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The True Story of the Psycho From Sophomore Year

Everyone has a story of someone in their past whom they expect to see on the nightly news. That steroid fused father who got thrown out of his kid’s soccer game. The moronic prankster who sent out an anonymous bomb threat just to cut class. That ex who could never quite give up. For me, it’s exponential. Every time I hear a tragedy on the news, whether it be a shooting or a kidnapping or some other horror, a small voice in the back of my head creeps up, from a whisper to a crescendo… What if? What if that guy finally did what he said he would? And I never told anyone. I can’t live with that. So now, I’m telling you. 

There aren’t any ghouls, ghosts, or goblins in this story. No creatures hiding in your peripherals, or delusions of grandeur. This is the story of the truest horror I’ve experienced my entire life, one that I’ve kept to myself for far too long. This is the story of the psychopath who ruined my Sophomore year of college.

I went to a state school in the heart of New Jersey. My life wasn’t all that different from your average college experience, I suppose. After a year of living in on campus, my friends and I decided to finally break the shackles of dorm life and rent a house off campus. 

The area, and the house itself, were sketchy at best. In the first month, we were forced to move out for a couple of days because of an electrical fire in the upstairs apartment. It was fairly common for someone to be mugged late at night, and if you went down a few blocks, shootings were not unheard of either.

I rented the house with five other guys, and a group of six girls lived next door. We had known them from Freshman year, and managed to rent two buildings right next door to one another. The first couple weeks were amazing… parties, drinking, debauchery. Sleep was for the day, and class was for the dumb. 

One girl in particular, Alyssa, had always been like a little sister to me. She had dated my friend for a few months, and we had become good friends in the process. Alyssa was the type of girl that had to try every obscure activity once. What better way to enjoy the “college experience”, than to try everything? Starcraft club? Check. Classics club dress up night? Check. Getting stoned and passing out on the roof? Check. It was her idea to move somewhere nearby, and I was naturally all for it.

One day, after a few weeks of living off campus, she came to me with a flier for an on campus event. *Learn to Give the Perfect Massage*, I believe it was called. To be honest, I wasn’t one to sacrifice my time for these events. They usually involved forced social interactions, that almost always led to nothing but twenty kids desperately eyeing the clock. However, I hadn’t been out all that much, and I had been pigeonholing myself to my own group of friends for quite sometime. It was time to meet some new people, so I decided to give it a shot.

Alyssa and I got to the class fives minutes late, and the lecture had begun as we grabbed our seats. Most people in the class were typical guys, anxious for the excuse to obviously grope girls. A few were shy, awkward Freshmen who were just trying to meet new friends. One guy, however, stood out to me. He stood at the back of the room, away from all the mini groups and circles that had formed. He sat on the floor with his legs spread and pulled up to his chest, and he looked straight at the floor with a surly look painted on his stoic face.

For a reason that I can’t really explain, this guy struck me as… different. I don’t know why, to be honest. He wasn’t any taller than average. No shorter, no thinner, no fatter. His hair wasn’t too long, or too short. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a plain white shirt. But the way he avoided eye contact with anyone in the room, for the entirety of the lecture, still gives me chills to this day.

After a brief introduction and an hour or so of instruction and lecture, we were randomly paired to begin trying the exercises on one another. I was paired with a chatty girl with long black hair who seemed nice enough. Alyssa, on the other hand, was not so lucky.

Now, this part of the story I only know secondhand. I was on the other side of the room and, to be honest, far more interested in my partner than what was going on with Alyssa. When it was time to go, I walked over to Alyssa and her partner and said hello. She smiled nervously at me, pretending to be incredibly involved with putting things in her backpack, while her partner glared at me for about ten seconds. I opened my mouth to introduce myself, and he turned and walked away.

“What was that about?” I had asked her, thoroughly baffled.

“I have no idea,” she responded. “He didn’t say a word the entire time. I tried to talk to him, ask him about school… not a word. He just said his name was TJ. Can we just go?”

Thinking little of it, we grabbed and bags and headed home. Because it was a Friday night, Alyssa and her room mates came over to drink and hang out. To be candid, I don’t remember much of that night. So let’s move on to the next morning.

Alyssa woke up and had five emails. All from different addresses, but with a similar theme. She sent me them at one point, but I lost them, so I’ll have to paraphrase:


**Email 1**

Hello, this is TJ from class. It was really nice to meet you.

**Email 2**

Do you know of any parties tonight? I’d love to bring you to one, my number is (redacted).

**Email 3**

 Do you use this email often?

**Email 4**

Please write back with your number.

**Email 5**

I added you on Facebook. My name there is Joe Simpson.


First off, Alyssa never gave him her email. He probably found it on a school mailing list, or something along those lines. Regardless, Alyssa responded with a kind yet firm email. She lied and said her boyfriend (one of my room mates) was very protective, and didn’t want her giving her number out to guys. After that, he didn’t respond through email.

Second, his name wasn’t Joe Simpson. 

I have no idea why he liked alternate names, but it wasn’t the first he tried to add her with. Henry Ford. John Jones. There were at least twenty in the first week.

Then it started to get creepier. He would create names that meant something to her. Jim Carry, her favorite actor, was one. When that didn’t work, he tried her favorite author, musician, athlete. We never knew how he learned so much about her.

The messages started to get more… descriptive, as well. He would say things like “Your boyfriend is a fucking scumbag. He’s cheating on you,” and “If I can make him leave you, will you see me?” Ignoring him only made it worse. The messages turned into phone calls after he, somehow, got her phone number.

He would call in the middle of the night. 1 AM, 2, 3. It didn’t matter. Sometimes he wouldn’t say a thing at all; he’d just sit in silence as Alyssa yelled into the phone, begging for him to leave her alone.

Once he got Alyssa’s phone number, he got her boyfriend’s. He would call and send text messages, telling him he was worthless. That she didn’t care about him. That he had hooked up with her. 

When it got to the point that they were concerned for their safety, they contacted the school. Keep in mind, this was before the school shoots in the United States were a major problem. Back then, schools were not nearly as concerned about what they viewed as ‘an argument’ among college students. Since he had never physically threatened either Alyssa or her boyfriend, there was nothing they could do but bring him in for a talk.

That didn’t help.

Three days later, Alyssa got a text message from TJ. It was just a couple words, but it was enough.

It was her address.

Funny how two words on 4x4 screen can make you fear for your safety, and the safety of those around you. She didn’t respond. She packed up a bunch of her stuff, called her boyfriend, and asked if she could stay at our place for a little bit. She didn’t have any other guy friends in the area, and she didn’t have the money for a hotel. Naturally, we told her of course. What did one guy have against six overconfident 19 year olds?

I was out late that night. My room mates stayed at home, while I went out to a nearby bar and had a drink (or six) with some friends from class. I remember stumbling back down the empty college streets around two in the morning. It had just started to snow, and I was underdressed. A thin button down clung to my skin. I stripped it off as I rounded the corner to my house. 

I was drunkenly trying to shake the snow off of it when I looked up, and saw TJ standing on my front porch. He turned to face me, and I’ll never forget the look of determination painted on his face.

In one hand, he held a collapsible baton. In the other, the key to our apartment.

The True Story of the Psycho From Sophomore Year [Final]

I stood there in utter disbelief, staring at TJ for what must have been a full minute. He didn’t say a word. There was a glassy look in his eyes, one of cold indifference. He looked down at me from the porch like I was a mouse caught in his trap.

Finally, I stepped forward. Cautiously, I watched his hand for any sudden movements. As I extended my arm, he spoke.

"Hi. My name is Henry Ford. Do you know where 48 High Street is?"

He never blinked. Never shifted uncomfortably, scratched his head, fidgeted… When the snow is coming down that hard, you rarely see people stand still. They are constantly brushing the frozen flakes from their face, adjusting their sleeves, fixing their gloves, adapting their hair, etcetera. His gaze was stoic. In control. Ready. 

I shook my head in disbelief. “TJ, I know who you are. You need to leave, now.”

"I’m looking for 48 High Street. There’s a party there." He responded.

His serious demeanor, the one I had never seen him turn off, slowly melted from his face. He turned up the corners of his lips to reveal a sickly, painted smile.

"Dude, you need to…" In one fluid motion, he reached back with the baton and cracked it across my ribs.

The sharp ache was incredible. For anyone who says a baton isn’t a serious weapon, you’ve obviously never been hit with one. At the moment, it felt as though he had shattered my entire ribcage. It was one of the few moments in my life where I’ve seen stars and nearly blacked out due to the pain. 

Luckily, I have a feeling the whiskey dulled it enough. I reached back, and responded with a right hook to that sick son of a bitch’s face. 

He screamed one of the most unholy noises I’ve ever heard. I can’t even think of the proper comarison to that fucking noise. You’re going to laugh, but it sounded like the noise a howler monkey makes when it finds an enemy in it’s territory. Immediately, barely losing a step, he hopped to his feet and ran off down the street.

At this point, my room mates had begun to pour out of my house. They were half asleep, but knew something was wrong. I was kneeling in the street, cursing up a storm as I watched him sprint around the corner.


A week later, TJ was kicked out of school.

My ribs weren’t shattered, only deeply bruised. I was very lucky. I had to wear a thick layer of bandages for a couple of weeks to ensure that nothing *did* break accidentally. 

That night, we had phoned the police. My testimony about the fight outside our house did very little, to be honest. No one had seen it. My room mates had come outside just after TJ had ran off, and were left with me shirtless in the street, clutching my purple ribcage. Police officers immediately pointed out the fact that I was intoxicated. How would I know who the hell hit me in my condition?

The end result? TJ never got any criminal charges. 

Luckily, there were other things we could do. Alyssa filed a restraining order, and was allowed to return to her house. Two armed police officers patrolled our block every night for a week, at our request. 

For a while, none of us heard from TJ. Alyssa resumed sleeping at our house once the police patrol was finished, but things slowly began to return to normal. She soon began to become the normal, carefree girl I had known Freshman year once again. Though she still refused to sleep or walk alone, She no longer nervously checked her email or Facebook every ten minutes, and she even began to go out to the bars some nights. Eventually, even I stopped carrying around the small knife in my boot when I went out at night. 

We thought he had finally given up.

Around two months later, I was up late one night watching old episodes of Six Feet Under on my laptop. You know the routine, don’t you? It’s always ‘Just one more episode!’ This excuse is the reason for my being up at three in the morning. Anyway, I was lamenting on the fact that the main actor looked far too much like Joel McHale when my laptop buzzed a happy alert. New message! I opened it up, and this is what I read.

(*Btw, I don’t know how these messages aren’t still in my inbox. I wanted to post some screen shots, but it doesn’t look like they’re there anymore. Could this be because he deleted the account?*)


FROM Frank Ford IX:

Hello, you don’t know me. I’m a friend or Alyssa’s from Bio. I think she got a new number, and I need to reach her about a study group.


*This troubled me. First of all, how the hell would this guy know I was Alyssa’s friend? Fearing the worst, I responded._


FROM Matthew:

Sorry man, can’t give out her number. Just get it next time you see her.


FROM Frank Ford IX:

Stupid FUCKING prick. How about I come over there and make you fucking tell me? You know I’ll find it.


I nearly threw my computer out of the window. Three in the fucking morning, I did not need to deal with this shit. I didn’t grace him with a response, I simply deactivated my Facebook account.

I spoke to Alyssa the next day, and the look on her face told me everything I needed to know. The messages themselves weren’t overly threatening at first. Usually, he would just ask how her day had been going. How was that new club she was in? What did she think of the current political climate. What was her Biology professor like? Alyssa ignored him entirely.

Eventually, he got her new phone number. I have no idea how. At first, he would call her every night. She would never answer, of course, so he would leave a ranting voicemail. The topic of these messages usually varied. Sometimes it would be a ranting political anecdote. Sometimes he’d talk about biology, or a recent Jim Carry movie that came out. 

Other times he’d scream at the top of his lungs for her to pick up the goddamn phone.


Over time, the voicemails and messages began to decrease. She would get one a week, then one every two, then one a month. As time moved by, Alyssa’s attitude towards the situation changed. It became apparent that TJ was no longer something she could eradicate, moreso something she would have to live to live with. 

Junior and Senior year went bye relatively normally. He would still call her here and there, but the nature of the messages was nowhere near as threatening. Sometimes he would say he had the wrong number, and sometimes he would just talk. 

It was weird. He just sort of… faded out. By the time we graduated college, none of us had heard from TJ in six months. Most of us had changed our numbers a few times and used fake names on our Facebooks, but that had never worked in the past. We thought he was finally seeking help.

And maybe he was. Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know, is the reason that I am bringing this all up now. The reason why I am telling you, why I desparately need to get this off my chest for the sake of my own goddamn sanity.

Last Tuesday night, I got a Facebook message from Henry Ford. The first in years.


Did you miss me? Help me find her, or I’l find you.

I wish I could give you a concrete ending. Good guy catches bad guy and throws him in jail for the rest of his life. Bad guy finds the help he needs and mends fences with those he terrified for the better part of a school year. All’s well that ends well, right?

The truth is, I don’t know where TJ is. I don’t know if he’s still watching my old apartment, or if he knows exactly where I am. He could know where I work, where I sleep, who I’m dating, what I’m writing.. Hell. He could be reading this right now, for all I know. 

So I will leave you with the same response I sent to Henry Ford on Tuesday night.

I’ll be waiting.

Know Evil


There were three of us that night. That horrible, twisted, yet seemingly harmless and innocent evening we spent on Ben’s driveway.

As a long time NoSleep fan, I have convinced my friends, Ben and Liz, to share their encounters following that night. Our goal and understanding is that maybe someone, somehow, can provide sane and rational explanations for our experiences. We need help. Please forgive our vain attempts to convey the description and imagery of the horrors that we have experienced in the small suburban neighborhood of Ivy Road, but… we just don’t know what else to do.

This isn’t easy to talk about, and it’s likely you won’t believe me anyway, but I guess I should start from the beginning.

Rewind to a little over a week ago. Liz, Ben, and myself are three college graduates, fresh out of school and ready to tackle our own various industries of interest: IT, Journalism, and the army. Essentially, this watered down and translated to the three of us living at home, siphoning our loving parents’ generosity as we hounded the hiring websites. We were desperate for an outlet to escape the dull and tedious lifestyle of our former childhood. Then again, it wasn’t all bad.

What made it convenient… and nearly manageable, was the fact that we all lived than a block away from each other. We were the same as we were in our younger days, nestled in our respective cubes of suburban heaven and hell. Life was, in a word, content.

Our development, known as the Ivy Road cul-de-sac, always held a more ominous feel at night. Children had long since retired to homework and bedtime stories, while middle-aged men and women wrapped up their mid-life crisis jogs. Eager, of course to get inside and catch the latest episode of CSI: New York, or whatever dribble the television served up this week. The roads were empty, and various night time creatures had already taken to the streets and front lawns in search of leftover food and makeshift shelter.

You see, surrounding our development on nearly every side was a dense forest a few miles wide. As kids, we had traveled these woods time and time again. We played hide-and-seek, hosted snowball fights, and occasionally spent hours exploring the fossil beds that lay in the shallow creeks that cut through the endless steep hills.

At night, however, we had always steered clear.

Maybe the simplest explanation for this is a young child’s fear of the unknown. The creatures that rustle in the bushes, the shouts and screams that could come from any corner of the vast wilderness… The shapes and the shadows that melt and obscured, forming your own personal terror. In the daytime, these phenomena bore rational explanations: a squirrel darting between the trees, a deer laying down for the night, a child yelling gleefully from a nearby neighborhood…

At night, these sounds were the vehicles of our unknown.

On the evening in question, the three of us were relaxing on Ben’s driveway, sipping a few beers as the sun came and went overhead. After a suggestion and rejection of a hand-rolled joint to pass the time, we found ourselves nearly ready to wrap up the night. We had been listening to our favorite local rock station, but something must have messed with the signal. All that played over the airwaves now was the low hum of static and white noise. I quickly packed up my lawn chair to return to Ben’s garage, my mind occupied by the despair of having to wake early the next day. As I turned to walk away, something caught my eye.

I wish it hadn’t, more than anything. If you ask anyone what they would do if they could turn back time, the results are always the same. Spend more time with my father, or my mother, or my kids. Chase down that long-lost high school love. Play the lottery, buy a mansion, buy a car, travel. But for me, more than any dream or goal or ambition, I wish I could change that night. I wish I had turned away, gotten in my car, and jetted down the first highway I saw.

Sometimes, when I am alone and covering my eyes from this mindless fucking terror, from the never ending images and scenes dancing through my peripheral, I wonder.

Would it have mattered?

At first, it appeared to be nothing more than a brightly lit planet or star. Well, to say it was brightly lit was an understatement. It looked as though it encapsulated all the light in the sky, even the stars seemed to lose their luster in the reflection of that light. As I stared in wonder and astonishment, trying to decipher why I had not noticed it before, it began to move. I turned and eagerly pointed up to Ben and Liz, but they only returned my gaze with one of confusion.

It advanced slowly across the sky, lazily zigging and zagging in a stutter step motion uncommon to any plane or helicopter I had ever seen. As it advanced across the tree line, it moved nearer and nearer. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it flew off in a direction beyond our line of sight.

"Whoa, what was that?" I said, turning to the two of them as they looked up at the sky quizzically.

"I don’t see anything…" Liz said, turning to me.

"Cmon Matt, I’m too tired to be messed with," Ben said, as he tore his gaze from the sky, and quickly packed up his radio with a deep, tired breath.

He pulled the plug, and he turned to head inside, muttering goodbyes as I continued to scan the night sky.

Suddenly, he stopped.

"Do you hear that?"

Liz and I craned our ears, but I shrugged my shoulders and responded with:

"Hear what?"

"The music… quiet, it’s getting louder."

He began to hum quietly, growing in volume as he closed his eyes, meditating to a noise neither I nor Liz could hear. The radio fell from his hand and nearly shattered on the cold cement ground. He did not seem to notice, as his eyes squeezed shut to the point of a look of pain.

Wordlessly, he raised his hands to cover his ears slowly.

He pulled them back, and they were covered in blood. He fell to his knees and screamed.

I spun around to find Ben on the ground, clutching his ears as blood escaped like maple seeping from a tree. I stood in shock for a moment, unsure of whether he was fucking with me, or he was actually hurt.

I rushed to his side all the time.

He desperately tried to speak a few anxious words, as Liz cried and begged him to tell us what was wrong.

"Can’t…. you…. hear…. the…. music?"

As soon as the last words escaped his lips, the tears on Liz’s face seemed to dry up as she turned to me. This may sound exaggerated, but it’s true. One minute she was crying, and the next, her entire complexion changed.

A slow smile crept along her lips, starting from the center and moving to the corners at a slow speed. She stood, slowly, and turned towards the driveway. Then she opened her mouth and uttered one horrifying sentence.

"Can’t you tell? He’s here."

She began to walk slowly backwards, her arm stretched out, pointing to the blackness of the woods across the road. With that, my peripherals reflected quick movement, as if something darted through the woods to my right, just as I turned my head to follow Liz’s finger.

My eyes readjusted to the lighting, and there he was. He was standing, waiting patiently in front of the clearing across the street, like he had somehow been there all night.

My first thought, was this could not be any type of human being I had ever seen. Except… he was. He stood at about 6’2. Dark, stringy hair drifted down his shoulders and rested on his back. This was coupled with thick, stubby hair covering nearly every inch of his body. It was matted with a sticky, red substance. He was holding something in his right hand.

He never looked away from me. He stood, eyes locked in the distance as Ben’s now pitiful screams echoed through the night. He smiled the same sickly smile I saw on Liz’s face only moments before, and beckoned towards me.

I followed his call.

Leading one foot carefully in front of the other, like my legs had a mind of their own, I descended down the driveway as the man’s smile grew. My mind pleaded with my body to stop. To turn around, to run, to get away from that shape in the night. But I walked, fixating my gaze on the object that swung casually in the man’s hand, as it slowly became clearer in the moonlight.

He was holding the severed head of a young woman by the hair. She had been beautiful once, I thought. Long, blonde hair drifted down from the top, meeting a small upturned nose and a pair of luscious red lips. Funny, her hair was still smooth though it was gripped by a massive hand. Blood dripped her neck openly, that much was visible now. She swayed back and forth in the casual breeze, seemingly searching for its lost connection.

Her eyes were crudely sewn shut, and yet I felt like they still watched me. I followed those empty eyes, and I swayed from side to side to mirror their movement in the wind. I don’t know for how long I walked, to be honest. Hours, days, minutes, seconds quickly faded into a fog of a memory. It’s like the sensation of dropping something down a hole. When you reach for it, your fingertips may brush against it. Enough so, that you’ll know it’s still there. But you can never grasp it. It’s like the beach constantly reaching out for the coast.

The last clear thing I remember with clarity is standing a few feet in front of the man, waiting. His expression grew serious as he gripped the head with both of his hands and lifted it towards the center of his body, as if displaying it. He muttered a few unintelligible words as he looked down.

And then, her eyes opened wide.

To put it simply, they consisted of vast white emptiness. It was as if someone had taken an eraser and rubbed out the iris and pupil, leaving an empty, blind canvas. They drank me in, and consumed me. I stared into them, never blinking, never moving, never running. My entire existence was tied to those endlessly clear eyes as my reflection swayed back and forth inside them.

I awoke the following morning, and I was deep inside the woods. But I was not alone.

This was only the beginning. Since then, it’s gotten far, far worse. Our stories of what happened next will shortly follow.

Speak No Evil

[Written by Reddit user UpUpAndAwake]..

It all started when Matt, Ben, and I saw the thing in the woods.

I dreamt that night, of the severed head of a beautiful woman. The head swayed like a pendulum as it hung by its hair. Her lips were sewn shut, just like they’d been when I saw the head in the woods outside Ben’s house. That must’ve been some sort of hallucination though, it couldn’t’ve been real.

In my dream, the woman’s face twitched, her jaw muscles spasming. She was trying to open her mouth. The stitches strained, finally tearing through flesh as the mouth gaped wide. I winced, but couldn’t look away. Through mangled flesh, the woman began to speak.

I woke up.

The first thing I noticed was the massive hangover. My head ached, and my throat was parched. I didn’t even remember getting home, but I was in my own bed so I must’ve gotten here somehow. As much as I tried, I couldn’t even remember saying bye to Ben and Matt. I hadn’t blacked out like this since college, and I really didn’t miss the experience.

Drenched in sweat, I groaned as I looked at my clock. I’d slept in, and the timing couldn’t be worse. Today was my job interview, the job interview, and I had to be there at ten. I studied myself in the mirror. I looked like shit: rumpled hair, dark circles under my eyes, and I was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Pull yourself together, Liz.

The shower calmed me down, but it brought back memories of that man, that thing, in the woods. Last night had been some weird shit, that was for sure, but there had to be a rational explanation. Some sort of mass hallucination or something. I couldn’t let it distract me, not when I was interviewing for a job at CCNB, the local news station. Sure, it was a reception position, not anything directly related to journalism, but it was a foot in the door. Who knows, maybe someday I’d make it out of Ivy Hill.

I yelled bye to my mom and dad as I ran out the door, only returning when I remembered I needed two copies of my resume. I put on my make up at stoplights and reached the station with minutes to spare. Whew.

“Why do you want to work at CCNB?”

The interviewer, a rail-thin blonde woman who’d introduced herself as Lori, peered down at me. Her chair was positioned much higher than mine, which I knew to be a power trick in interviews, but it disconcerted me nonetheless.

“I—I, uh,” I stammered. “I just really love the media industry. It’s such an important part of our society; it’s what spreads information throughout the world in seconds. I want to be a part of that, know that what I’m doing is reaching and helping countless people.”

I cleared my throat nervously and added, “Even if it’s in reception, I know every role counts.”

“Well, you know we only broadcast in three districts. We’re not exactly reaching the whole world here.” Lori smiled though, and I grinned in return.

“So,” she continued, glancing down at my resume. “You don’t have much prior experience, is that right?”

I glanced down at my own copy, ready to defend my lack of job experience. I hadn’t worked or interned during college, but I excelled in school so I was confident I could spin that into a positive. When I looked down at my resume, however, my breath caught in my throat.

Written under the “Work Experience” heading was writing I hadn’t seen before, sentences I’d never typed.

seconds she doesn’t deserve your mercy / in one hour and four minutes and two seconds one foot deeper and they’ll never find him / in thirty-two seconds you won’t know unless you pull the trigger / in five hours and forty-eight minutes and eleven seconds you’ll be happier once he’s gone / in three minutes and

“Oh!” I gasped. My face flushed and I wondered how I would explain this to Lori. How could I explain this to myself, for that matter? It must be some kind of joke, I bet Matt had snuck onto my computer while I wasn’t looking and typed this out. I’d give him hell when I saw him again, it was seriously crossing the line typing this sick shit up on my resume.

“I am so sorry,” I gushed. “I don’t know how that got there, my friends are real jerks sometimes.”

I reached across the desk to pull the resume from Lori’s hands, and stopped short when I saw her paper. There under “Work Experience” was just one bullet point highlighting my summer retail job two years ago. No strange, twisted writing.

I froze, still leaning halfway over the desk, and glanced back at my own copy. It looked normal, no trace of the writing I’d just seen. What’s going on? Lori was staring at me in confusion. I felt light-headed, and got up from my seat.

“I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

I hurried out of the building, debating whether or not I should seek out a therapist or just figure out what bars were open this early. Once at my car, I kicked at the door in frustration, leaving a noticeable dent.


I called Ben as soon as I got home. Something strange was going on, and I needed someone reasonable to talk to. Plus, he was there last night, he saw what I saw.

Ben picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Liz. Can you talk?”

“Yeah, sure.” He sounded distant.

I took a deep breath. “I want to talk about last night, about that thing we saw in the woods. That man, or whatever it was.”

“Liz, can you speak up?”

“I want to talk about that man we saw last night,” I said louder. “In the woods outside your house.”

Ben was silent for a moment, before he said, “Do you hear that? The music…”

Another second of silence, and then the dial tone. Ben had hung up on me. I cursed, and then paced the living room, trying to figure out what to do next. I’d just screwed up the only job interview I’d lined up in months, and even worse, I was seeing things. The TV was on in the next room, distracting me from my crisis, and I picked up the remote to turn it down.

It was an older sitcom, one I used to watch a few years back, and as I began to lower the volume, something happened that made my blood run cold.

The actor onscreen, the current love interest of the season, turned and looked straight at the camera. Straight at me. In a flat monotone, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“In eight minutes and fifty-four seconds she will beg you to do it. In twenty-seven seconds the guilt will pass. In three hours and eighteen seconds no one will be watching. In nineteen minutes and twenty-two seconds the school—“

I shut off the TV. My whole body was shaking, and I felt like I might throw up. Sinking to my knees, I held my head in my hands for a minute.

The front door opened, and I heard happy chatter as my parents walked in the house. I hadn’t realized they were out, and I quickly got to my feet, trying to wipe the fear off my face.

“How’d the interview go, sweetie?” Mom said when she saw me.

There was no point in hiding it. “Bad, really bad.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, honey,” Mom said sincerely. “I’ll admit, I thought you got the job and were out all night celebrating!”


My mother continued, sounding a little annoyed now: “But whatever the reason, I wish you’d tell me when you won’t be home. And I mean actually telling me, not just drunk dialing me.”

She headed into the kitchen now where Dad was unpacking groceries. I realized my mouth was agape. What was she talking about? I’d just gotten home from the interview not even a half hour ago. And what did she mean by ‘drunk dialing’? My phone was lying on the table, so I picked it up.

To my utter shock, my phone said I had 73 unread texts and 24 missed calls. Then I saw the date, and my stomach dropped. My phone said it was Thursday, yet I’d left for the interview on Wednesday. I was missing a whole day.

Hesitantly, I opened the first unread text. It was from a girl I hadn’t spoken to since college. She wrote: WTF ARE YOU ON ABOUT? STOP CALLING ME! The next text was from a guy I dated back in high school: DID YOUR PHONE GET STOLEN? SOMEONE LEFT ME A WEIRD MESSAGE. The next, I realized with embarrassment, was from my uncle: LIZ, I HOPE YOU DON’T THINK THIS IS FUNNY. I KNOW YOU’RE A SMART GIRL, PLEASE STOP THIS BEHAVIOR. The texts went on. I didn’t even want to listen to the voicemails.

Pulling up my call history, I realized in horror that I’d called every single person in my contacts multiple times during my missing day. I felt numb. Thinking back to my resume, and the actor on TV, I had a pretty good idea of what kind of things I’d been saying over the phone.

I didn’t know what to do, but I suddenly felt exhausted and went up to my room. Even though it only made me feel worse, I rifled through my phone again, feeling more and more nauseated as I looked at all the people I’d called: friends, family, networking connections and one night stands. One number stood out, however. It wasn’t in my contacts, it had been typed in on the keypad and the call went on for almost ten minutes. I puzzled over it, but couldn’t bring myself to look up the number online and see whose it was. I needed sleep.

I was standing in the middle of a crowded mall. I thought I was dreaming at first, but it soon became clear that I was very much awake. How did I get here? The last thing I remembered, I was lying in bed, about to fall asleep. I was holding my phone…those strange calls…

I patted my pockets and found my phone. With sudden dread, I checked the date. It was Friday afternoon. I’d lost more time. No new messages, luckily. Re-pocketing my phone, I spun in a circle, trying to get my bearings. I’d been to the mall plenty of times before, but the sudden change of scenery was disorienting. I spied a directory nearby, and went to look at the map.

I located the “You Are Here” sign quickly, but that wasn’t the only thing that drew my attention. An odd block of text was crammed into the store listings, and without thinking, I read the first line aloud.

“In two hours and four minutes and one second she won’t hear you coming.”

It was almost imperceptible. If I hadn’t been fearfully alert already, I would have missed it. But, as I spoke those words, the man next to me straightened up ever so slightly. I saw his face just before he walked away with a determined spring in his step: He was smiling. Because of what I said?

Somehow, I knew the answer to that question was yes. Whatever I’d said had triggered something in him. I felt like I should be afraid, but instead I felt alive. Empowering. I wanted to try it again.

It didn’t take long for the words to come to me again. This time, they were written on a coupon an older woman handed to me as I passed the pretzel stand. I read the words loud and clear.

“In eighteen minutes and forty-three seconds you just need to cut a little deeper this time.”

No one around me seemed to take notice, except for one woman. She was sitting on the bench reading a book, and as soon as the words left my mouth, she raised her head, a small smile playing on her lips. I watched in wonder as she stood up right then and disappeared into the crowd.

I wanted more.

The words appeared in the most trivial places: the sign outside Macy’s, an announcement on the loudspeaker that only I could hear, a man’s novelty t-shirt. And each time I spoke, it triggered something in someone nearby. A lingering thought in the back of my mind made me wonder if I should care what might result from these words, but the truth is, what I was doing just felt right. So right.

I was ready to call it a day, when my phone rang. My pulse quickened when I saw the number: it was the unfamiliar number I’d called during my missing time. For the first time in hours, I felt a rush of fear. I wondered if I should ignore it, but I had to know who it was.

I answered the phone. “Hello?”

A crackle of static, and then:

“Hi Liz, it’s Meredith. We spoke the other day?”

I frowned, but simply said, “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to come in for an interview next week,” she said, more statement than question. “You know, it’s rare for a national news station to hire someone with so little experience, but I have to say, you really impressed us over the phone.”

National news station?

“So what do you say? Interested in joining the number one news team in the world?”

I was glad she couldn’t see me, because I’d broken into a face-splitting grin. Something new, something dark, was welling up inside me, wanting me to speak for it. It was begging for an outlet, and I was going to get just that. Sure, I could speak to the people around me now, tell them how to unlock their darkest desire. But soon, very soon…

I will speak to the entire world.

Hear No Evil

[Written by Reddit user MidnightCollective]..

I haven’t been able to talk to Matt or Liz about what happened that night. At first I wanted to. I needed to know that I wasn’t the only one who heard the lullaby that night.

I wanted to yell out for Liz to call the cops. To get Matt and tackle that sick son of a bitch holding the head of that poor girl. My mouth was open and the words were right on the tip of my tongue when the slow spin of the head brought it full circle to face me. I caught a glimpse of a mangled ear as the head spun around, only a mass of red flesh peeking out from the stringy hair.

It should have continued spinning. Free dangling object like that, that’s what they’re supposed to do. But it didn’t. It came to a dead stop when it was facing me. Her eyes were half open, only whites showing. The worst thing was her mouth. Her lips were still moving. I paused, mid-stride, at the impossible sight. She was saying something. No, singing something. The music I heard from earlier. It was coming from her mouth. The song stopped me in my tracks. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. The song was getting louder. Like it was the only sound in the entire world. I felt every fibre of my body.

The song didn’t stop. It got louder and louder. The volume revealed new wonders in the song, like little sub-tunes and arrangements hidden under the voice of the woman. Then the pain started. It felt as though my eardrums were fit to burst. I slapped my hands over my ears but it was too late, the song was coming from everywhere now. From inside my head too. I felt a warm wetness on both my hands and I knew that I was bleeding.

The pain drove me to my knees. Liz was right there. Her lips were moving but I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the song. I didn’t believe that the song could have gotten any louder but it did, building up to an unearthly crescendo as the blessed darkness finally took me.

My head ached horribly when I woke up on my bed. I didn’t remember how I got back. Two aspirin and an ice pack barely took the edge of the headache off. I decided to take a walk through the city to soothe my head. Stepping out of my home, I found myself whistling a catchy little tune. It took me a full 5 minutes to realize where it was from. It was the tune from the night before. I couldn’t get it out of my head. It was like I was 16 again listening to Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. It kept looping in my head. I hummed it to Shazaam on my phone. There was no hit.

I wondered the streets aimlessly, trying to walk off the twin distractions of the song and the thumping in my skull. That’s when I heard it. Above the low rumble of traffic, like a ray of sunlight in the darkness. The slow lilting tune of the song. I swung my head around, trying to figure out where the song was coming from. I grew impatient. Like a bloodhound, I took large strides down the empty streets, swinging my head around, trying to identify the source of the song.

Nothing. There was just a couple down the street having some kind of argument. The guy had his back towards me. He was a big dude. Maybe six and a half feet, wide as hell. I could barely see the outline of the woman he was shouting at. I only knew she was there because I saw her arms twitching wildly as the two of them argued.

The man draws a muscular arm back, palm open. In that split second where his arm cocked back, I found the source of the music. The same straggly hair. The same half opened eyes, rolled up, whites exposed. Her mouth was still open, just like it was the night before. Still singing to me.

My heart was still thumping in my chest when I slammed the door to my home. I told myself that it must have been a mistake. Some deranged fever dream brought on by lack of sleep. Or maybe a blow to the head. For a second there, I thought I had heard the singing out there on the street, seen the face of girl again. Then the man brought his hand down in a big sweeping arc, the rifle shot of the slap made me blink and the face was gone, all that was left was the scared face of a different young woman.

The phone in the hall rang, making me jump. It sounded like it was a mile away.

“Hey, it’s Liz. Can you talk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and tapped it. Liz sounded distant, like the volume of the phone was off.

“I want to talk about last night, about that thing we saw in the woods. That man, or whatever it was.”

“Liz, can you speak up?” I could barely hear her. The response was a quiet whisper I could barely hear. Then there was something else. “Liz, can you hear that? The music?” The phone went dead. Or at least, I couldn’t hear anything over the faint tune calling out to me from the window. The lullaby felt like an old friend. I leaned out of the window. It felt like it was coming from across the street. Then I saw her. One of those people on the fringe of your vision that your mind filters out. A scavenger on the seabed of society, pushing a shopping trolley filled with the detritus of her sorry life. She could have been anywhere between 20 to 60. Her hang hung down in matted dreadlocks, covering her face. On a good day, a sympathetic pang would have been the appropriate response, on any other day, in disgust and feigned ignorance. Today, hearing her humming that song filled me with an inexplicable joy instead.

I burst out of my house. She was only 30 yards away, moving her trolley at a snail’s pace. I caught up with her easily, but slowed for the last few yards, both to savour the sweet strains of the song as well as to avoid the smell wafting downwind. The faint white marks on her arms stood still stood out against the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She was humming the tune I remembered. It filled my entire world. I couldn’t hear anything else.

I hesitated, then gently tapped her on the shoulder. “Ma’am, excuse me but I need to know the name of that…”

Half opened eyes peered out at me from behind the cage of her dirty hair. It was her again. The beauty of the tune in stark contrast with the gaping hole in her face from which it poured forth.

I took a step back in horror at the apparition before me. The heel of my foot caught on the edge of the sidewalk and the visage in front of me was replaced by a view of the open blue sky as I landed hard on the cold asphalt.

The sunlight was blotted out by the slightly concerned face of the shopping trolley lady. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like some predatory eel. I frowned and raised one trembling hand to my ear. I snapped my fingers till they were sore, just to make sure. I couldn’t hear a thing.

I think lost it for a few minutes. I screamed for an eternity. Only after pausing for breath for the third time did I accept that I could not hear my own voice. I didn’t remember how I got into my car and started driving, or where I intended to go. The silence in the car was eerie, even as I whipped down the empty roads. No growl of the engine. No wind howling by the open window. I don’t know how far I got before I saw the accident. The tiny car had wrapped itself around a tree. The hood, crumpled like so much tin foil. As I stopped my car, I heard it again. The faint sound of the song, coming from the other car. It filled me with a terrible joy, to be able to hear again and to have my ears filled with such beauty.

I peered into the car. The driver was a young woman about my age. No seat belt. Her face was pressed up against the airbag, presenting me with only one flawless half. A syrupy crust of blood gluing the other side of her face to the airbag hinted at the damage that had already been wrought there. Not the face of the woman from the night before. Just an ordinary lady. Just like anyone on the street.

Her one blue eye focused on me, pleading. The song was very loud in my ears. I had my very own front row seat to the best live performance in the world. I watched with childlike fascination as her lips purses and forced out words slightly out of sync with the song.

Help me.

Help me.

Help me.

A single perfectly formed tear rolled down her face. I squatted there by the roadside until the song got softer and softer. Then it stopped. Then I drove home.

There’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I try hard enough, I can still catch hints of the dross that fills the ears of the rest of humanity. There’s no reason for me to want to do that. The man in the woods showed me something else. That there is a song in pain. In madness. It’s played on flesh and sinew and nerve.

I have everything I need. It’s amazing what you can get from a Home Depot. Cable ties. Duct tap. A sturdy knife.

Someone will sing for me tonight.

See No Evil


I awoke. My eyes and lips were crusted, and my throat was dry. I was lying on the ground. You know the way the ground gets on a cold, November morning? Hard and solid, almost like the dirt has morphed into round needles, tearing into your side. I was in the woods.

I groaned, and rubbed my eyes as I attempted to sit up and look around. My eyes began to focus, and I realized I was not alone.

Standing in front of me was a man. He was about average height, maybe 5’10 with buzzed brown hair and light blue eyes. He was wearing a suit, with a thin black tie and white shirt covered up by a seemingly expensive black jacket. To be honest, he appeared to be straight out of a GQ magazine. He smiled down at me.

"What the… who the fuck are you? How did I…" I sputtered.

His loops moved. It was if he was singing, the way his lips fluttered up and held in position. But no sound escaped. I blinked, refocused my eyes, and he was gone.

Frantically, I looked around and realized I had even more pressing problems. I was deep in the woods, probably a half mile from my home by the looks of it. I could not see the lights from my neighborhood, which bordered the woods on nearly all sides. It was still dark, though it looked as though light was slowly creeping its way through the branches. I stood, and brushed myself off as I desperately tried to remember the events that had led to me sleeping in the woods.

The man with the head.

It was the last thing I remembered, standing inches away from this sadistic man carrying a severed head like it was a deflated basketball. What had led me to walk towards him? Why hadn’t I run the fuck out of there and dialed 911? Honestly, I couldn’t tell you.

I reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone. The time and date read 4:15 A.M, November 21st, over the blinking signal of a new text message. I opened it up, and was none too surprised to see several new messages.

"Where are you? Was going to order some food for dinner." - Mom, 9:30 P.M.

"Really wish you would call if you’re staying out so late." - Mom, 12:30 A.M.

"Yo, are we doing anything tomorrow night? I’m sure your busy, that wall isn’t going to stare at itself, right?" - This one was from one of my buddies at my old school. He had been hoping I’d come up to visit that weekend. 12:45 A.M.

The last, however, was quite frightening under the circumstances. It was a voicemail from Liz. In a flat, monotone voice that was clearly still her own, she said:

In thirty minutes and twelve seconds, all it takes is one match.

After I heard that, I began to run. You have to understand, that after just waking up in the woods with no memory of what happened, seeing a man disappear in front of my eyes, and receiving a creepy voicemail from one of my only friends who had seen me last, I had no idea what to do. Fight of flight, right? Well, my instinct at the moment was flight.

I jetted down the path cut into the side of the hill in the woods. Light had crept up through the trees as the sun made its ascent in the sky, which gave way to shadows in the dark.

As I ran, I swore I saw the man in the suit several times. Leaning against a tree, standing between the tall evergreens… he was waiting. Watching. I kept running.

After a few minutes, I finally made it through the exit to the woods, and collapsed on the grass outside. I gasped and coughed as I looked around frantically and briefly considered my options.

Option A, I head to the police station and explain what happened.

"Well, hello officer, I saw a possible apparition of a man with a severed head outside my buddy’s house last night. Then I woke up in the woods with no recollection of how I got there. Oh, and I saw a dude in a suit."

That would earn me a first class trip to a psych ward.

Option B, call my friends and assess the situation.

This was a more reliable option, but neither answered my incessant calls. Since it was still only 4:30 in the morning, I assumed they were sleeping.

Option C, sleep this horrible fucking nightmare off.


I stumbled to my house, shaking off the stiffness in my knees and the aching in my head as I fumbled for the keys. I jabbed the right one in the lock, pushed it open, and locked it behind me.

Serenity and safety awaited me. I shucked off my shoes and climbed the carpeted stairs to my bedroom and, with a loud exhale, collapsed.

The moment I fell, I was out like a light. The coolness of the sheets of a bed that hadn’t been slept in welcomed me, wrapping their frozen fingers around me into a tight cocoon. I awoke, in a dream.

The following is what I recorded on a notepad, a minute after I awoke. I’ve read that most dreams escape your memory quickly; it’s said you can forget up to 90% by the next day. I couldn’t let that happen with this one. I needed to remember. I needed every last detail.

I awoke in a cold, empty cellar. I can still remember the drip, drip of water landing on the smooth, yet unfinished floor. The cellar wasn’t very big, maybe fifteen feet wide and thirty long. There was a large metallic door in the middle of the room. There was one light.

The aching and stress of the past two days was gone. In fact, it was as if every worry and tedious to-do had been erased from my mind. I had no thoughts of the past or the future, or even the present. My mind was a beautifully, pristine white empty canvas. I felt alive, I felt confident, I felt…. Free. And I didn’t care to know why.

The sound of metal scraping against the floor caught my meandering perception. The door pushed inwards, as the man in the black suit slowly strode through. He turned to me, and smiled.

”Is it time?” I found myself saying.

He did not answer, but he turned around and pulled a figure through the door behind him. It was a woman. Her mouth was sewn shut, her ears were bloody holes, and yet she was still alive. Her eyes darted around the room frantically before they locked onto my own.

A feeling grew inside of me, rising from the pit of my stomach to top of my throat at I locked onto those eyes. I felt like a boy before prom…. nervous, unsure, determined… and most of all… excited.

I licked my lips, and spoke again.

"Hold her down."

The man smiled again, as he grabbed her by the back of her neck and held her down, like an owner would to do to a mischievous pet. Her eyes never left mine.

In one swift motion, I threw the man to the side and grabbed his knife. I lifted it in my hand, as his grin only grew wider.

It glistened and reflected in the dim light of the cellar as I turned it this way and that. So simple… just widdled down and sharpened metal, really. I felt power course through my cursed veins, as if the moment had awoken some vast source of adrenaline stored deep inside me. I turned to the girl on the floor, and I slit her fucking throat.

She coughed and gagged piteously, her eyes wide as blood seeped through the crude stitches on her mouth. She slumped to the ground as blood pooled beside her.

The man laughed. The first noise he had made as he lay crumpled on the floor. He looked towards me, and spoke in a clear, crisp tone.

"Aren’t you forgetting something?"

I drew the flat side of the blade across my arm, cleaning the blood off of it as I pulled the girl back up. I slide the knife into the back of her eye socket, careful not to damage the serene white sclera as I worked my way around. I jetted it outwards, and was rewarded with a sickening pop. I repeated the motion on the left, and smiled as both of her eyes lay on the floor.

I turned to my left, and the man was standing next to me. He smiled, and struck a match to the back side of the pack. He dropped the flame to the floor.

I awoke.

Texts From Anna


My hands are shaking with both anger and fear as my fingers tap the keyboard. I’m finding that the only thing that’s keeping me from punching the walls and screaming, crying, or begging is the melodic noise of the keys humming along while my fingers tap away. It’s so calming, so… soothing. Like a slow song you play over and over again when you are down. It doesn’t necessarily cheer you up, but it resonates. Combine that with the handle of Jack Daniels that’s working its way on empty, and I’m finally in a good place for the first time in weeks. I hope that you will forgive my typos, or grammar inaccuracies, because I simply can’t stop typing for fear I’ll go insane.

I will not give you my location, my name, or any personal details. Its safer that way. I don’t want her to find where we’re hiding.

Let me start from the beginning. In May, I graduated from University and moved to a small suburban town just outside the city. I was set up with a good job, and after a few months I started to burn the excess weight picked up from countless nights of college debauchery; drinking, smoking, overeating, you name it.

One night, I decided to test this new found confidence and head out to the city bars. After a few (lite) beers at home, my buddies and I packed into a taxi that jetted its way to our favorite local hotspot.

As soon as we get there, we decide to tip the meter from buzzed to, well, a bit more than buzzed. We order two rounds of shots which go down the throat nicely with a cold draft of beer. Immediately after, one of my friends notices a buddy from high school across the bar, and drunkenly stumbles over to pursue a conversation about baseball, girls, and who knows what else. The other two go outside to grab a smoke, leaving me sitting at the bar alone with a half drank beer and stupid smile.

After about two minutes, a woman comes over and sits next to me. She’s about five and a half feet, dark hair, dark skin, dark leather jacket. She’s fairly attractive, so I do a ‘subtle’ once over as she leans forward to collect her draft.

She catches me looking, and turns and smiles.

"It’s nice of you to take your friends out."

I smile my dumb smile, and ask her stupidly, “What do you mean? We all came out together.”

The corners of her lips turn upwards in a mocking smile, as she asks “Are you the oldest?”

My own smile turns to a slight look of confusion as I respond “Well…. yeah, I guess I am. But only bye a few months.”

Her smile vanishes and she looks directly into my eyes, pausing for a second before she continues to speak; “I can tell. The others look as though they don’t fit in here. You, however, you look like you belong.”

At this point, I am pretty drunk. I am unsure whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, given that I was just told I belong at a skeevy down town bar. I make up some excuse about having to use the bathroom, and I stumble away from the bar.

Throughout the night, I notice the woman staring at me. No matter where I am, she remains rooted to that spot with a near full draft in here hands, her eyes studying me. Examining me. After a couple of hours of this, I am pretty creeped out and ask my friends if they’re ready to try a new bar. They grumpily agree, stating “the girls are beat here anyway.” We collect our coats and head towards the exits as I take one glance back to the bar stool where the woman had been sitting. The chair is empty.

I turn to head out the door and stop short, to find her standing directly in front of me. She has that weird look on her face, with the corners of her mouth turned up while the rest remains straight. Like a forced smile hiding some hidden intent.

"My name is Anna. Here’s my number."

I smile politely and drunkenly as I take the piece of paper and slide it in my pocket. I thank her as I move past and head out into the cool September air.

My friends laugh and treat me like a king after conquer. They pat me on the back and squeeze my shoulders, grinning and telling me to text the girl immediately. I refuse, but they grab my phone and hold me down as my idiot friend types out a message to the number on the paper.

"Hey Anna. You looked good tonight ;) nice to meet you."

Within seconds there is a buzz back.

"Thanks Matt. I think we both belong here.”

After this exchange, I manage to get up and grab the phone from my friend. We continue along with our night, grab a cab home, and sleep off our inevitable hangovers.

However, one fact is creeping along my mind as I drift to sleep. I never told her my name.

The next morning, I slide out of bed and grab my phone off the desk. Dead battery, perfect. I slide in the charger and push the Power button as my phone happily moves through its introductory welcome message.

Then, the screen lights up. New text message.

New text message.

New text message.

New text message. New text message. New text message. New text message. New text message. New text message.

Ten in total. I gasp and sit up as I open the ‘Messages’ application.

The first is from a girl I dated a few years ago. We’ll call her Laura. I had always been crazy about Laura, but due to her studying abroad we had never been able to hang out on a consistent basis. We faded out of contact when she got a new boyfriend in London, though I had missed her a lot ever since.

"I broke up with my boyfriend…" I smile. This is the text I had secretly been waiting a year and a half for. I move onto the next nine texts, all from the same person.


"So, where’d you guys end up last night?" 7:22 AM

"Hello?" 7:27 AM

"Why aren’t you answering?" 7:30 AM

"This is Anna, from the Globe. Don’t you remember?" 7:35 AM

"Fucking dick." 7:37 AM

"I belong with you, you belong with me, in my sweet hoooome" 7:45 AM

I gulp. That last message is the lyrics from a song I posted on Facebook a couple days before.

"Do I have to find you to reach you? ;)" 7:50 AM

"Don’t you believe in fate, Matthew?" 8:00 AM

"The flowers you have outside your house are very pretty." 9:15 AM

With that, I slam my phone on the table and immediately pull up the Verizon website to block her number. I find the link and immediately type it in the box. Done.

After a few weeks I put the matter behind me, deciding that this was just a creepy attempt to get my interest.

This leads me to two nights ago. After a few weeks of awkward conversations, I finally ask Laura on a few dates, which she happily accepts. I guess you could say we are officially together now. The one mistake I made was listing her as my girlfriend on Facebook.

Last night, Laura got a text

"Hello Laura, I would like to tell you a story about a woman I killed for stealing what was mine. Death is really quite fascinating… they don’t do it enough justice in the crime shows you see today. When you kill someone, there is a lot of blood. A lot. In most cases, I like to make death happen in open places, so that the blood is returned to the Earth from which it came. However, death wasn’t good enough for this particular bitch. When she was on her last dying breaths, I was prepared. You see, I brought a bag full of maggots that I had collected from an abandoned basement. As this stupid cunt gasped for air I poured my little baggy out onto her chest and laughed as they crawled and started to feed. Within minutes, they started to engulf her naked body, feeding on her. She was their bread, and their blood. I am their Jesus Christ, providing them this holy sanctum from which to drink and feed. You see Laura, this is what happens. When you intersect with fate, you are punished with a hore’s death. If you do not leave Matt alone, I will crucify you, and laugh as my little friends feed on the blood and tears that trickle down your body. Do you understand me, Laura? Do you understand what happens when you get in the way? He is mine."

When this text came in, Laura was in bed with me, so there was no hiding the look of fear on her face as the next message came in. A picture of Laura’s apartment in the daylight, taken a few hours ago. I gently took the phone from her and read the previous message, hastily packed some things, and shuffled her out the day, explaining the entirety of the story as I did.

We’re in a hotel now. I guess there’s no point of hiding that. She already knows, you see. An hour before I started typing this, Laura got one more picture message. It was a picture of the ‘No Vacancy’ sign out front.

EDIT: I can’t thank you enough for all of your support. Typing this out, and reading you comments have given me brief escapes into sanity. It helps to know you’re not alone.

Texts From Anna, Part 2

Soon after I wrote to you all this morning, we left the hotel. That was the advice many of you gave, RUN. I was hesitant to go outside with Laura immediately after this picture was taken, so I let her sleep a bit as I contemplated our next move.

After an hour of this, Laura stirred and woke to see me sitting in a chair by the door, with a bat and an empty bottle of Jack. God, she did not deserve this shit…

I snapped out of my trance, stood up and attempted to shake off my buzz. I climbed into bed and calmly explained what we needed to do.

Her beautiful brown eyes started to tear, but she understood. Wordlessly, we packed our clothes into the small bag we brought with us, got dressed, and walked out the front door. As we stepped out into the small parking lot, paranoia seeped into my mind as I constantly looked over my shoulder. Luckily, it was bright midday, so no one could go unseen, and no one was around.

I called the hotel and checked out over the phone as Laura sped down the freeway, her mouth still agape in a state of wordless, teary shock.

The second part of the plan was to do what many of you have told me to do in the comments: go to the police. So we did. I spoke for about two hours with a very matter-of-fact officer who seemed to think I was quite the wimp (can’t handle a girl? cmon now buddy!) I showed him the text and picture messages, and he reluctantly agreed to open a report on the incident, though there was no physical contact meriting harassment. Plus, I had no information to go on. I only knew her name and cell phone number, which was traced back to a pre-paid phone. He did, however, ask that we stay in the area so that he can have some officers keep an eye on us. We gave him the address of our next location (a motel on the other side of town) and were on our way.

As soon as we got to the motel room I collapsed in bed. I had barely slept in a few days, and the effects of the Jack Daniels were taking their toll. The last thing I saw before I passed out was Laura studying her laptop screen.

I woke up hours later. I groggily wiped the sleep out of my eyes, readjusted my contacts and looked out to see dusk had came and went. I reached my hand out to the still-warm spot on the bed next to me.


Anyone who has ever experienced loss can relate to this… first there is the heart wrenching feeling of panic. It makes you pull your hair out, curse, cry, scream, fight. Then, there is what I can only describe as deep exhale — in that moment, all your future plans go out the window. The first thing that went through my mind was that Laura was gone. Taken. She would never be able to meet my parents. She would never walk down the aisle to see me waiting at the altar, smiling as I admired her beautiful strides in a plain, white dress. We would never come home to each other every night, start our own family… with the stereotypical white picket fence and red shutters. I’d imagined it a thousand times, since the moment I met her. It sounds like a cliche, and it probably is, but fuck it, I knew at that moment how much I wanted to marry this girl.

I sat there, tears flowing freely as i clutched my head in my hands for a couple minutes, trying to think of what to do. Then, as i began to sit up, I heard footsteps outside my door. Light ones, tap tap tap, the sound of someone who was in a hurry.

She’s coming for me. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. I smashed the empty bottle of Jack Daniels against the night stand and stood directly in front of the door as the knob slowly turned and opened.

Standing there, was Laura.

I grabbed her and hugged her, pulling her in close and slamming the door behind her and locking it as I backed away from it. Her face was equal parts bewilderment and fear as she looked into my eyes.

"Babe, I just wanted to get you some water…"

I laughed as I kissed her and pushed her down to the bed. Then, as I came down to join her, my laptop let out the happy binggggg to let me know I had a new email.

Laughing and groaning, I rolled over the bed and logged into my computer. This is what I found, copy and pasted:

Fate is a fickle friend, is it not Matthew? That night at the bar, fate found us. There is no other explanation!

Again as fate would have it, I just HAPPENED to be walking down the street when I saw your pretty little bitch walk into the store. Dressing like a slut, isn’t she? Long black pants with such a low cut shirt… Do you like that, Matt? I can dress like that for you. You’ll see.

I thought about taking her then. It would be so easy… wait until she was alone on one street, render her unconscious (I have my ways ;) ) and throw her in my car. Then I’d take her back to the place where I return the sluts to the dirt, and drain the blood from her fucking body. Rip open her veins with a knife and watch as that pretty color fade from her skin. Tear out those fucking eyes you love so much and feed them to the wilderness. If you’re so attached, I can cut off her hair and keep it? Maybe I’ll wear it out on our first date? It’d make the transition so much easier…

Don’t you see? There is a plan for all of us. A line of destiny in which we need to follow. Sometimes, that line can be obscured and blurred, and you may stray onto the beaten path. You need something to push you in the right direction. I belong with you, you belong with me.

Here’s a screenshot of the e-mail. The texts, and my phone, are now police evidence. This soon will be as well…

Texts From Anna, Part 3

Thank you for listening. This is quickly spiraling out of control…

I’ve switched from vodka to cigarettes. Empty packs litter the floor around me as I suck them down like its my only salvation. I had quit for months…. but fuck it. At least I now have a clear head. After I received that last e-mail, I immediately contacted the police. I sent them the address and the entirety of the message in the hopes that they could trace the IP back to Anna’s computer. They did, but it wasn’t Anna’s computer that they found.

The laptop was personal property that had gone missing, along with it’s owner, two years ago.

Honestly, I would list the story regarding the disappearance here, because I just don’t give a shit anymore, but the police are not even aware that I am posting my story here. I don’t want them to be able to find it, and have it somehow hinder an ongoing investigation. We’ll call the man in question Bryan for this reason. Bryan is presumed to be dead, along with his longtime girlfriend, as there was a significant amount of blood found at his home the day they disappeared.

As I was saying, the police were able to find the laptop used to send out the last e-mail by tracing the network address, which was assigned to a local library in town. What’s more, was Anna was still logged into the computer’s email account at the time of the trace.

The police, thinking they had hit a spot of luck, sent a few cars to the library in the hopes of catching Anna still there. They were not so lucky.

They arrived to find the black laptop sitting on a wooden desk in a small alcove of the library. After doing a quick search of the surroundings, no one matching Anna’s description was found. In fact, it was an odd hour of the morning, and the librarian said they had only had a few patrons, none of whom were women. Regardless, it appears the laptop was left open as a taunt at some point. When they turned off the screensaver, they were greeted by a prompt that read ‘Squeal Piggy Squeal!!’. Surprisingly enough, they were still able to access the computer’s files, which were empty. On her e-mail account, however, several e-mails were in her outbox, sent to me (I have since deleted the e-mail account). They gave me the transcripts, in the hopes that I could make sense of the messages. Sadly…. I could. Here they are, typed out from the piece of paper in front of me:

1.) You can’t hide forever. Do you really think involving the police will help? You don’t even know who I am. But you will, oh you will…

2.) I think you’ll find I look quite different now. I dress like a dirty fucking whore, just the way you like.

3.) The dirt screams for her blood. I love the earrings she had on today. Maybe I’ll just rip them off and wear them myself. Would you like that? You look cute today. Did you like my gift?

4.) “You can stare right into the abyss, but it’s staring right back.”

5.) You need to fucking answer. You’ll learn that soon.

6.) “Anyone that’s making something new only breaks something else.” Oh, I’d love to break it…

7.) Let me tell you the story of my former boyfriend. His name was Bryan, and we loved each other very much. He would take me to dinner every weekend, shower with the praise and affection deserved of someone who’s life has been devoted to. I found it odd, however, that I never met any of his family. Not his friends, his co-workers, or even his fucking cousins. I began to… suspect things. Terrible things. One night I came over to his house, out of the blue, and knocked on the door. I heard nervous shuffling and hurried voices as the door was opened a crack, enough for me to see his lying fucking eyes through the door. “Oh, hey…” he gasped to me breathlessly. “I’m in the middle of a business call…”

"Business call? Who’s there honey" said the voice of the whore inside.

His eyes went wide as he looked at me, like a deer caught in the headlights. I pushed open the door, causing him to fall back and slam his head. The scene that was revealed to me was one of horror—- some whore was lying in the bed that I had laid so many times before…. between the only sheets that had made me feel warm and at home for so long.

Then the whore spoke. “Who the fuck are you?” She asked through her lying lips. I grabbed her by her hair, and I slit her fucking throat on the spot.

I turned to my sweet, sweet Bryan with the hores half severed head in my hands and asked him why. Why did he choose to destroy our fate? He tried to run, and I laughed as he tripped over his own belt lying on the floor. I got on top of him and fucked him one last time before I covered his mouth and knocked him out. How did I get them out, you ask? Well, that’s a story for another time. Maybe next time we get a chance to talk ;).

Here’s the last:


I think I’m drowning..


I want to break the spell

That you’ve created

You’re something beautiful

A contradiction

I want to play the game

I want the friction

You Will be The DEATH Of me.

You Will be The DEATH Of me.

Bury it…. I won’t let you bury it…. I won’t let you smother it…. I won’t let you murder it..

Your time is running out, Matthew. I will not be ignored.

Again, this song was posted on my (deleted) Facebook.

As for the ‘gift’… Laura and I stopped by my apartment today to pick up some things. There was a bottle of vodka, with a bow on it, waiting for us by the door.

Texts From Anna, Final

It has been four days since I began to share with you all my incredibly fucked up story. In that time, I have not been to work. I have barely slept. I have lived entirely in fear. My body has began to rebel from the countless doses of alcohol and nicotine that I have pumped into my bloodstream like an unending syringe.

Naysayers… you probably won’t believe this last part. I considered never even uploading it; because fuck it, who would believe me? I am having trouble coming to grips with it myself; and have tried to convince myself that nothing has happened countless times.

However, writing everything out here has been… therapeutic. It has helped me realize that I am not alone, that there is some shred of decency left, and for that I thank you, nosleep. For all of you who have been with me since the beginning… I feel I owe it you to conclude this shit show. So here it is.

Yesterday, around mid morning, I received a call from the police department. After doing some technical work on the laptop they found, they were able to pinpoint a location from which previous e-mails were sent out. An apartment building located on the outskirts of town.

When they got there, however, they were greeted by a blood bath. A woman somewhat matching Anna’s age and description was found dead; bludgeoned to death by a blunt object of some sort. They called and asked me to come into identify the body — hoping my story would help to shed some light on the killer.

I arrived at the police station around noon, thoroughly exhausted and slightly hungover. Laura stayed behind… I did not want her to have to see a dead body after everything she had been through.

At the station, a solemn faced officer greeted me and walked me to the room where the body was being held. Gingerly, he unwrapped the white sheet over her face and stepped back, studying my facial expression as he did.

The woman who laid there was certainly Anna. However… she had changed. Her black hair was held up in a ponytail, and she wore dark rimmed glasses that outlined a severely bruised and bloody face. On her shoulder, a newly inked tattoo reflected in the bright overhead light. An ornate cross, done entirely in black ink. Just like Laura, just like she said. Only, Laura had the name of her parents on either side. Anna’s was blank. I shuddered to think who’s names belonged there.

I told the police officer that this was the woman who had been harassing me, though I had no idea as to how she was killed. Luckily, there had been a squad car patrolling the area surrounding our hotel last night, and my car had never left, so I was not considered a suspect in Anna’s murder. I thanked the officer, and made my way out to my car, emotionally exhausted, but ready to begin to put the whole thing behind me.

I drove to our hotel, and grabbed a bad out of the back seat so I could begin to pack our things up and ‘move out’. I smiled as I saw the metal bat draped across the back seat, and threw it in the bag I then carried inside.

I smiled to the clerk at the desk as I waited for the elevator that ascended to our floor.

1, 2, 3, 4, stop.

I gingerly stepped out the elevator and proceeded to my door. I slid the key in the reader, and pushed it open. What lay before me was an image I feel I will never be able to erase from my mind.

Laura was lying on the floor, crumpled against the desk in a pool of blood. She had a large gash across her forehead. Standing over her was a man, who… looked quite like me. He was about 5’10, with brown hair and blue eyes. His clothing was dirty and tattered, and in his hand he held a long piece of… well, I guess it was metal. Maybe a pipe or something like that. To be honest, I was too distracted by the site of my girlfriend lying in a pool of her own blood. Unconscious. Likely dead.

Then, the man turned to look at me. The corners of his lips turned up in that same sickly way I had seen only a few weeks before. On him, the smile seemed almost inhuman. It was the smile of a man who had long since escaped the fringes of sanity.

"There you are. My name is Bryan. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?"

Then, he came at me. He lifted the pipe over his head and bull rushed. Still in a state of shock, I was able to step to the side and back up, causing me to only catch a glancing blow to my knee. Nevertheless, the pain was instantaneous. I limped away from Bryan, my back to the hotel room’s balcony, as he turned to face me once again.

"She was mine. You took her from me. What’s fair, is fair." He motioned to Laura’s lifeless body.

As I looked down at her, I felt all the rage that had built up inside of me for weeks. As Bryan rushed me once again, I reacted. I grabbed the bat that I had luckily thrown in the bag, and stepped to the side before I took a healthy, level swing.

It connected with its mark. Bryan doubled over, coughing blood and cursing as he backed up. When his back hit the railing, he stopped coughing and looked up at me with the same sickly smile.

"Do you think she’ll forgive me?" With that, he turned around, and jumped off the seven story high balcony.

I will need surgery. Several ligaments in my knees have been torn, including my ACL. The bone was fractured.

Laura was dealt a severe concussion. She was packing her things yesterday morning, when there was a knock at the door. She thought I left my key behind, so she opened it. Bryan knocked her over the head with the pipe, rendering her unconscious. I discovered them like that soon after.

The police have told me that the fingerprints at Anna’s apartment match Bryan’s. The working theory at the moment is that Bryan discovered Anna’s obsession, and killed her out of anger. He found the addresses she had written down, and came to find me as well. He had been living with Anna since the murder of his girlfriend, it appeared. Whether that began as a choice or through force, has yet to be determined.

For those of you wondering why Anna would ever seek me out when she had Bryan…. I don’t know. Maybe she never forgave him for his ‘affair’. Or maybe she’s just fucking crazy, and could not be controlled. All I know at the moment, is that Laura and I are alive and safe. And that is what is important.

Thank you.

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