gone to my dad's house looking for help, maybe somewhere to stay, to plan, but this was it.

Clearly, my roommate wouldn't stop until he'd taken everything from me.

I was out of the car and halfway to the porch when the door opened.

There, silhouetted from the light behind him like some deficit phantom, was my overweight father holding a shotgun.

With a pang, I recognized it.

An old wood furniture Remington, My dad.

I picked it up for $70 not long before I was born, and I'd shot my first hog with it.

Jane called.

His voice growled as I looked up into the light, I struggling to adjust.

She said you might come.

Also said I shouldn't let you step a damn foot inside this house, that I should just call the police and be done with you.

He stood still as a rock shotgun across his chest, not quite as threatening as if he was pointing it at me.

Still a very nasty thing to do in front of your own son, though.

Yeah, not surprised things have gone to shit a little.

Dad.

He didn't move.

I don't know what she said.

I couldn't make excuses.

Wouldn't matter, you wouldn't believe me.

My dad lowered the shotgun at that, letting it dangle from one hand.

Heck no, it wouldn't.

I nodded.

What she think I've done this time?

No idea she was crying though.

I don't like it when you make my own daughter cry.

I shrugged, remembering which of us made her cry more, but I let it go.

Me neither.

I wish I knew what I did, my old man tense at that.

Can't remember you back on that smack.

I shook my head, wounded by the statement.

No, Dad, I haven't touched that shit in years.

Not any drugs, haven't had it so much as a beer in a few days.

My father finally seemed to settle, to deflate a little, and I saw how old he looked.

His beard, which I remembered as a big black bushy thing, had gone to Gray, and his eyes were haggard, face lined with 100 little wrinkles.

She said you were sober.

Told me that much, at least.

Besides, I can hardly imagine you driving all this way high.

What do you want?

We don't have any cash, so don't even ask.

It hurt a lot.

I'd come a long way, a really long way in the last five years.

I'd sobered up.

I got a job, stuck with it, made it to my counseling, and even moved out of my sister's and her girlfriend's apartment.

But my dad still just saw me as a drug addict looking for money for another hit.

My breaths came ragged and my cheeks stung the weather with rage or embarrassment or anger.

I had no clue I was a vortex of pain and rawness just then.

It took me a long, lingering while to collect myself, to gather some sense of composure.

I'm going away, Dad.

Far away.

I yanked out my wallet, showed him the wad of cash.

In here I'd withdrawn everything, every last dollar from an ATM on the way out of town.

It was at once an impressive stack, but also so little.

About 9000.

My whole Wharf, every scrape I'd saved over the years I've been fixing myself.

I don't need any money, Dad.

I just wanted to make peace with myself.

Say goodbye to the house, to Mom, that's all.

I almost believed my own lie as I said it.

Going to make a new life somewhere.

Head north across the border.

Maybe there was an edge to Father's voice.

We'll see.

He nodded and let me in.

Whatever the Bible might say on S word.

Clearly he thought I was already damned.

The house hadn't changed much, some polished wood floors and ugly green wallpaper.

My mother was sat in her old chair there in the living room, but I didn't approach.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Mind if I go say goodbye to my old room?

I asked.

My father is a lot of things, and in a lot of ways we couldn't be more different.

He's a homophobe who kicked out his own daughter, a man who used his voice or his strength to get his way, thought differing opinions equated to a lack of respect.

And of course, he was deeply devout.

But in one way, we couldn't be more alike.

My dad is a fucking idiot and being an idiot.

He nodded before settling down in his own chair in the living room, shotgun line by his feet.

On the third story were the three bedrooms, mine and Jen's left and right opposite each other.

I walked past, didn't even spare them a glance.

The master bedroom hadn't had a lock in my childhood, and that clearly hadn't changed as I let myself in.

The walk in closet was still on the right, and with barely 4 foot of that for my mom and dad Sunday best, the rest was dominated by the same massive 6 foot tall safe.

The last time I've been here, I've been on the cusp of the biggest mistake of my life.

This time I hope things would be different.

I'd come so far I would never fall back to what I've been.

That I promised myself.

The old digital keypad looked as it had nine years ago when I'd left this house, thinking that would be the last time.

As I went to type in the code, I realized what a long shot it was.

Surely my dad would have known someone had been through a safe.

Would he have changed the code?

1219 Jen's birthday, The idiot.

The safe clicked and I swung the door open.

There was my dad's other pride and joy.

Shotguns for birds, shotguns for hogs, AR fifteens, AR 10s, semi autos and lever actions of nearly every configuration.

Bolt actions from Winchester, Springfield, CZ, Tikka, Mauser and Ruger.

Some were new, others had served in wars long past.

Cartridges were piled high.

Boxes of everything from 12 gauge to 410, from 22 long to 50.

Browning, my father's hoard of ordinance, his shrine to his own Saints, John Moses Browning and Samuel Colt.

In many ways, I truly believe my father might be the most Texan man ever born.

More than 40 long guns.

And yet my head looked past them all.

On the door there was a rack, and on that rack was my dad's hands.

Guns in among his fancy and historical pistols, between a 1911 my great grandfather had carried in the war and a 44 Magnum of dirty, hairy fame, my hand was drawn to a single unassuming Glock.

There were other guns just as good, if not better, a couple of H&KS, A/C Z, but either my hand was moving on its own accord or some part of my mind, but had a very dark and ironic sense of humor.

I took that Glock 20, grabbed its polymer holster, a box of 10mm Spear gold dot ammunition and a couple of spare mags and quickly arm myself.

Felons are not allowed to own firearms in the state of Texas, but borrowing from family is something of a Gray area.

The inner waistband holster had the big gun even on my skinny frame, in my rear pockets and jacket had the mags and ammo well enough.

A quick peek in the mirror and I look no more suspicious than I normally AM to my father.

Back downstairs, I turned and looked at what was left of my family.

My father, big and Gray and angry, and my mother.

She'd always been a small woman in both stature, in character, but now she was practically skeletal, shrouded in a blanket the color of dirt.

Her eyes were sunken in her head, those big pale eyes.

She looked pathetic.

The last thing Janet said before she'd been forced out in the middle of the night was that my mom was a coward for Stain.

That Dad would suck all the life out of her.

Jen was right, like usual.

And my mom looks like more of an emaciated addict than I had ever been.

I wanted to pity here, but this was the woman who'd sat by her husband that had thrown out her children, driven away her side of the family, and shunned his own.

She could have left all that he was.

He was never physically violent, not to his family.

But no, she'd always been weak.

She was in a hell of her own making, and she could walk through the door at any time.

I don't hate her.

Worse, I feel nothing for her.

Goodbye.

The words came without feeling, without meaning, and I left.

As I was pulling the civet back onto the road, I glanced in the rearview mirror.

My stomach dropped and I'd have expected there was Mike, my good old stalker roommate, standing on the porch having an animated conversation with my father.

I turned out and was picking up speed as the first shots came from behind.

My dad at the edge of his fence was shooting at me.

I was already a quarter mile gone and picking up speed fast, and whatever birdshot or buckshot he had loaded was coming nowhere near me.

Still, it's an unsettling feeling having your own father shooting at you.

I noticed as well.

Mike was nowhere to be seen, and he hadn't come in a car or anything.

I would have seen it.

Whatever the hell he is, he has a date with the gold folks of spear ammunition and I wasn't going to keep him waiting.

It wasn't like I had anything else either.

Everything I'd ever worked for, whoever I'd had to rely on, had all been ripped away by my oh so normal roommate.

Thinking back, I'm sure it was Jen who picked him up in the 1st place.

There have been others who could have been my roommate.

Lots of them.

I remember more about them than Michael.

Anyway, there was a Chinese postgrad student, liked playing League of Legends.

Some European guy, must have been 6-7, just kept smiling and talking about how he liked American girls.

1/2 Indonesian half Jamaican, wannabe rapper.

He'd seem fun.

And who could forget some guy from Dallas who was convinced his grandfather had been the second gunman on the grassy Knoll.

All that was rushing through my head as I drove nearly aimlessly.

I'd taken right out of my dad's place.

Instead of heading back towards town, I was pressing into the wide expanse of North Texas.

At Barrington, I headed South, cutting through the wide desert plains under the lights of the moon and the stars.

Nothing but me, the road, and my memories.

At Pompa, nearly one AMI stopped at a Taco Bell.

It was the only place still open and they gave me a shitty look as they were closing in about 5 minutes.

So I drove on with my Crunchwrap Supreme Congolese in its wrapper and my Baja blast growing warm and diluted.

EI went, seemingly taking no notice as the world passed me by outside.

I couldn't tell you how I was feeling.

There was something tranquil about that night.

The road stretched on forever and it felt like I had all the time in the world.

And yet I knew now there'd be no escape.

Whatever was happening was beyond my ability to control or to understand.

Jen gets stressed when that happens.

She gets all anxious, starts biting her nails, picking at her hair.

I've never really been like that.

As I see it, you should only care about things you can control.

If it's something bigger than you.

War, politics, news, even workplace drama, you ain't the center of why care?

Maybe that's what made me so susceptible to drugs back in high school.

It was something I could do at that time.

In your life, when you have no control, no autonomy, no school or at home, drugs are a conscious decision.

It's a way of striking back at the man.

And then you're in the graves of addiction and your priorities get fucked.

Getting high isn't a choice, it's the most important part of your day.

School, hygiene, friends, It all comes in a very distant second, behind drugs, in the heart of the drugs, the further back those other priorities fell.

I stopped somewhere over the border in Oklahoma, some nameless patch of dirt on the roadside.

I ate my Crunchwrap and chugged my Baja Blast, and it was the best thing I'd ever eaten.

I've thought about this, about what's coming this morning.

Either I'm going to die or Mike is.

It's a good feeling having something that final to look forward to.

Every minute out here under the moon feels like an hour of bliss if I don't write anything else.

No, I'm dead and rotting in some nameless ditch somewhere in Oklahoma.

Part 3 in the post is titled My Roommate wants me to Confess.

Well, here it is in the post reads as follows.

A lot's happened.

I need to confess the police are already on their way, so I guess I should start today at its beginning.

I slept for a while the seats in the O3 Civic and recline it totally flat and it's not too uncomfortable unless you haven't showered in a couple days and have a safari land holster inside your waistband digging a Glock into your nuts.

Still, I must have caught some sleep because next thing I knew Don was streaming in through the windshield.

Somewhere in the nights on the 152, I passed into Oklahoma.

It was strange, but when you cross into another state, it seems like the scenery always changes, don't it?

The dusty, arid, endless expanse of Texas had given way to a new greenness, healthy grass and stands and cut pieces of Live Oak, all under a beautiful virgin sky.

Under the impression I was heading towards my death, I sat for a long while just taking in that golden majesty that struck the scattered clouds, burnishing them into a silver gleam.

I love that sunrise.

It still might be the last I see.

Eventually I knew I had to go on.

It was a long drive.

I turned N at a nameless crossroad onto the 283.

I stopped in Cheyenne for my last breakfast as a free man.

A little diner, can't even remember the name.

I was stressed.

Crossing state lines as a felon concealed carrying a weapon does that to you.

I was tired the way to the last few days, weighing on my back, heavy as the cross.

I had a breakfast burrito and a sweet tea.

It was pretty good, considering the state I was in.

This part of Oklahoma, the Black Kettle National Grassland, wasn't new to me.

I've driven these roads once before.

You might wonder why I'm driving away, why I'm not back when I intend to confront Mike.

Well, I think he'll meet me where I'm headed.

I think he knows the place.

And I know he knows what I've done.

N then east from Cheyenne there's a nameless town just there go a little past and an unpaved Rd.

It cuts north to South.

Take it and head north a few miles and there it was.

The whole grassland is a tangle of brush, thickets of trees and a few hills breaking sight lines.

On a hill not too far left on the road, there stands a lone oak, and buried under its twisted branches is a man that was named Peter.

Mike was there as I knew he would be, clad in jeans and a leather jacket despite the oppressive heat that hit me when I opened the door.

His face, I cannot describe.

It was beyond imagining or comprehension.

I approached as casually as I could, trying to give away nothing through my body language that conveyed the massive violence I was about to inflict.

50 feet.

I walked closer.

30 feet closer still 10 feet.

I stopped.

He said nothing.

He stood still above a shallow grave.

I now intended that he would share with Peter.

My right foot went back.

Hands came up to my side.

Left hand whipped up my shirt, right wrapped around the gun.

Both my hands met center, chest high, a perfect grip.

I pushed the gun out forwards, sides aligned to my right eye.

The draw had taken less than a second.

Mike had no time to react, but he didn't try to.

The rounds rang out across the Prairie.

123 The gun kicked hard.

10mm always kick harder than you think.

Brass left from the side and tumbled to my right.

4567 shooting without your protection, even out in the open, feel shit like getting kicked in both sides of the head at once, rattling your brain.

It didn't register at first.

I was a good shooter, even if I haven't done it in nearly a decade.

You don't lose the skill, only some Polish.

Yet at 10 feet, even a child would land most of their shots.

And Mike still stood before me, unflinching, unchanged.

Where the bullets went I have no idea, but they didn't touch the average looking man with the burning eyes before me.

I stood.

Just stood, gun still, raised rounds left in the magazine.

But I knew it was pointless.

My heart had sank as low as it could already as soon as I saw him from the car.

All I felt then was numb, completely drained of all emotion.

It's like when you're a kid trying every trick in the book to get out of school and avoid a test.

When you fake being sick, try and start a fight, shot a bunch of swears and slurs trying to run out of the classroom, but your teacher brings you back, sits you down at your desk and you just look at the sheet, knowing that there's no way out, No escape like that, but 1000 times stronger knowing you've lost.

I'd lost a long time ago, before Mike moved in, before I left home, before I buried Peter, before the first time I'd stolen the exact gun clasped in my hands, before I bought the drugs for my girlfriend.

I had lost, and Mike had won.

I slackened my arms, gun hanging uselessly from my hand.

I stepped forward into a normal pose, one parallel yet somehow inferior to his.

I still couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't feel known, but he must have known me anyway.

Look at me.

His voice rang out.

It was alien.

It was inhuman.

That voice, so balanced, so unfeeling, so perfect, there was no way to resist.

My eyes pulled themselves up with no input from me.

I looked him in the eye, and he strode forward over the grave.

As he saw me and understood me, so too did I know him.

But I could never understand the being before me.

He who had LED shining armies when the world was young, who had sent endless and timeless evils and vanquished them all.

He who weighed souls and bore justice on levels so cosmic and inhuman.

He who found my guilt as it weighed down my wretched soul.

Peter waits below for trumpets and voices from above.

Is that fair?

I knew it wasn't.

I wanted to protest, say.

The world is by nature unfair.

There are plans far larger than any of you.

It is not your place to take a life, no matter your reason.

I fell to my knees before him.

What I done to Peter, in my head, it had just been A twist of fate, an accident.

Are you worthy of forgiveness?

Are you responsible enough to admit you're failing?

No, I wasn't.

All my life I've refused to make choices.

I'd hid behind my sister, behind addiction.

I'd never once really taken responsibility for anything.

Hell, I basically forced Jen to find my apartment for me, and she was the one who got me hired in the 1st place.

Screwed.

You Came out of my mouth before I realized I spoked.

I was sick of the shame, the guilt.

Michael seemed almost to grow, to flex into wax, brighter despite not moving.

I've cast down greater snakes than you.

Just confess and this can end.

I was still locked by his gaze, his ancient and all seeing eyes.

He wanted me to give a confession, an admission of guilt, for me to stop hiding, to take responsibility for once in my wretched, pathetic life.

Well, here it is.

It was September 24th, 2017.

My girlfriend Lily and I were skipping to school as usual.

I'd stolen about $200 out of my dad's wallet, and we're heading for the haunt of our local dealer.

It was our normal routine, if the routine of a age addicts can ever be called normal.

Suffice to say, we got high doing in her bathroom, in her empty house.

We both got high.

We both passed out.

Only I woke up cold and dead, covered in her own shit and vomit.

I left her there.

She wasn't found until her parents came home the next day, and whilst the police wanted to talk to me, I wasn't anywhere to be found because I was in Oklahoma.

I'd called my drug dealer late.

Once I got my brain back together after the H and Lily's death, I pretended she was still alive, that she wanted more, that she'd suck them off for it.

He laughed on the phone and I told him to meet me up north of town, near her place.

I'd lied.

She lives north of town and we're way too high to drive to Amarillo.

I've been certain he believed me.

I'd already been to my father's place, grabbed his Glock 20 and was waiting by my car.

At 11:53, PMA car, a 13 Camry pulled up.

I didn't hesitate in the darkness, didn't even try and confirm my target.

5 rounds in the chest, two in the head.

I think it's fair to say most people haven't seen what 10mm self-defense hollow point rounds do to a human body.

The entry wounds look normal, but it blasts chunks out of the exit, it can shatter bones, and if it hits you in the head everything is coming out the back.

So Peter, was there a bloody malformed mess leaking into the desert?

And not my drug dealer, just a random passerby.

Perhaps a concerned middle-aged man stopping to see if he could help a teen stranded in the desert.

I stuffed most of them in a suitcase I'd bought, the big one I'd use when I got kicked out of the house.

I left his car there, still idling as I took off into the dark with my grim cargo.

I speed blindly down the roads, panicking, lights off.

I'd be surprised I remember the route to accept that.

The white knuckle Dr.

is seared into my memory.

By the time I finished Burning Peter it was nearly midday.

I cleaned myself up with wet wipes.

I used his own cash to get lunch to get a room at a motel.

Then I drove back home and attended.

Nothing had happened.

On the news I heard of a single father, wife passed away working 2 jobs to support two young daughters who disappeared on his way home one night.

I heard how his car had been found, evidence at the scene leading the missing persons case to be an upgraded to a homicide investigation.

I didn't have to pretend to be crushed when Jen told me they found Lily.

Some part of me must have still been hoping that day crushed me.

After I committed my murder and buried that father of two in a shallow grave beneath that oak tree.

I spent years getting high.

I stole from Jen, probably thousands.

I stole from my girlfriends too, from my parents house as well, and probably from whatever friends I still had.

My father hadn't always been a monster.

I remember our first hunting trip, how he'd been gruff and quiet but told me how proud he was when I put that hog down.

My mother had never said no to me, always showering me with love.

We'd spend Saturdays baking cookies together.

It was me that destroyed them.

I fell harder and harder, got into bad crowds, did drugs, started getting loud and threatening at home.

There's only so long you can worry about a person.

Try to help them before you just become numb to it.

I'd sucked every ounce of goodwill and love they'd ever had out of them before they even kicked me out, leaving them with souls turned to stone.

Jen had to nurse and baby me through all that shit, and all the while I never did a single thing for anyone, not even myself.

It was Jen who made me go to rehab a couple of times.

It was Jen who'd arranged and paid for my counseling.

It was Jen who got me the interview at Whataburger.

I am nothing but a parasite, A Leech.

All my life I have done nothing but take, take, take.

I've taken all the joy from my parents, taking all the time and love my sister ever had, and I've taken a father from his little girls.

Michael heard this.

I screamed at him, not so neat or so thought through.

He heard and he said nothing.

He just watched, and I felt small beneath his eternal immortal sight.

So then I took out my phone.

The 911 operator I got sounded like an older lady.

She had a kind voice and she listened it very patiently to my confession as I filled in the blanks in an 8 or 9 year old murder case.

Then she informed me that the police were on their way, that they would be armed, that I should make no sudden movements, and that they would be with me in about an hour.

And Michael was gone.

So here I am, after a life of taking.

For once, I've given 1 measly confession from a coward.

This was all I had to give, so I figured I'd give it out here too.

Thanks to anyone who's stuck with the story.

Not to get all cliche, but it looks like the real monster was me all along.

Typical, ain't it?

I can hear the sirens now.

I still have the chance to pussy out or to go out in a blaze of fire.

I have a gun.

2 1/2 mags.

Well, keep your eyes on the news tomorrow.

I guess you'll find out.

And I mean just wow.

I really don't have a lot of thoughts because I feel like that was really laid out.

I don't need to reiterate the story to you guys, but I just felt like that story was very, very surprising all throughout.

I mean, like at first, you feel for the for the OP, you feel for him, you, you're on his side.

And as he goes on, you realize slowly that he is the parasite like he said at the end of the story.

But I just, I love this story because I feel like Mike or Michael was such a good portrayal of of what's the word of being regretful or just having some sort of thing hanging over your head.

I think that's like an embodiment of regret.

And hopefully that's the right word and hopefully that makes sense.

But I just thought this story went through so many ups and downs and it was a long story.

I mean, like an hour long story, which I just, I love the long story.

So hopefully enjoy this one.

But yeah, man, that ended.

I mean, what do you think happened?

Do you think it went out in a blaze of glory?

Do you think he ended up going to prison?

I mean, what do you think?

But wow that confession at the end.

I feel like that build up was so worth it at the end.

I mean just wow, what a story.

Mr.

purple face.

The house smelled like wet wool and Jim bean.

It was a great box at the end of a dirt Rd.

that washed out every spring.

Inside the walls were bare.

There were nails sticking out of the plaster in the hallway, but nothing hanging on them in the bathroom.

There was one toothbrush in the cup and a bar of gritty soap that smelled like pumice.

It was just me and Dad.

Dad was a big guy, broad shouldered and heavy.

He worked at the lumberyard.

He came home every day at 5:30 with sawdust caught in his eyebrows.

We had a routine.

He would wash his hands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing until his skin was red.

Then he would heat up dinner.

Usually it was chilly from a can or a hot dogs boiled in water.

We ate standing up at the counter.

How was school?

He'd ask.

Fine, I'd say.

Learn anything math.

Good.

That was it.

That was the window of time where he was my dad.

At 6:30.

He would put his plate in the sink.

He would walk to the cabinet above the refrigerator and take down the square bottle.

Then he'd grab a glass and go to the table.

The kitchen table was small, push right up against the wall.

He dragged his chair around so he wasn't facing the room.

He faced the window.

Our backyard was overgrown, just waist high weeds and an old rutted swing set I wasn't allowed to touch.

Along the back fence there was a massive tangle of wild rose bushes, a wall of thorns.

Dad sat there and watched those roses.

He poured the whiskey.

No ice.

He drank it like it was medicine.

By the second glass, the air in the house got heavy.

He didn't yell right away, He just stopped moving.

He would stare at the window glass, tapping his finger against the table over and over again.

I knew that rhythm.

That rhythm meant I needed to be invisible.

I would take my toy cars into the living room.

I learned to roll them on the rug because if I rolled them on the hardwood floor, it made a rumble.

If I made a rumble, Dad would snap.

Quiet.

He'd bark, not even turning around.

So I played in silence.

I built towers out of magazines and knocked them down in slow motion so they wouldn't crash.

It was boring.

Being afraid is mostly just being bored.

You sit there with your knees pulled to your chest, waiting for the grown up to pass out so you can go to the bathroom without getting yelled at.

I didn't have anyone to talk to.

No brothers, no sisters, no friends allowed over because the house is a mess.

Even though the house was empty.

That's why I wasn't scared when I saw the shadow.

It was a Tuesday.

It had been raining for three days.

The roof was leaking in the bathroom, dripping into a bucket with a steady, madding rhythm.

Dad was on his third class.

He was muttering at the window.

I was behind the sofa.

I looked up toward this hallway.

There was something standing in the doorway.

It was huge.

It had to hunch its shoulders to fit another frame.

It wore a long brown robe that looks stiff like dried mud.

It took a step.

The heavy fabric crunched like crumbling paper.

I pressed myself against the back of the sofa.

I stopped breathing.

The thing stepped into the living room light.

Its face was dark, shiny purple.

It was swollen, tight, like a balloon about to pop.

It didn't have eyes, just two puffy slits.

It didn't have a nose.

Its mouth hung open, crooked, dangling to the left.

It breathed a wet, bubbling rattle.

I stared at it.

I waited for it to grab me.

It didn't.

It just stood there, swaying back and forth.

It turned its head.

It looked towards the kitchen.

Dad was 10 feet away.

He was staring at the window, swirling his drink.

Dad.

I whispered.

He didn't hear me, but the thing did.

The purple head turned.

It ground on its neck.

It looked down at me.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I heard the crunch of the stiff robe getting closer.

I smelled wet dirt in old pennies.

Then I felt a cold touch on my head.

It patted my hair.

It was a jerky, awkward motion.

I opened one eye.

The thing was kneeling in front of me.

The swollen purple face was inches away.

A string of spits hung from its crooked mouth.

It patted me again.

Dad coughed in the kitchen.

The thing stood up, unfolding like a spider, and step back into the dark hallway.

I touched my hair.

It felt cold.

He came back the next night, and the night after that.

I named him Mr.

Purple Face.

He usually showed up around

7:00, when Dad was deep in the bottle.

He was standing in the corner by the TV, watching.

I realized pretty quickly that Dad couldn't see him.

Dad would walk right past him to get to the bathroom.

He'd shiver, rub his arms, maybe mutter about a draft, but he never looked up.

Mr.

Purple Face became my secret.

I started talking to him.

This is my red truck, I'd whisper, holding it up.

Mr.

Purple Face would lean down.

He'd make that clicking sound deep in his throat.

One night, Dad was really bad.

He had lost his keys.

He was tearing the living room apart, throwing cushions on the floor.

Where are they?

He screamed.

He pointed a finger at me.

You took them.

I didn't.

I said.

Don't lie to me.

He took a step forward.

His face was red.

He raised his hand.

I flinched.

Suddenly Mr.

Purple Face moved.

He stepped out of the corner.

He moved fast.

He stood right between me and Dad.

He spread his arms out wide.

Dad stopped.

He blinked.

He looked confused.

He looked right at Mr.

Purple Face's chest.

Jesus, Dad muttered.

He rubbed his face.

It's freezing in here.

He turned around and stumbled back to the kitchen.

Mr.

Purple Face turned to me.

He knelt down.

He patted my head.

He stayed there all night, standing guard by the sofa for two years.

That was my life, me, Dad and the guardian in the hallway.

But when I turned 7, things changed.

The rain started and didn't stop, the backyard turned into a swamp, and dad stopped going to work.

When dad stopped going to work, the house felt different.

It felt smaller.

Before I had the mornings to myself, I had the time between getting off the bus and him coming home to watch TV and eat snacks and pretend I was a normal kid.

But after he lost his job, those hours were gone.

He said he got laid off.

He said the foreman was an idiot who didn't know the good lumber from scrap.

But even at 7 years old, I knew that wasn't true.

I knew he got fired because he started smelling like whiskey at breakfast.

He didn't leave the house anymore.

He moves his life to the kitchen table.

He stopped eating.

I would come into the kitchen in the morning and the can of chili I opened the night before would still be sitting on the counter.

The sauce would be dried out and dark.

He just drank and he washed the yard.

It was November and the rain had started.

It wasn't a storm, it was just a steady Gray drizzle that never stopped.

The Dirt Rd.

turned into sludge.

The backyard, which was already overgrown, started to look like a swamp.

The water pooled around the swing set.

It made the weeds look black and slimy.

Dad became obsessed with it.

He would sit there with his forehead press against the cold glass, fogging it up with his breath.

Look at it, he would mutter.

Just look at the mess.

I was standing in the doorway holding my cereal bowl.

Look at what the mud, he said, is washing everything out.

It's going to ruin the fence.

He turned to look at me.

His eyes were red rimmed and he hadn't shaved in a week.

His face looked Gray.

Don't go out there, he said.

I won't.

I said.

It's raining.

I mean it, he said.

He grabbed the edge of the table.

I don't want you tracking that filth into the house.

If I see you near that mud, I'll wear you out.

He wasn't yelling.

He said it quiet, like he was giving me advice.

That was scarier than the yelling.

I went back to the living room.

Mr.

Purple Face was there.

He had changed too.

In the beginning he was calm.

He was just a statue that stood in the corner.

But now that Dad was home all day, Mr.

Purple Face was restless.

He wouldn't stay in the living room.

He walked up and down the hallway, dragging that stiff brown robe on the carpet.

He would walk to the edge of the kitchen, stand there for a minute, and then turn around.

He seemed agitated.

The wet rattling sound in his throat was louder.

It sounded like water bubbling in a pot.

He started spending a lot of time by the kitchen door.

He would stand just out of Dad's line of sight.

He would lean his swollen purple head against the door frame and watch Dad drink.

Sometimes he would raise a Gray hand and reach out toward Dad.

He didn't touch him, he just held his hand in the air like he was trying to grab something he couldn't reach.

I tried to ignore it.

I tried to play with my cars, but the air in the house was too tight.

It felt like a rubber band that was pulled too far.

On Thursday the power went out.

It was the middle of the day, but the sky was so dark it looked like night.

The rain was coming down harder now.

I could hear it hitting the roof.

Dad didn't move.

The when the lights went out.

He was staring at the yard.

It never stops, he whispered.

Why won't it stop?

He stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor.

He walked to the back door and opened it.

The wind blew rain into the kitchen.

It soaked the front of his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice.

He stood there, gripping the door frame, staring at the Rose bushes.

Hey, he yelled.

It was the first time I heard him scream at the yard.

That's my property, he screamed.

Get off my property.

I was hiding behind the sofa.

I looked out the window.

There was nobody in the yard.

It was just rain and weeds.

I see you.

Dad yelled at the empty yard.

You don't think I see you?

I know what you're doing.

Mr.

Purple Face stepped out of the hallway.

He walked past me.

He didn't look at me this time.

He moved fast.

He walked right into the kitchen.

The Gray light from the open door hit him.

His skin looked wet.

The purple face shone like oil.

He walked up behind Dad.

He stood so close his chest was almost touching Dad's back.

Dad was still screaming at the rain.

Get away from there.

Leave it alone.

Mr.

Purple Face leaned down.

He put his face right next to Dad's ear.

I thought he was going to bite him.

I thought he was going to tear Dad's throat out, but he didn't.

He just opened his mouth.

The crooked jaw hung loose.

He breathed a loud wet rattle right in Dad's ear.

Dad froze.

He stopped screaming midward.

He went rigid.

He slapped his hand over his ear like a bug had flown into it.

He spun around.

Mister Purple Face was standing right there.

He was towering over Dad, but Dad looked right through him.

Dad looked at the empty air where Mr.

Purple Face's chest was.

He looked around the kitchen, wild eyed.

Who's there?

Dad whispered.

Who did that?

Mister?

Purple Face didn't move, he just stared down at Dad with those swollen shut eyes.

Dad backed up until he hit the counter.

He was breathing hard.

He looked terrified.

There's somebody in here.

Dad yelled, his voice cracked.

I'll call the cops, I have a gun.

He didn't have a gun.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table and held it like a club.

Show yourself, Dad screamed.

Mr.

Purple Face leaned forward again.

He reached out a long Gray finger.

He poked Dad in the chest.

Dad gasp.

He looked down at his shirt.

He touched the spot where the finger had hit him.

Cold.

Dad whimpered.

It's so cold.

Dad ran.

He didn't run at the ghost.

He ran past him.

He scrambled out of the kitchen and ran down the hall to his bedroom.

He slammed the door so hard the pictures on the wall shook.

I heard the lock click.

I was left alone in the living room.

Mr.

Purple Face turned around.

He looked at me.

He didn't look scary anymore.

He looked sad.

He walked over to where I was hiding.

He crumpled down to the floor.

His stiff robe crunched.

He reached out and took my hand.

His fingers were freezing.

We sat there for a long time, listening to the rain and the sound of Dad crying in his bedroom.

That weekend was the longest of my life.

Dad didn't come out of his room for a day.

I had to eat peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.

When he finally came out, he looked worse.

His eyes were sunk deep in his head.

He was shaking.

He went straight to the kitchen.

He didn't even look at me.

He opened a new bottle.

He sat at the table and resumed his watch.

The rain didn't stop, It just kept coming.

The backyard was a lake now.

The water was brown and muddy.

On Monday night I woke up.

It was quiet.

The rain had slowed down to a drizzle.

I heard a sound in the living room.

It sounded like scratching.

I got out of bed and crept to the door.

Mr.

Purple Face was standing at the back door in the kitchen.

Dad had finally passed out.

He was slumped over the table, his head resting on his arms.

He was snoring.

Mr.

Purple Face was standing right next to him, but he wasn't looking at Dad.

He was looking at the door.

He was scratching at the wood with his Gray fingernails.

He wanted out.

I walked into the kitchen.

I stayed near the wall so I wouldn't wake Dad up.

Mr.

Purple Face, I whispered.

He stopped scratching.

He turned his swollen head towards me.

He pointed at the door.

Then he pointed at the lock.

He wanted me to open it.

I shook my head.

Dad said no.

I whispered.

Dad said I can't go near the mud.

Mr.

Purple Face tilted his head.

He made a soft sound.

It wasn't the rattle.

It sounded like a whimper.

He pointed at the door again.

Then he pointed at the Rose bushes out in the dark yard.

He just pointed.

His Gray finger rested on the glass.

I looked out.

I couldn't see anything.

It was just black shapes and rain.

Is something out there?

I asked.

Mr.

Purple Face didn't answer.

He just stared at the yard.

He stood there for a long time, then he lowered his hand.

He looked defeated.

He turned back to the window and just watch the darkness.

I went back to bed.

The next day was Tuesday, the day everything ended.

Tuesday night was when it ended.

It was raining hard.

The sound of it hitting the roof was loud enough to drown on the tvi went to bed early because Dad was in the mood.

He had been pacing the kitchen for hours muttering to himself.

He had finished one bottle and started another.

I put my pillow over my head, but I could still hear his heavy footsteps vibrating through the floor.

I fell asleep.

Eventually.

I woke up because the door to my bedroom slammed open.

The hallway light was on.

Dad was standing in my doorway.

He looked huge.

His shirt was unbuttoned and stained with sweat.

He was holding the neck of the whiskey bottle in his right hand.

Get up, he said.

His voice was thick.

He was drunker than I'd ever seen him.

I sat up.

I was shaking.

What?

Get up, he yelled.

Stop hiding in here.

He came into the room.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was bruising.

He dragged me out of bed.

Dad, you're hurting me, I cried.

Shut up, he spat.

I'm sick of you sneaking around.

I'm sick of you looking at me like that.

He pulled me down the hallway.

I tried to dig my heels into the carpet, but he was too strong.

He dragged me into the kitchen.

The bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

The back door was cracked open just a little bit.

Letting the cold rain blow in, he shoved me towards the corner.

I slipped on the linoleum and fell hard on my knees.

Please, I whispered.

Dad didn't hear me.

He was breathing hard, his face red and twisted.

He looked at me with pure hate.

It wasn't about the rain.

It wasn't about the yard, he just wanted to hurt something.

I'll give you a roof over your head.

He shouted.

And you just sit there, You judge me.

He raised the bottle.

He held it like a club.

He took a step towards me.

He pulled his arm back to swing.

I curled into a ball on the floor.

I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my head with my hands.

I waited for the glass to hit me, but it didn't.

The air in the kitchen changed.

It smelled like wet dirt.

I opened my eyes.

Mr.

Purple Face was standing over me.

He had stepped over the shadows.

He was standing between me and Dad.

He was facing Dad.

He looked huge under the kitchen lights.

His brown robe was stiff and wet.

Mud was dripping off the hem onto the clean floor.

He had his arms spread out wide.

He was shielding me.

Dad stopped mid swing.

He blinked.

He looked at the space in front of them.

At first he looked confused.

He squinted, like he couldn't focus on the thing standing there.

Then his eyes got wide.

He dropped the bottle, it shattered on the floor.

Brown whiskey splashed over his boots.

Dad took a step back, his mouth open, but no sound came out.

You.

Dad whispered.

He looked up at the swollen purple face.

He looked at the flat nose.

He looked at the crooked jaw hanging loose.

Dad let out a sound that didn't sound human.

It was a high pitched squeak.

No, Dad said.

He held his hands up in front of his face.

No, stay back.

Mr.

Purple Face took a step forward.

He leaned down.

He put his face right in front of Dad's face.

Dad screamed.

It was a scream of pure terror.

He scrambled backwards.

He slipped on the wet floor and fell hard.

He crab walked backward into the corner by the stove.

Get away, Dad shrieked.

He was kicking his legs the air.

Don't touch me, stay away from me.

Mr.

Purple Face just stood there blocking me.

Dad was curled up in a ball covering his head.

He was sobbing.

He was screaming about rocks and dirt.

I put you back, Dad yelled.

I put you back.

I stayed on the floor behind Mr.

Purple Face.

I didn't move.

Then I saw blue lights flashing in the window.

The neighbors must have heard the screaming.

I heard the front door get kicked open.

Police, police.

Two officers ran into the kitchen.

They had guns out.

They saw dad in the corner screaming at the empty air.

They saw the broken bottle.

And they saw me on the floor crying.

But they didn't see Mr.

Purple Face.

Drop the weapon.

One copy all the Dad, even though Dad wasn't holding anything.

Dad didn't hear them.

He was pointing at Mr.

Purple Face.

She's right there, Dad screamed.

She's right there.

Don't let her touch me.

The cops grabbed him.

They wrestled him onto his stomach.

They put handcuffs on him.

Dad was still screaming.

She came up.

The rain washed her up.

A lady officer came over to me.

She picked me up and she carried me out of the kitchen.

As we walked down the hall, I looked back over her shoulder.

Mr.

Purple Face was still standing in the kitchen.

He was watching them take Dad away.

He raised 1 Gray hand and waved at me.

Then he stepped back into the shadows.

I sat in the back of a police car wrapped in a blanket.

I watched them put Dad in another car.

I thought he was going to jail for trying to hit me.

I thought he was going to jail for being drunk.

I didn't know the real reason, not then.

Social services took me that night.

A few days later my grandparents came to get me.

My mom's parents.

I hadn't seen them since I was a baby.

They took me to their house 3 towns over.

It was quiet there, safe.

I never went back to the house at the end of the dirt Rd.

I lived with my grandparents until I was 18.

They were good people.

They lived in a brick house 3 towns over.

They had a golden retriever in a backyard with a pool.

There were no weeds.

There were no roses.

They never talked about my dad.

They never talked about the house at the end of the dirt Rd.

I went to therapy for a few years.

The shrink told me I had an overactive imagination.

She said Mr.

Purple Face was a coping mechanism.

She said I created a protector because my father was scary and I was lonely.

It made sense.

I wanted it to be true.

So I believed her.

I grew up.

I went to college.

I got a job in Iti tried to be normal.

I didn't think about the house for a long time.

Last week, my phone rang.

It was a lawyer from the state.

He told me my father was dead.

He died in the Infirmary at the state prison.

His liver finally gave out.

I didn't feel sad.

I didn't feel happy either.

I just felt nothing.

It was like hearing about a stranger dying on the news.

The lawyer told me there was no assets.

The house had been foreclosed on 20 years ago.

There was no money.

But the lawyer said there was a box of personal facts.

He listed you as next of kin.

Do you want it or should we dispose of it?

And I almost said dispose of it.

I just wanted to say it, send it, I said.

I don't know why.

Maybe I just needed to see it, to believe he was really gone.

The box arrived yesterday.

It was a small cardboard box, tape shut with heavy packing tape.

I put it on my kitchen table.

I stared at it for an hour before I got a knife.

I cut the tape.

It smelled like him, even after 20 years.

It smelled like stale tobacco and mildew.

It was mostly trash.

A cheap watch, a lighter, a stack of letters he wrote to me but never mailed.

I didn't read them.

At the bottom of the box there was a Manila envelope.

I opened it.

Inside was a stack of old Polaroids.

They were curling at the corners.

The colors were faded and orange.

I flipped through them.

There was a picture of a truck I didn't recognize.

There was a picture of the lumber yard.

There was a picture of me as a baby sitting on a blanket in the grass.

And then I found it.

The last photo in the stack.

It was taken in the kitchen, the old kitchen with the yellow linoleum and the fluorescent lights.

Dad was sitting at the table.

He was younger, he wasn't bloated from the drink yet.

He was smiling at the camera, holding up a beer.

Standing next to him with her arm around his shoulder was a woman.

My mother.

I had never seen a picture of her before.

Grandparents didn't keep any around.

She was small, she had dark hair and a shy smile.

She looked happy, but I stopped breathing when I saw what she was wearing.

It was a house coat, a long brown quilted robe that went down to her ankles.

In the photo, it looks off.

It looked warm, but I knew that robe.

I remember the sound it made when it scraped the wall.

I remembered how it dragged on the carpet.

I remembered how stiff it was, caked in dried mud from the backyard.

I leaned in closer.

I looked at the collar of the robe.

It had a pattern, small stitched diamonds.

My hand started to shake.

I remembered that pattern.

I used to stare at that exact pattern when I was hiding behind the sofa, praying for Dad to pass out.

I looked at her face.

It was smooth, it was unblemished.

She had a small nose, she had bright eyes, and she had a straight happy smile.

I closed my eyes.

Suddenly I was back in that living room.

I could smell the wet dirt.

I could hear the wet rattling breath.

I could see the swollen purple skin, the flat nose, the crooked jaw hanging loose.

I remember the way she stood between me and him.

I remember the way she spread her arms out to take up the space so he couldn't get to me.

I put the photo down on the table.

For 20 years, I thought she left me.

Dad said she ran off.

He said she didn't want a family, but she didn't run off.

She was there the whole time.

She was standing in the hallway watching him.

She was waiting for the rain to wash the dirt away so she could come back inside.

She never left me.

And wow, just what a story.

And I think what we can assume here, I don't want to speculate too much out of respect for the author and his story, but I think we can assume that the father got arrested for killing his wife and he buried his wife in the backyard.

And that's the reason he always stared out at the backyard while drinking, because most likely he couldn't live with himself.

And he just felt so sad and he didn't.

And he was super worried about the rain because the rain would wash her up because she was buried back there.

And that's just what I assume happened.

I don't want to speculate too much.

And he eventually got arrested for the murder of his wife and the O PS mother or the author's mother.

Very, very sad story.

But it's kind of wholesome at the same time that the kids mother never left her, you know?

Yeah, that's a very, very emotional story.

Kind of wholesome at the end, but very sad.

Yeah.

Very unique story.

I've never read anything sort of like that.

But anyways, on to the next one.

I woke up to a stranger in my apartment.

He says he lives here.

I'm always so tired after going home.

The fluorescent scream of the office lights still echoes behind my eyes.

Even here, in the blessed dimness of the stairwell, I climb three flights, each step feeling like I'm dragging an anvil chain to my ankle.

My key finds the lock on Apt 3B.

My lock.

The deadbolt thunks open.

I shoulder the door and smelling the faint, comforting ghost of last night's cheap instant noodles in the dusty warmth trapped inside, I don't even make it to the bedroom.

The sagging, familiar embrace of my old couch in the living room calls out.

I sink into it, the springs groaning their familiar complaints beneath my weight.

The fabric smells faintly of dust and me as sleep drags me under.

A few hours later, I jolt to wake in terror as a hand that grabs my shoulder and shakes me violently.

Hey, hey.

Someone shouts.

I jerk away, gasping, disoriented.

Silver moonlight cuts the room into sharp shapes and deep, pooling shadows.

A man leans over me, his face gaunt with sweat in the gloom.

His eyes are wide.

Wild marbles reflect in the weak light.

Get up.

What the hell are you doing in my apartment?

His voice is a harsh rasp, cutting straight through whatever dream I was trapped in.

Panic surges through me.

I lurch upright, heart pounding.

Your what?

I blink hard, trying to study my vision.

No, no, this is my apartment.

This is 3 BI live here.

The man takes a step back, just enough to half merge with the shadows by the doorway.

Are you out of your damn mind?

I live in 3B.

What are you even doing here?

I don't know who you are.

I say, trying to sound firm, authoritative, anything but panicked.

But you need to leave before I call the police.

Oh, I need to leave.

That's rich.

You broke into my place and you're threatening me.

I run a hand through my hair, eyes flickering to the hallway.

Could I shove them out and lock the door?

Could I grab my phone?

Where is my phone and call someone?

I take a cautious step towards him, hands half raised.

Look, I don't know what this is.

Maybe you got the wrong floor or something, or maybe you're confused.

But this is my apartment, all right?

You don't live here.

He stares at me.

Then, with sharp, jerking movements, he points towards the kitchenette.

Oh yeah?

Then tell me that's your owl mug.

I follow his finger.

A chipped blue owl mug sits on the coffee table like a trap.

I blink.

That's, I don't know.

That's, that's not mine.

Damn right it's not.

He snaps.

That's my mug.

And where's my sailboat painting?

I had it right there.

He jabs a finger toward the wall above the TV.

Are you a thief?

I turn.

My faded Swiss Alps poster is gone.

In its place, a garnish print of a sailboat on water so blue it looks fake.

Wait, I, I, I had a poster there.

Mountains, Swiss Alps.

I swear it was there.

The man just stares at me, chest rising and falling fast.

I hold up my hands like I'm warding off a wild animal.

OK, OK, OK, maybe, maybe I screwed up.

My voice wavers, half swallowed by the silence.

Maybe, maybe I'm wrong.

I, I must have come in the wrong door.

I, I, I didn't mean to.

Shit, I'm.

I'm so sorry.

I take a step back, knees weak.

I'll go, all right, I'll just, I'll, I'll get my stuff and go.

But something stops me.

I glance back at the coffee table, at that blue owl mug.

It's not just unfamiliar, it's wrong.

The eyes aren't painted right, they're uneven.

1 stares forward, the others cock sideways like it's watching the hallway behind me.

The man hasn't moved.

His expression has changed, less angry now, more uncertain.

His eyes flick from the walls of the table to me.

I don't remember this table being glass.

He says quietly.

I look down.

The tables would.

It's always been wood.

What are you talking about?

I ask, but my voice is too soft to sound confrontational.

No, it was.

It was glass, he mutters.

Round.

Had a chip on the edge from when I dropped the take out.

This one's wood Square and that lamp.

He turns slowly.

That's not my lamp.

Something creaks in the bedroom.

Neither of us moves.

I think, he says, breath fogging lightly in the suddenly cold air.

I think this is in your apartment, or mine.

The frantic anger is gone, replaced by a mirror of my own icy fear.

Keys.

He grasps, digging into his pocket.

With trembling fingers, he pulls out a key ring.

We need to get out of here.

We'll figure out what the hell is going on outside.

My own keys are cold, heavy lumps in my hand.

We don't speak again.

The silence is a suffocating presence.

Thick with the smell of decay and the unnerving feeling of being watched by the very shadows that cling to the walls, the hallway to the door seems longer than it should be.

I take a step and the carpet squelches faintly beneath my foot.

I glance down.

The floor looks the same.

Beige, ugly, a little stained.

But now I don't trust it.

Behind us, the bedroom door creaks again, only this time it doesn't stop.

It opens slowly, with the hush of breath sliding between teeth.

He doesn't turn, Neither do I.

Don't look back, he whispers.

His voice shakes.

Just walk.

We move, inching forward.

Every object in the living room seems shifted.

The couch leans ever so slightly toward the wall, cushions caved in like something heavy just rose from them.

The bookshelf is missing a shelf.

My hand tightens around the key ring.

The keys rattle too loudly, like they're trying to call attention to us, like they want something else to hear.

We're almost there.

I murmur, not sure who I'm trying to reassure, him or myself.

The front door is 10 feet away.

8A soft knock echoes from inside the bedroom.

The man beside me flinches.

I don't dare look.

The temperature drops.

My breath fogs.

The air hangs there, then drifts backward.

Against the laws of physics, I choke on it.

This place, this thing, it's copying us badly.

The front door looms closer now, but the handle seems off longer than I remember.

He reaches the door first, his hand trembling violently as he tries to jam his key into the deadbolt.

It scrapes uselessly against the plate.

It won't.

It won't fit.

Panic edges back into his voice.

If you just unlock from inside.

I hiss, my hand closing over the cold knob.

I twist.

It turns freely, thank God.

With a surge of desperate hope, I yank the door open.

We stumble out together into the hallway, gasping lungfuls of stagnant, unmoving air.

It tastes thick with dust in that same underlying damp decay.

The hallway light fixtures shattered, glass shards glittering dully on the floor below.

Weak Gray pre dawn light filters from a grimy window at the far end, revealing a scene that stops us dead.

The hallway is a ruin.

Wallpaper hangs in long moldering strips, revealing crumbling plaster underneath.

The carpet is threadbare, stained with dark, unidentifiable patches pulled up in places to show warped floorboards.

Doors to other apartments hang a skew on broken hinges, revealing glimpses of darkness within.

Cobwebs thick as gauze drape the corners and the ceiling.

The air is frigid, smelling overwhelmingly of damp rot, mildew, and neglect.

Utter, absolute desolation.

This.

The man beside me whispers, his voice cracking.

This building, it's, it's condemned look.

He points a shaking finger towards a large official notice nailed crookedly to the wall opposite my door.

Our door.

Apt 3B.

The notice is faded, water stained, but the bold red letters are unmistakable.

Condemned, structurally unsound and tree prohibited.

My blood turns to ice.

We both slowly turn to look back at the door we just emerged from.

Apt 3B.

The wood is warped, the paint blistered and peeling.

A thick layer of grime coats the surface, thick as old Moss.

The number 3B is barely visible beneath it, the brass digits green with corrosion.

The keyhole looks rusted shut.

It looks like it hasn't been open in years.

The man raises his hand slowly, like lifting the key cost him something.

I look down at mine.

Both identical, both for 3B, both seemingly useless against the decayed reality before us.

Yet they worked moments ago.

He meets my eyes.

Our keys hang limp in our hands.

The only sound is the frantic hammering of our hearts and the silence.

And then the shadows behind the door shift.

At first I almost miss it.

Just a flicker of movement in the dark, a smudge of black deeper than the shadows.

But then it pushes forward, slow and deliberate.

It isn't a person, not quite.

The shape doesn't hold together.

Right limbs bend where they shouldn't, joints jutting at broken angles where a face should be, there's only a hollowed out suggestion of one, like a mask left too close to a flame.

In the worst part, the hallway isn't big enough for it.

The ceiling should scrape its skull.

The wall should press against the shoulders.

But it keeps coming anyway, folding itself into the space like it's bending the apartment around it.

The shape tilts its head, my ribs clamped tight, breath trapped like a live thing in my throat.

The man beside me makes a sound, not quite a whimper, maybe a prayer.

A wet crack splits to silence.

The door frame splinters.

Just a hairline fracture, but it sounds like a gunshot in the still air.

We run.

Stairs blur under foot.

We don't stop until concrete turns to asphalt, until the sky bleeds dawn.

Our eyes meet, a silent scream passing between us.

My stomach drops as reality rearranges itself in my mind.

This isn't right.

The street signs are unfamiliar, the buildings wear strange colors.

And that terrible Klein realization.

I don't live in an apartment.

I own a house.

A blue colonial with hydrangeas out front.

A mailbox with mine and Olivia's name painted on the side.

A garage where my daughter's bike leans against the wall.

Cold sweat trickles down my back.

How did we get inside that place?

Who let us in?

But the most chilling question lingers between us, unspoken.

What in God's name did we just escape from?

And all right, guys, that wraps up some horrifying Reddit horror stories.

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