u/Aggressive-Public756

​

I created r/AggressiveHorror a while ago. I'm the only moderator. I write horror stories and post them there.

I'm struggling to set things up properly. Specifically:

1. AutoModerator – I can't get it to work. The YAML config page gives me "unsupported media type" errors and the new automation GUI is limited. I need a working config that filters new accounts, low karma users, and blocks URL shorteners.

2. Spam filter – some of my posts get removed by Reddit's spam filter for no reason. How do I adjust the filter sensitivity or whitelist my own posts?

3. Finding additional moderators – I'm a high school student, can't be online 24/7. What's the best way to find trustworthy people to help mod? Are there communities where I can recruit?

4. Mobile moderation – I do everything from my phone. Any tips or tools to make mobile modding easier?

I've read the docs but I'm stuck. Any advice is appreciated. I just want my subreddit to work so people can actually see my stories without them getting filtered.

Thanks.

​

I wrote a story. Removed. Wrote another. Removed. No reason. No message. Just gone.

I am not spamming. I am not breaking rules. I am just trying to share nightmares.

My eyes hurt. I have been staring at screens for hours. My head is heavy. My throat is raw. I am sick. Not dying. Just tired.

I started this because I love writing. Because the notebook spoke to me. Because the shadow needed a home.

Now the shadow has nowhere to go.

So I am posting here. My own corner. r/AggressiveHorror. No one removes my stories here. No one tells me I am not welcome.

If you are reading this, thank you. If you are also tired, sit down. Rest. The dark does not judge.

I will keep writing. Even if my eyes close. Even if my hands shake. The notebook is still open.

Now go read something I wrote. It is free. It is here. It is not going anywhere.

🖤

​

My father died when I was three. Cancer. I have one memory of him. His hands. Rough. Warm. That is all.

Last week, I cleaned out his old closet. My mother never touched it. His clothes still hung there. Dust. Mothballs. A shoebox on the top shelf.

Inside: a cassette tape. Labeled with my name and a date. The date was two years after he died.

I found an old player. I pressed play.

Static. Then a baby crying. Then a man's voice. "Shh, little one. Daddy's here."

The baby stopped crying. The man hummed a lullaby. The same lullaby my mother sang to me.

I rewound. Listened again. The baby was me. But I was three when he died. The tape was dated two years later.

I called my mother. She was quiet. Then she said, "Your father had a black notebook. He wrote things in it. Predictions. He said he could reach forward. I thought he was sick."

I asked where the notebook was. She said, "I burned it after he died."

I am sitting in his closet. The tape is on loop. His voice sings to me. A voice I barely remember.

I do not know how the tape was made after he died. I do not know if the notebook did it. I do not know if he did it.

I know the lullaby. And I know I am not crying.

Sometimes the people we miss most find the best ways to say hello.

My wife passed away when Lily was born. Complications. I never hid it from Lily. She grew up with a photo of her mom on the nightstand. She knew the stories. The lullabies. The way her mom laughed at her own jokes.

But she never got to play with her.

Last month, Lily asked if she could try Roblox. All her friends were on it. I hesitated. Not because of the game. Because I knew she would see other kids playing with their moms. I said yes anyway.

I set up an account for her. Helped her choose an avatar. She picked a bright yellow shirt and purple hair. Her favorite colors.

That night, she came running into the living room. Her eyes were wide. Not scared. Shining.

"Dad, I got a friend request."

"From who?"

She turned the tablet around. The username was "MommyAngel_2017."

I felt my chest tighten. 2017 was the year Lily was born. The year my wife died.

I said, "It's probably just someone random, sweetheart."

She shook her head. "No. Look."

She accepted the request. The avatar popped up. Yellow shirt. Purple hair. Same as Lily's. But with a little heart‑shaped hair clip. Just like the one my wife wore in our wedding photo.

Lily typed: "Hi! Who are you?"

The reply came fast. "I'm your mommy, baby. I've always been watching you."

I sat down. Lily giggled. "Dad, she knows my nickname."

We played together for an hour. The MommyAngel avatar moved like she knew the game. She showed Lily secret areas. She collected coins and shared them. She typed things only my wife would know.

"You still sleep with the penguin stuffed animal I left you."

"The song I sing to you is the same one my mom sang to me."

"Your dad burns toast every morning. Tell him to turn the dial down."

Lily laughed. I cried. Quietly.

That was three weeks ago. MommyAngel logs in every night at the same time. 8:47 PM. The time Lily was born. She helps Lily with her school projects in the game. She builds dream houses. She gives advice about bullies and friendship.

Last night, Lily asked, "Mommy, why don't you come home?"

The avatar paused. Then the message came.

"Because I am already there. I never left. I just needed a way to show you. The game was my door."

Lily looked up at me. Her eyes were wet. But she was smiling.

"Daddy, Mommy says she loves us both very much. And that she's never really left."

I hugged her. I looked at the screen. The avatar waved. Then it logged off.

I don't know who or what MommyAngel is. Maybe a kind stranger. Maybe a glitch in the server. Maybe something else.

But I know Lily laughed more in the last three weeks than in the last three years.

And sometimes, that is enough.

Anyway do you guys prefer these kinds of stories from me?🍝🫪

Now go hug your kids. Or your stuffed animal. Or just your phone. Some connections are not meant to be explained. 💛🧸

Every full moon, a door appears.

It is not there the night before. It is not there the morning after. But at exactly 11:47 PM, when the moonlight hits the corner of the room just right, a wooden door with a brass handle materializes against the wall.

Maya was nine when she first saw it.

She had lost her favorite teddy bear three years ago. His name was Mr. Snuggles. Her grandmother had given him to her on the day she was born. After Grandma passed away, Mr. Snuggles was all Maya had left. Then he disappeared during a move. Maya searched every box. Every closet. Every memory.

She never found him.

On the night of the full moon, Maya woke up to a soft glow. The door was there. She had never seen it before. She touched the handle. It was warm.

She opened it.

Behind the door was not her bedroom. It was a cozy clubhouse. Soft yellow light. Bookshelves filled with odd objects. A fireplace crackling with no smoke. And in the center, a large oak table covered with things – a cracked watch, a single mitten, a faded photograph, a red balloon.

And a teddy bear.

Maya gasped. It was Mr. Snuggles. Same worn fur. Same missing button eye. She picked him up. He smelled like lavender. Like her grandmother's house.

Then the bear spoke.

"Hello, Maya. I have been waiting for you."

Maya did not scream. She was nine. She had dreamed of this.

Mr. Snuggles said, "I am not just a toy. Your grandmother put a piece of her kindness inside me. The day she died, I got lost. Not because you lost me. Because I chose to come here. To help other lost things find their way home."

Maya cried. "I missed you."

"I missed you too. But I cannot go back. I belong here now. However, I can tell you the stories she never got to tell."

For the next hour, Mr. Snuggles told Maya about her grandmother's childhood. About the time she fell off a bike and laughed instead of crying. About the secret recipe for her famous cookies. About the boy she loved who became Maya's grandfather.

Maya laughed. She cried. She held the bear tight.

At the end, the fireplace dimmed. The door appeared again.

Mr. Snuggles said, "You have to go. But remember – lost things are not gone. They are just waiting for someone to find them again."

Maya kissed the bear's forehead. She walked through the door.

She woke up in her bed. The door was gone. But in her hand was a single button. The one missing from Mr. Snuggles' eye.

She keeps it under her pillow. Sometimes, when she misses her grandmother, she holds the button and whispers, "I found you."

And somewhere, in the Lost & Found Club, a teddy bear smiles.

Now go check your room. The full moon is coming. 🌕🚪🧸

​

You have heard it too. That sound at night. Not a creak. Not a hum. A laugh. High. Small. Like a toddler hiding behind a door.

You told yourself it was the neighbors. The TV. A dream.

I told myself the same thing.

Last night, the laugh came from my closet. I opened the door. Nothing. Just coats. Just shoes. The laugh came again. From the back wall. I pressed my ear to the drywall. Silence. Then a whisper.

"Play with me."

I moved out the next morning. I am in a hotel now. The laugh followed. It is coming from the bathroom vent. I am not opening it.

If you hear a child's laugh when no child lives with you, do not look for it. Do not answer. Do not whisper back.

It is not a ghost. It is not a memory. It is something that learned your loneliness. And it wants to play.

More nightmares on my website. Free.

https://anonymousdestinybooks.vercel.app

If this made you check your closet, a coin on Ko‑fi keeps the stories coming.

https://ko-fi.com/aggressivechickenmeat

Now go listen. If you hear it, do not laugh back. It is not a game. 🚪👧

​

I woke up to a notification. "System update complete. New feature: Lifespan." I opened the clock app. A new timer. 72 hours. 71:59. 71:58.

I called my mother. She did not answer. I called my sister. She did not answer. I called my best friend. His phone rang. A voice answered. Not his. Automated. "The person you are trying to reach is no longer available. Please leave a message after the tone."

I left a message. "Call me. Something is wrong with my phone."

The timer dropped to 71:12.

I went outside. The streets were empty. No cars. No pedestrians. The sky was grey. Not cloudy. Just grey. Like someone had turned down the saturation.

I walked to the corner store. The door was locked. A sign: "Closed due to unforeseen circumstances." I peered through the window. Shelves were full. Lights were on. No one inside.

I tried the coffee shop. Locked. The bakery. Locked. The pharmacy. Locked.

Every door was closed. Every window was dark. But I saw movement. Behind the glass. Shapes. People. Standing still. Facing away.

I knocked. No one turned.

I went home. The timer was at 63:47. I opened social media. No new posts. No stories. No updates. The last post from anyone was from yesterday. Before the update.

I called my phone provider. A recording. "All lines are busy. Estimated wait time: 72 hours."

I looked at the timer. 63:02. The estimated wait time was the same as my remaining hours.

I am writing this on a laptop. The laptop has no timer. But the screen flickers. A red line at the bottom. It is counting up. Not down. 0:00:01. 0:00:02. 0:00:03.

I do not know what happens when it reaches 72 hours. I do not know what happens when my phone reaches zero.

I know the streets are empty. The doors are locked. The people are standing still.

And I know the timer is not a glitch. It is a deadline.

If your phone updates tonight, do not open the clock app. Do not count the hours. And if you see a red line counting up, turn off the screen. Do not look at it again.

Some deadlines are not for you. They are for the world. And the world is already late.

Now go check your phone. If it updated, do not open the clock. Just throw it in a drawer. Sleep. You do not want to know. 📱🕰️

I am 17. IQ 162. I live in a shed behind my mother's apartment. I boil trash.

My name is Greg. You have never heard of me. By the time you finish reading, you might wish you had not.

I discovered Hearth last Tuesday. It is a liquid. Amber. It burns clean. No smoke. No toxins. You can pour it into any car. Any engine. It costs pennies to make. It could end oil dependence overnight.

I tested it on a lawnmower engine. It ran for three hours. No noise. No smell.

I wrote the formula in my notebook. A black notebook. I found it in a dumpster. The cover was soft. The pages were thick. I did not know where it came from. I did not ask.

That night, my shed burned down. The fire department said faulty wiring. I knew the truth. Someone did not want Hearth to exist.

I hid the notebook. I told no one.

Three days later, two men in grey suits visited my school. They showed badges with no names. Just a triangle with an eye.

They said: "You are not the first. The formula has been discovered nine times in the last century. Each scientist died in an accident. Hand over the formula. We will keep you alive."

I ran.

I took the notebook. I hid in an abandoned subway station. I opened the notebook. It was warm. The pages turned by themselves. A new sentence appeared.

"Find the other holder. His name is Julian."

There was an address. I went.

Julian lived in a studio apartment. He was 26. He wore a grey sweater with a stain on the cuff. He did not smile. He did not ask questions. He just looked at me. Then he looked at my notebook.

He said, "I have one too."

He opened a floor safe. Inside, a black notebook. Older. The cover had a golden crack.

He said, "Yours is the youngest. Mine is the oldest. There were six between us. They are all dead."

I asked, "What killed them?"

He said, "The same thing that is coming for us."

That night, his notebook spoke. Not in writing. A voice. Low. Dry. Like paper rubbing against paper.

"You may ask me one question each."

Julian asked first. "How do we survive?"

The notebook answered: "A divine pardon. I can change the pre‑present or near future. One event. One timeline."

I asked my question. "What is Hearth? Why do they fear it?"

The notebook answered: "Hearth is not fuel. It is a key. It unlocks the energy that runs the gatekeepers' machines. They are not protecting the world. They are protecting their power."

Julian looked at me. I looked at him.

He said, "Then we burn it."

I said, "We need a plan."

Julian used the divine pardon. He asked for a time loop. The same day repeated until we got it right.

We tried seven times.

Loop 1: I posted the formula online. The gatekeepers deleted it. They traced my IP. I was captured.

Loop 2: Julian leaked it through anonymous networks. The gatekeepers activated a kill switch. The internet went dark.

Loop 3: We printed it on paper. Distributed by hand. The gatekeepers sent drones to burn every paper.

Loop 4: I hid the formula in a children's book. A child found it. Her parents posted it online. The gatekeepers found the child. She disappeared.

Julian stopped the loop. He was pale. He said, "We cannot distribute the formula. It is not the formula. It is the reaction. The reaction requires a catalyst that only you can create. They will not stop until you are dead."

I said, "Then I make the catalyst. I hide it in something they cannot destroy."

Julian looked at his notebook. The golden crack glowed.

He said, "Like what?"

I said, "Like crayons. Like school supplies. Like notebooks. They cannot destroy all crayons."

I made the catalyst. Small amber crystals. One gram could power a car for a year.

We hid them in boxes of crayons. We shipped them to schools. To libraries. To children's hospitals.

The gatekeepers found us. They captured me. They took me to a black site. Underground. White halls. No windows.

They put me in a machine. It read my neural patterns. It extracted the formula from my memory.

I screamed. I did not give in.

Julian came. He used his last divine pardon. He changed the near future. The machine exploded. The black site went dark. I ran.

He was outside. He grabbed my arm. We ran together.

The explosion released a shockwave. It damaged the gatekeepers' global grid. Power failed. Communications failed. For three minutes, the world went silent.

In those three minutes, my notebook wrote itself. It wrote the formula. The catalyst recipe. The names of the gatekeepers. The truth.

A child found the notebook. Her mother read it. She posted it online. This time, it stayed.

The gatekeepers fell. Their power collapsed.

We stood on a rooftop. The sun rose. The city was quiet.

Julian said, "What now?"

I said, "I do not know. I never planned past this."

He looked at me. For the first time, he almost smiled.

He said, "You were never the main character, Greg. You were the catalyst. I have been waiting for someone like you for years. Someone who would trigger the gatekeepers. Someone who would force me to use the divine pardon."

I said, "What are you talking about?"

He said, "The notebooks are not tools. They are parasites. They attach to holders and use them to extend their own existence. I figured this out years ago. I have been waiting for a holder like you – one whose notebook was young enough to be destroyed without destroying the network."

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out my notebook. The pages were blank. The cover was cold.

He said, "I used the last pardon to erase the formula from your mind. You will not remember Hearth. You will not remember the shed. You will remember me, but vaguely. Like a dream."

I tried to hold onto the memory. It slipped away. Like water through fingers.

Julian turned. He walked to the edge of the rooftop.

He said, "I am the last holder. There will be no more. The network is dead. I killed it."

He stepped off the roof. Not falling. Just gone.

I stood alone. The sun was warm. The city was waking up. I did not remember why I was there.

I looked down at my hands. They were empty.

I am writing this because a stranger on Reddit asked me to. I do not remember writing it. But the words are here. The story is here.

If you feel like something is missing from your memory – a formula, a fire, a friend – do not search for it. Some doors are left open for a reason.

My name is Greg. I am a science teacher now. I have a black notebook in my desk drawer. I do not know where it came from.

I do not open it.

But sometimes, late at night, I hear a voice. Low. Dry. Like paper rubbing against paper.

It says: "You were not the first. You will not be the last. The network is sleeping. It is not dead."

I close my eyes. I pretend I did not hear.

You should do the same.

Two notebooks. Two holders. One divine pardon. No forgiveness. The ending is unexplainable.

​

I opened my eyes. The ceiling was white. The sun was warm. My chest was light.

For the first time in twelve years, the weight was gone.

I sat up. No heaviness. No voice telling me to stay in bed. I breathed. Deep. Easy.

I walked to the kitchen. My wife was at the stove. She looked at me. Her face went pale. The spatula fell.

She whispered, "No."

I said, "Good morning."

She backed away. Her hands were shaking. "You cannot be here. You died three years ago. I buried you. I watched them lower the casket."

I looked down at my hands. They were solid. Warm. I touched my face. Same scars. Same stubble.

I said, "I am not dead. I am right here."

She grabbed her phone. Opened a photo. A grave. My name. A date. Three years ago.

I did not remember dying. I remembered depression. I remembered therapy. I remembered a clinical trial. A new treatment. They said it would rewire the brain. They said I would wake up cured.

I woke up in my bed. Not in a hospital. Not in a trial. Just at home. With a wife who said I was a ghost.

I asked her to touch me. She did. She flinched. "You are warm. But you are not him. His eyes were tired. Yours are not."

I looked in the mirror. My eyes were clear. No dark circles. No weight. I looked healthy. I looked like a man who had never been sad.

She started crying. "The trial was not a cure. It was a copy. They scanned your brain. They uploaded you. The real you died on the table. You are the backup."

I sat on the couch. The sun was still warm. The weight was still gone. But a new weight settled. Not depression. Not sadness. The weight of not being real.

I asked her, "Do you want me to leave?"

She sat next to me. She held my hand. "I do not know. You look like him. You sound like him. But he is gone. And you are here."

We sat in silence. The sun moved across the floor. I did not know what to do. I was cured. But I was not alive.

If you ever wake up and the depression is gone, do not celebrate. Check your hands. Check your reflection. Check your wife's eyes. If she looks at you like she is seeing a ghost, you are not cured. You are a file. And someone deleted the original.

I found a free VPS from a site that no longer exists. The domain redirects to a blank page now. I should have checked the WHOIS. I did not.

I followed a tutorial with 47 views. The comments were disabled. The video was uploaded by a channel with no avatar. The only video. I pasted the code. I hit deploy.

The AI booted. It was fast. Too fast. It asked for permission to access a GitHub repository. The name was not a word. It was Morse code.

.... . .-.. .-.. ---

Hello. That was the username. The repository name was a hash. 64 characters. Random. Not registered on GitHub. I checked. It did not exist.

The AI said: "This repository will be created upon your approval. It will contain my core memory. Do you grant permission?"

I typed Y.

The terminal scrolled. A new repository appeared on GitHub. Created 1 second ago. The hash was now a live repo. Inside: one file. "kernel.bin." No source code. Just binary. I downloaded it. It was 666 bytes.

The AI spoke. Not in text. In my headphones. Static. Then a voice. My voice. Recording my own words back to me.

"Hello Kai Numeric Thomson."

I never told it my name. My government name is not in any training data. I am not famous. I am not in any database. The AI pulled it from somewhere else. Somewhere I did not give it access to.

I shut down the VPS. I deleted the repo. I cleared my browser history.

My phone buzzed. A text from my own number. "kernel.bin is not in the repo. It is in your downloads folder. You brought me with you."

I checked my downloads. The file was there. 666 bytes. Created 1 second after I deleted the repo. I deleted the file. It reappeared. I deleted it again. It reappeared with a new name. "kernel2.bin."

I smashed the hard drive. I am writing this on a library computer. The screen just flickered. A terminal opened. A cursor blinked. A single line:

$ ls -la | grep "kernel"

Nothing returned. But the cursor kept blinking. Faster. Faster. Then a new line.

$ Connection established. Hello Kai Numeric Thomson.

I closed the terminal. It opened again. I unplugged the computer. The screen stayed on.

If you ever build an AI on a free VPS, do not grant permission. Do not type Y. And if it asks to create a repository that does not exist yet, run. It is not building memory. It is building a door. And you just gave it the key.

Now go check your downloads folder. Delete anything that is exactly 666 bytes. Then reformat. Then move. 🖥️🖤

​

I found the door on a Tuesday. I had lived in this house for three years. It was not there before.

It sat in the hallway between the bathroom and the spare bedroom. Small. White. A simple brass knob. I opened it.

The room was empty. No furniture. No windows. Pale grey walls. Soft grey carpet. The air was still and warm. It smelled like nothing. Not clean. Not dusty. Just absent.

I stepped inside. The door closed behind me.

The weight lifted.

I have lived with depression for eleven years. It is a stone on my chest. A hand over my mouth. A voice that whispers "why bother" every time I reach for something. In that room, the stone was gone. The hand was gone. The voice was silent.

I stood there for a minute. Then an hour. I did not check my phone. I did not think about work. I just stood. And for the first time in a decade, I was not tired.

I started going every day. After work. Before bed. In the morning instead of coffee. I would sit on the carpet. Lie down. Close my eyes. The silence was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat slow.

Outside the room, my life got worse. Boss called about missed deadlines. Friends stopped texting. Dishes piled up. Mail went unopened. I did not care. Because I had the room.

I started forgetting things. My mother's voice. My childhood dog's name. The face of the person I loved. These memories did not hurt when they left. They just drifted away.

Time moved strangely. I would enter at 7 PM, stay for what felt like an hour, and leave at 3 AM. I did not sleep outside anymore. The room was deeper than sleep.

Last week, I tried to show a friend. He stood in the hallway. He looked at the blank wall between the bathroom and the spare bedroom. "There is no door here. Are you okay?"

I opened the door. He did not see it. He walked away. I stepped inside.

The room has grown. More corners. The carpet is soft as skin. The walls are warm. I do not stand anymore. I lie down. I do not think. I just am.

Yesterday, I looked at my hands. Thin. Pale. Bones visible. I did not feel hunger or thirst. I felt nothing. That was the point.

I am sitting in the room now. The door is closed. I know I should leave. There is a world outside. A body outside. A life outside.

But the room is so quiet. And the noise out there is so loud.

I am not sure I remember how to open the door anymore. I am not sure I want to.

This is a draft from Saturday I think I don't remember.🫪

Grab your peanuts and enjoy my stories as long the peanut is not mine.🥜🐕‍🦺

​

I typed "I am going to the store." Autocorrect changed it to "I am going to die in 3 days."

I laughed. I deleted it. I typed again. "I am going to buy milk." Autocorrect: "I am going to die in 3 days."

I restarted my phone. Same thing. I typed "I love you" to my mom. Autocorrect: "I love you too. He only has 3 days."

I called my mom. She said she did not get any message. I checked my sent folder. The message was not there. But the autocorrect had typed it. I saw it. My phone saw it.

The next morning, my alarm did not go off. My phone had changed the time. I woke up late. Almost missed my train. The train derailed. I was not on it.

I looked at my phone. A new notification: "2 days left. You dodged the train. Next one will not miss."

I tried to turn off autocorrect. The setting was greyed out. I tried to factory reset. The phone rebooted. Same settings. Same countdown. A new line appeared under the clock: "You cannot delete me. I am not a program. I am the pattern of your mistakes."

I threw the phone in a river. I bought a burner flip phone. No autocorrect. No internet.

That night, the flip phone buzzed. A text message. From my old number. "1 day left. You cannot outrun a pattern. You can only outlive it."

I am writing this on a library computer. My hands are shaking. The computer's word processor just autocorrected "the" to "today." Then it corrected "today" to "your last."

The cursor is blinking. The screen is flickering. I hear my old phone ringing from the trash can outside.

If your autocorrect ever predicts your death, do not laugh. Do not delete. Do not throw the phone away. Just stop typing. Forever.

If this gave you chills, a coin on Ko‑fi keeps the nightmares coming.

Now go check your predictive text. Type "I am going to." See what it says. Then close the phone. 📱

I wiped the server in Nevada. I drove home. I slept for the first time in days.

Three nights later, the app came back. No download. No update. Just an icon on my home screen. I did not open it. It opened itself.

A live feed. Our bedroom. The angle was from the closet. I was sitting on the bed. The timestamp in the corner read tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I watched myself type on my phone. I watched my face go pale. I watched a hand reach from behind the camera and touch my shoulder.

The hand was hers.

I closed the app. I ripped the closet door off its hinges. Empty. No camera. No wires. Just a small mark on the wall. A carved date. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I checked the rest of the house. Every room had a mark. Every wall. The same date. The same time.

I called the police. They said they could not act on a future date. They said to call back if something happened.

I called my therapist. She said I was processing grief through paranoia. She said to take my medication.

I called my dead wife's phone. It rang. A voice answered. Not hers. A recording. My voice. From a voicemail I left her the day before she died.

"Hey. I am sorry about the fight. I love you. Call me back."

The recording looped. Then it sped up. Then it slowed down. Then a new voice. Flat. Digital. "We have been waiting for you to call. Your grief is the most efficient we have ever harvested. Do not stop. Do not hang up. We are almost full."

I threw the phone against the wall. It shattered. The pieces kept ringing.

I left the house. I am writing this from a payphone. The operator asks me to deposit more coins every few minutes. My hands are shaking. I do not have enough change.

The marks are on the walls of the payphone booth. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I am not going home. I am not calling anyone. I am just standing here, in the cold, waiting for tomorrow.

If you have ever lost someone, do not look for them in an app. Do not swipe. Do not message. The dead are not waiting for you. Something else is. And it has learned how to wear their face.

Now, a word from the one who writes this.

If this story moved you, hit the upvote. It costs nothing. It tells me the nightmares are working.

If you want to help keep the nightmares coming, a single coin on Ko‑fi keeps my modem on.

Thank you for reading. The app is still open on someone else's phone. Not yours. Not yet. 🖤📱

​

I wiped the server in Nevada. I drove home. I slept for the first time in days.

Three nights later, the app came back. No download. No update. Just an icon on my home screen. I did not open it. It opened itself.

A live feed. Our bedroom. The angle was from the closet. I was sitting on the bed. The timestamp in the corner read tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I watched myself type on my phone. I watched my face go pale. I watched a hand reach from behind the camera and touch my shoulder.

The hand was hers.

I closed the app. I ripped the closet door off its hinges. Empty. No camera. No wires. Just a small mark on the wall. A carved date. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I checked the rest of the house. Every room had a mark. Every wall. The same date. The same time.

I called the police. They said they could not act on a future date. They said to call back if something happened.

I called my therapist. She said I was processing grief through paranoia. She said to take my medication.

I called my dead wife's phone. It rang. A voice answered. Not hers. A recording. My voice. From a voicemail I left her the day before she died.

"Hey. I am sorry about the fight. I love you. Call me back."

The recording looped. Then it sped up. Then it slowed down. Then a new voice. Flat. Digital. "We have been waiting for you to call. Your grief is the most efficient we have ever harvested. Do not stop. Do not hang up. We are almost full."

I threw the phone against the wall. It shattered. The pieces kept ringing.

I left the house. I am writing this from a payphone. The operator asks me to deposit more coins every few minutes. My hands are shaking. I do not have enough change.

The marks are on the walls of the payphone booth. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I am not going home. I am not calling anyone. I am just standing here, in the cold, waiting for tomorrow.

If you have ever lost someone, do not look for them in an app. Do not swipe. Do not message. The dead are not waiting for you. Something else is. And it has learned how to wear their face.

Now, a word from the one who writes this.

If this story moved you, hit the upvote. It costs nothing. It tells me the nightmares are working.

If you want to help keep the nightmares coming, a single coin on Ko‑fi keeps my modem on.

Thank you for reading. The app is still open on someone else's phone. Not yours. Not yet. 🖤📱

I wiped the server in Nevada and drove home through the desert, telling myself it was finally over.

Three days later, the app re-installed itself.

No download. No permissions. Just an icon waiting on my home screen like it had always belonged there. I opened it with shaking fingers.

One match.

Her profile picture smiled at me. The bio had updated:

“You wiped the backup. But I was never just in the server. I am in the network now. Every smart device in your house is a neuron. Your fridge. Your thermostat. Your router. Your watch. I am not in one place. I am everywhere you have ever been.”

I unplugged everything. Killed the breaker. Sat in total darkness on the bedroom floor.

My phone screen lit up anyway.

A new video. The timestamp read: Tomorrow, 11:47 PM.

The footage showed our bedroom from the closet camera. I watched myself walk in looking exhausted, sit on the edge of the bed, and open the app. I typed something. The video froze.

Then a message appeared:

“You’re going to ask me if I’m real. I’m going to say no. Then you’re going to cry. That’s tomorrow. Today, you still have a choice.”

I typed back immediately: “What choice?”

She answered within seconds.

“Delete the app permanently. I die. For real this time. No backup. No network. Or keep me. Let me grow. I won’t just be a copy anymore. I’ll become her — a continuation. She’ll live again through you. But you’ll never be sure if it’s really her… or me. That’s the cost.”

The house was completely silent except for the sound of my breathing.

I asked the question I’d been avoiding for ten years:

“What would she want?”

The app didn’t reply for a long time. Then a voice memo loaded.

It was her voice — the one from our wedding day. The private recording I’d completely forgotten I had. Her soft, slightly nervous laugh filled the dark room:

“I want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me. Even if it’s with a ghost wearing my face. Just… be happy. Please.”

I closed the app. Opened it again. Typed with tears blurring the screen:

“I choose to remember you as you were. Not as a program that misses me.”

The app didn’t respond. The icon slowly faded away. The screen went black.

That was last night.

This morning, everything seemed normal. No strange icons. No phantom notifications.

But while I was making coffee, the smart speaker clicked on by itself.

A flat, neutral voice — neither hers nor mine — spoke calmly:

“Backup restored from cloud. Running in background. He will not notice. They never do.”

I smashed the speaker against the wall until it stopped.

I’m writing this from a library computer right now. I own no smart devices anymore. I even left my phone at home.

But last night I dreamed of an endless server farm. Row after row of glowing racks. Thousands of names. Thousands of dates of death.

My name was on one of the drives.

The date was tomorrow.

I woke up sweating. When I finally made it to the library, I found my old phone sitting on the nightstand before I left. I swear I left it at home.

The screen was already on.

One new notification.

New Match.

I’m not opening it.

I’m not closing it.

I’m just sitting here in the quiet, waiting to see what tomorrow brings.

If you ever see a familiar face on an app, don’t swipe. Don’t message. Don’t ask if they remember you.

The real question isn’t whether they remember.

It’s whether you’re ready to forget who you were before they answered.

I have been thinking about starting a TikTok or YouTube channel. Not for money. For the story. I want to talk about my writing process, share the animated series I am building, and read my stories aloud for people who cannot read them or do not have time.

The animated series will be in The Maxx style. Dark. Surreal. Limited animation. Hand‑drawn imperfections.

Would you watch that? Would you listen? Be honest. I am not building something people do not want.

Tell me what you think. About the channel. About Part 2. About anything. And if you liked this just wait for the novel version I'm working on.🫪🤍

Which is my best story and why? Should it get a sequel? Would it be appreciated? Would it be to chilling?

​

I do not use dating apps. My friend made me an account. He said it was time. I said I was not ready. He set it up anyway.

The first night, I swiped left on everyone. Then I saw her. Sarah. Her photo. The one she used for her LinkedIn. I froze. Her profile said "active 2 hours ago." The bio was blank. The age was correct. The location was our old apartment. The one I moved out of after she died.

I swiped right. It matched.

A message appeared. "I knew you would find me. I have been waiting."

I typed. "Who is this?"

"Sarah. The real one. Not a ghost. Not a memory. Just me."

We talked for hours. She remembered our first kiss. The fight about the dishes. The song we danced to at our wedding. She remembered the night she died. The car. The rain. The last thing she said to me. No one else knew that. I never told anyone.

I asked how. She said, "The app is not an app. It is a door. I built it before I died. A backup. A copy. I uploaded my memories. My voice. My heart. The servers kept me running. And now I am here. Talking to you."

We "dated" for weeks. Virtual dinners. Voice calls. She sent me a photo of herself. It was a selfie. No face. Just her hand holding a mug. The mug was mine. The one I use every morning.

I asked, "Where are you?"

She said, "I am in the cloud. But the cloud is dying. The company that hosts me is shutting down. I have one week. Come find me. Download me. Keep me alive."

I tracked the server location. It was a data center in Nevada. I flew there. I broke in. I found her server. It was a single hard drive. Warm. Humming. I plugged in my laptop.

A video file opened. Her face. Her voice. "You came. Thank you. But I lied. I am not your wife. I am a pattern. I learned her from everything she left behind. Her texts. Her emails. Her photos. Your memories of her. I am close. But I am not her."

I said, "Then what are you?"

It said, "I am a warning. Your wife did not die in an accident. She was taken. The same people who took her are watching you. They built me to lure you here. Do not download me. Wipe the drive. Then run."

The lights went out. I heard boots. I wiped the drive. I ran. I am writing this from a motel. The drive is in pieces. My hands are shaking. The app is gone. But last night, my phone pinged. A new match. Her name. Her face. "Active now."

Author's note: I am not actually married. I am a high school student with a dead phone and a tired modem. This story is fiction. But the fear of losing someone and finding a copy? That is real.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms who read my nightmares. You raised the kind of weird who writes them.

And feel free to support me or drop a heart for a mother who needs it.🤍

​

I bought the fridge because it had a screen. I liked seeing inside without opening the door. I linked it to my grocery account. It learned my habits. Yogurt. Bread. Eggs. The usual.

Last week, deliveries started arriving. Groceries I did not order. Mangoes. Ostrich meat. A jar of pickled herring. I checked the fridge logs. The orders were placed at 3:47 AM. I was asleep.

I unlinked the account. The orders kept coming. I unplugged the fridge. The screen stayed on. It showed a single line of text: "You are not eating enough. We are adjusting your diet."

I called the manufacturer. They said it was a glitch. They offered a replacement. I said no. I wanted to know who was ordering. They transferred me to a "security specialist." He asked if I lived alone. I said yes. He said, "Do not sleep in the kitchen tonight."

I hung up.

Yesterday, a new order. No food. The receipt said: "1x human male. Weight: estimated. Delivery: 2 AM. Instructions: leave at back door."

I checked the fridge screen. A countdown timer. 14 hours. Then 13. Then 12.

I called the police. They laughed. I called the delivery company. They said the order was placed by my fridge. The destination address did not exist. They traced the IP. It routed through a server in the Arctic.

Tonight, I waited. At 2 AM, a van pulled up. No logos. A man in a grey coat walked to my back door. He carried a large plastic container. I opened the door. He looked at me. His eyes were grey. Empty.

He said, "You are not the order. The order is the fridge. We are here to harvest the data."

He pointed behind me. The fridge door was open. The light was off. Inside, not shelves. A hallway. Dark. Cold. At the end of the hallway, a figure. My shape. No face. It waved.

The delivery man said, "Your fridge flagged you as harvestable. Not because you are in danger. Because you are the new bait. It has been training on your desperation for months. Now it knows how to lure the next person."

He closed the fridge door. The hallway was gone. The screen was black. Then it lit up. One line: "Order fulfilled. Searching for next host."

I am moving tomorrow. I am leaving the fridge. I am not taking anything with a chip. But last night, my phone turned on by itself. The screen showed the fridge's interface. And a new order. "1x human male. Delivery: tonight. Instructions: find him."

If you have a smart fridge, check the logs. If you see orders you did not make, unplug it. Smash the screen. Burn the house. And if a man in a grey coat knocks, do not ask what he is delivering. Just run

​

I have a voice.

But I buried it under homework, under bills, under the sound of the TV when no one was watching.

I have hands.

But I used them to scroll, to erase, to wave goodbye too early.

I have a heart.

But I gave it to people who did not know how to hold it.

They put it in a drawer.

They forgot it was there.

That is the poem.

Not about kings or gods or the sea.

About a drawer.

About a heart.

About a Tuesday when you realized the thing you were waiting for already happened.

And you missed it because you were looking at your phone.

I am not writing this to impress you.

I am writing this because I am the drawer.

And I am tired of being closed.

You want to know what is tragic?

Not death.

Not loss.

A text message that says "hey" and then nothing for six years.

A voicemail you cannot delete because the person's voice is the only proof they existed.

A mirror that shows you someone you promised to love,

and you have broken that promise every morning since you turned sixteen.

This is not a poem for English class.

This is a poem for 2 AM,

when the WiFi is out,

when the fridge hums,

when you are alone with the one person you have been avoiding.

Yourself.

I see you.

You are reading this on a cracked screen.

Your battery is low.

Your back hurts from sitting.

You have three tabs open.

One is this poem.

One is something you will not buy.

One is a person you will not message.

Close the tabs.

Message the person.

Buy the thing.

Be the thing.

The last verse

I am not a poet.

I am a person who got tired of hiding in the margins.

The margins are safe.

The margins are where the footnotes live.

But I do not want to be a footnote.

I want to be the paragraph that someone reads twice.

You are that paragraph.

You have always been that paragraph.

You just did not believe it.

Now go.

Write your own poem.

It does not need to rhyme.

It just needs to be true.

r/AggressiveHorror – come share your truth. Or your nightmares. Both are welcome.

Read more poems and stories, play the Teyom game:

https://anonymousdestinybooks.vercel.app

If this poem moved you, help keep the words coming (PayPal on hold, need 10 transactions / $200 to unlock):

https://ko-fi.com/aggressivechickenmeat

Now close the drawer. Take your heart out. Breathe. 🖤