u/Firesidewitness

(Tw: Addiction, overdose references, cult themes, psychological horror, body horror, grief, medical experimentation, violence, emotional trauma, and disturbing imagery.)

“Where are you going, John?”
Lilly had already made it to her feet and was now only feet behind me.
“You had so much potential. Do you think I accidentally left my email open for you? I thought you could handle the truth, but alas, you disappoint me.”
I had hit her as hard as I could, yet she had no marks on her face. She continued toward me when the door behind me opened and Dr. Nichols shoved a needle into my neck.
I fought hard against him. I gave him a low blow and ran through the door.
The room just beyond the door was blindingly white, and it looked like a regular hospital. Rooms lined the hallways, but it was empty.
I ran to the first door that I saw and flung it open.
What I saw in that room will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.
James was strapped to a bed, his eyes open and looking at me with a pleading cry for help. Just above him, where medical instruments should be, were long appendages like that of a squid reaching out and plunging themselves into his mouth and nose.
The TV was playing static—or at least I think it was.
Before I could reach out and help James, I heard the door rustle behind me. The room began to spin, and I hit the floor.

They must have dosed me with some pretty powerful stuff. I don’t know how long I was out—it felt like days.
I had my tonsils removed when I was a kid, and when the doctor gave me the stuff, it was like I closed my eyes for a few seconds and woke up in recovery.
This time, I had dreams. Not really dreams, but more of a nightmare.

I was walking down an impossibly white hallway. The only sound was the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.
I got to the end, and there was nothing. And when I say there was nothing, I don’t mean the hallway ended with a wall or doorway. There was nothing.
A black void where a door or wall should have been.
I looked down, and I could see what appeared to be small lights of different colors dancing around an orb of swirling colors.
Something beckoned me to step off the edge.
So I did.

I began to fall. Just when I felt as if I could fall no farther, something stopped me.
I was among the stars, dancing, but as I looked closer, they were no stars but orbs of light emitting a terrifying and lonely sound—the sound of weeping, of garbled confessions mixed with dread and tears.

I looked into the mass in front of me. It was a mass of indescribable colors and light. Around the edges, great tendrils of differing lengths writhed in a circular motion.
It began to speak—or make sounds. I could not understand it.
I could not take my eyes off this thing before me. It was beautiful and repulsive. Vibrant, but darkness consumed it.
Then the ringing in my ears started, and my head felt as if it were going to explode. The mass was still making its deep guttural sounds, yet I heard a voice through the ringing.
“Embrace your guilt. Join us here. Atone for your sins just as these—the ascended—have.”
Images of my mother crying herself to sleep flooded my mind. She spoke no words, yet I knew those tears were for me.
I saw the hurt and anguish on my family’s faces as their visages came before me.
“Why are you doing this?” I screamed.

“You must atone. Embrace your guilt. Feed it to me.”
I closed my eyes, and two tendrils shot forward, prying my eyelids open.
“Look upon your sin.”
The image in front of me was my girlfriend, Amy. She died three years before I had been court-ordered to rehab. Her auburn hair glistened in the sun.
It was my fault that she had found this life. I gave her the hit that ended her life.
“Witness your sins.”
An image of Amy with a pregnancy test flashed before me, then an image of her lying pale on my apartment floor with a needle still in her arm.
“Two lives forever ruined by your sins. Witness them.”
I began to scream and fight against the force that held me in place.
I then saw a bright light shining, and I ran toward it as fast as I could, hoping for death but only finding myself waking up strapped to a hospital bed with Dr. Nichols stooping over me.
—————————-//
Thank you so much for reading and supporting my stories here is a link where the whole story will be compiled it has parts 1-4 currently.

https://www.reddit.com/u/Firesidewitness/s/C1kTeyncYc

Hunger isn’t just a word used to describe the need for food. Hunger is a deep, burning desire to be filled—maybe with food, maybe love, maybe money—but it describes a deep emptiness that we feel. No emptiness could be deeper than what I felt when I left the woods on October 30th, 1995.

I had been camping with some friends in the woods in southern West Virginia when an unexpected cold snap hit. We had moderate cold weather gear, but that night was bitterly cold. My friends Isaiah and Jase were with me. What started out as just three friends getting together for the weekend turned into living hell.

On October 27th, we loaded up my old white Bronco with camping gear and enough food to get us through a few days. When you’re hiking and camping, things like rice and instant potatoes are your best friend—it’s lightweight and doesn’t go bad. We always brought along a couple of steaks to make the first night to celebrate the start of a little adventure.

Isaiah was a year younger than Jase and me. He was dark-skinned with black hair; his parents were second generation from Israel. He may have been younger than us, but he was a former basketball player. He made us look like children compared to him.

Jase was just a country boy from West Virginia. He had a rough brown beard and always wore some type of camo. Me, I’m from Kentucky. I always said that the reason West Virginia was “almost heaven” is because Kentucky was as close to heaven as you could get. Jase and Isaiah never believed me, though.

We were friends in high school and always promised that even when we went to college and got married, we’d stay in touch. We kept those promises. We all graduated in ’90. Isaiah became a doctor, and surprisingly, Jase became a lawyer. I went to work in law enforcement.

We had found some old logging property that we could explore and camp on that wasn’t too far off the main road. We found the owner and got permission to be there, but he warned us to be careful. Some high schoolers had gone back there and gotten themselves lost. They were only missing for 24 hours, but they said it looked like an animal got ahold of them.

“Must’ve been awful hungry too. There’s barely anything left of one of ’em,” the old man told us.

It didn’t really bother us. A .357 Magnum will deter most everything in the woods, and with that and some bear spray, we’d be golden—or at least that’s what we thought.

We settled in about 10 p.m., got a fire going, and put the steaks in the coals to cook. We traded old scary stories all through the night.

At about 4 in the morning, Jase rolled over and smacked me on the chest.

“Brandon! Get up, man. I think someone’s talking to us.”

I opened my eyes.

“Jase, I’m not getting out of my bag. It’s cold outside.”

He insisted that he heard a small cry from the woods. He said it sounded like a child or a young woman asking for help.

“Man, those scary stories always did get in your head,” Isaiah said. He must have been woken up by Jase as well.

Jase spit back, “I know what I heard.”

“Ok, tough guy. I’ll go look for your lost girl,” I said as I reluctantly left the warmth of my bag. I grabbed my gun and my 4-cell Maglite and searched the perimeter around our camp. When I came back with nothing, I crawled back into my sleeping bag.

“See? Nothing. Must have been a dream or something.”

“Whatever, dude,” Jase said.

We sat around the fire the next morning and talked for hours. I needed to relieve myself from some of the coffee I had at breakfast and walked to the edge of camp, close to where I looked the night before for that “voice.” I saw a drag mark in the leaves, as if someone was dragging a bum leg behind them.

I went back and told the boys we needed to make a new camp. I said we needed that practice anyway—tearing down and setting up. We didn’t, but I just had a funny feeling about that spot. I just didn’t want to admit it. Looking back, I wish that I would have. Maybe Jase and Isaiah would still be here.

We went about a mile away from our original spot and camped under a rock overhang. It was the evening of October 28th when I lost my best friend.

We had just gotten in our sleeping bags when Jase went to go pee. A few moments after he left, we heard him scream, then a sickening noise that sounded like the legs being pulled from a rotisserie chicken.

We rushed toward the noise. I had my gun in hand. We found Jase at the bottom of a tree, crumpled like a paper bound for the trash can, bent in unnatural ways. There was a hole in his chest where his heart should have been.

I yelled,
“Hey!! Where are you?”

Isaiah started sobbing and began to shake violently. I began looking around for what had done this. We tried to call someone, but there was no cell service where we were, and to make matters worse, when we went back to camp, our gear was torn to shreds and our food bag was gone.

I felt a panic that I’ve never felt before. Even when a suspect pulled a gun on me while I had him pulled over on an old strip mine road miles from the nearest backup, the dread was greater.

Until I heard a voice call to me.

“Eat, you must be filled.”

My head began to swirl. I lost all sense of direction. I began to hunger—not in my stomach, but in my very being, my soul. I felt a need to consume so great that I began to feel faint. I felt as if the world around me was a top spinning in place.

I don’t know if it was minutes or hours, but it was as if I was on autopilot. I heard voices speaking to me, telling me to do unspeakable things—telling me to consume what was left of my friend, telling me that Isaiah was responsible for his death.

When the woods around me grew still, I found myself hovering over Jase’s body, ripping the flesh off of his face and placing it in my mouth.

“What—what are you doing? Stop it!” Isaiah screamed as he tackled me to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Isaiah screamed. He continued to hold me down. I could see him, but my body was paralyzed. My arms moved against my will, and I struck him in the face, and he fell off of me.

I stood up and regained control over my muscles, yet there was a voice in my head urging me to consume.

“It’s the only way in which you will live.”

“No, stop it!” I screamed.

Isaiah lay crumpled on the ground, half out of fear, knocked senseless by my inhuman hit.

My mind was racing. Our gear was useless. Our food was gone. The voice persisted still.

“You will never die if you survive today.”

I heard the voice clearly, as if something beside me had spoken in my ear. I turned to see an emaciated figure, so frail I could have counted its ribs. It was wearing a buck skull for a mask. No sooner had I looked at it, it was gone.

When I looked back, Isaiah was staring at me in fear. Part of me broke—my friend looked at me as if I was a monster. The other part of me wanted to live.

I knelt on Isaiah’s chest, pinning him to the earth.
“Brandon, please no,” he whimpered.
I couldn’t look him in the eye. I bent my neck to start my feast.

I began to consume him. Isaiah’s screams filled the empty woods.

“I’m sorry, I need this to live,” I sobbed as I ate, the taste of iron and raw meat filling my tongue. I made this decision, still I moved as if I were no longer a man, but a primitive creature driven by the need to live.

“Please stop,” Isaiah whimpered.

Eventually, the light faded from his eyes, and I continued till there was nothing left.

The search party found me wandering around with little clothing on, covered in blood. I had no idea what day it was. I only know the time frame from the case that was opened by the local sheriff’s department.

I write this now partially as a warning, but mostly as a confession. Sitting here in my room, I am wasting to nothing. I consume, but I’m never full.

I must have more.

I need more.

Dr. Nichols’ office smelled like a hospital but looked like a shrink’s office from a TV show, with a couch and everything. He introduced himself and invited me to sit anywhere I’d like.
“Mr. Howard, I’ve read your file. You’ve had quite the history of drug use and criminal activity. Nonetheless, we are here to help you. I must ask you a question—are you ready to face your guilt?”
I looked at him and replied, “Yes.”
He began to walk me through the stages of realizing guilt. It was like the stages of grief:
Realize you are guilty
Admit you are guilty
Reject your guilt
Mourn your guilt
Embrace your guilt
I always thought of rehab as a place of healing, but this place wanted you to feel guilt. It was almost like something was feeding on it.
I went along with the teaching, nodding my head when Dr. Nichols thought he was making a good point. At the end, he asked me if I had any questions. I threw a few out about my guilt, but I did have one burning question.
“What’s in the restricted area?”
He smiled and looked up from his notes.
“It’s what makes this place run. Our staff use that area for sensitive documents and research.”
I returned to my room after my session with the doctor and found a new book on my desk.
The Ascension by Dr. Hunter Nichols. Foreword by Lilly Lovecraft.

I went about my normal routines from day to day. I was the perfect patient. I was even nice to Lilly. Deep inside, though, I knew I had to find a way into the restricted area.
Maybe the doctor was right. He had told me I had “a rebellious and curious spirit.” Maybe that’s why I experimented with drugs.
During lunch break on my 100th day sober, Lilly sat with me. She was making small talk, asking me how I liked the facility and if I had a favorite job. I asked her if a patient had ever worked their way into working in the doctors’ area.
Her answer gave me chills, but it made me feel as if I could achieve access to the area.
“Many of our participants have ascended and have gotten to participate in studies that take place in the doctors’ area. Keep up the good work, and you may achieve ascended status as well. Only the best of the best—the ones who truly own their guilt—make it.”

I kept her words in the back of my mind. How do I own my guilt?
That evening at chapel, Dr. Nichols was surprisingly spirited.
“Sometimes, to feel our guilt, we need to realize that punishment is the only option we have. Pain is deserved. Own the pain. Own your guilt. Repay your debt to your creator.
Repay it with sweat. Repay it with tears. Repay it with blood.
The sins of your flesh will be paid for by your flesh. Own your guilt like scars. Guilt is earned and must be paid.
The Celestial One will have His atonement. He will have His day when He confronts you with your guilt.
Own it. Yes—own your shame.”

At the end of service, he asked,
“Is there anyone here tonight that would own their shame?”
James went to the front. He sobbed softly as he whispered something to the doctor.
“Yes, son. Now repay your debt.”
He took James’s little finger and doubled it back. The sickening snap made my dinner come to my throat.
What were they doing? Is this what must be done to “own my guilt”?
I went straight to my room that night and buried my head in my pillows and cried. I was in deep. I truly didn’t know what to do.
Was I here for help? Was I here just to keep from going to jail, or was I here to atone?
Was I buying into these teachings because I felt guilty—partially for my crimes and the way I hurt my family? Or did I feel guilty for going along with these asinine teachings of the facility? Had I helped James play into their hands?
I cried myself to sleep.

I woke promptly with the alarm blaring through the PA system. I washed my face, wiped the tears from my eyes, and went to breakfast, hoping to find James there. Maybe he was fine.
I got to the table, my stomach knotting in anticipation of my fellow patient—or prisoner—being okay. I waited, but James never came.
I went to class, and James never came.
When class was over and it was time for lunch, I asked Lilly where James was.
“Oh, you haven’t heard the good news? Our brother James ascended last night and is now furthering the cause of our master.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Wherever the master sends those who have ascended. I do not question Him. You should understand this, so that one day you may be chosen for such a noble cause.”
My stomach sank. Where had they sent him? Had he gone home? Was he working for another facility?
I had to find him.

Days turned to weeks. The teaching and services seemed repetitive. I withdrew from the activities—not enough to make myself suspicious, but not enough to gain more favor from Lilly.
One day after lunch, Lilly asked me if I could fill the position of dietary clerk. I would have a permanent job buying and planning meals. It also meant I’d get access to a computer to do my job.
I happily accepted.
I sat at the terminal behind the staff desk and noticed that Lilly had her emails pulled up. I clicked on the mail icon and looked at the junk folder. I found several emails from dozens of family members asking about their loved ones.
I clicked on the most recent one:

From: Glendacampbell@gmail.com
To: Lillylovecraft@celestial.recovery
RE: James Campbell
Ms. Lovecraft,
We have received no updates on our son for weeks. We were notified by his health insurance that he is no longer listed as a patient at your facility. We have not heard from him in weeks, and we are getting worried.
We thought that after they were complete with your program, you provided them with a bus ticket home.
Please get in contact with us. I don’t want to lose my son again.
Please.

Over the next weeks, as I did my job duties, I would routinely check Lilly’s junk mail. Email after email from loved ones whose family members were no longer listed on their health insurance as patients, yet they hadn’t been updated on their status.
I recognized several names as people who had “ascended.”
What were they up to? Why had they not notified family members of the status of the patient they were related to? Most importantly, where were they?
I began to suspect that maybe they sent them to work at other facilities, but nothing I found confirmed this.

As I was closing the email tab, Lilly walked up behind me. I spun around after hearing her footsteps. Her eyes grew dim, her mouth curling in disappointment.
“I’m going to have to tell the doctor. We may have to expel you from the program.”
I was scared. If people who did well were missing, what did they do to those who flunked out—especially those who knew they were hiding something?
I panicked, and I hit Lilly as hard as I’ve ever hit anything. She hit the ground. I panicked and dragged her under the desk.
I took her badge off her shirt and ran to the forbidden door.

Dr. Nichols’ office smelled like a hospital but looked like a shrink’s office from a TV show, with a couch and everything. He introduced himself and invited me to sit anywhere I’d like.
“Mr. Howard, I’ve read your file. You’ve had quite the history of drug use and criminal activity. Nonetheless, we are here to help you. I must ask you a question—are you ready to face your guilt?”
I looked at him and replied, “Yes.”
He began to walk me through the stages of realizing guilt. It was like the stages of grief:
Realize you are guilty
Admit you are guilty
Reject your guilt
Mourn your guilt
Embrace your guilt
I always thought of rehab as a place of healing, but this place wanted you to feel guilt. It was almost like something was feeding on it.
I went along with the teaching, nodding my head when Dr. Nichols thought he was making a good point. At the end, he asked me if I had any questions. I threw a few out about my guilt, but I did have one burning question.
“What’s in the restricted area?”
He smiled and looked up from his notes.
“It’s what makes this place run. Our staff use that area for sensitive documents and research.”
I returned to my room after my session with the doctor and found a new book on my desk.
The Ascension by Dr. Hunter Nichols. Foreword by Lilly Lovecraft.

I went about my normal routines from day to day. I was the perfect patient. I was even nice to Lilly. Deep inside, though, I knew I had to find a way into the restricted area.
Maybe the doctor was right. He had told me I had “a rebellious and curious spirit.” Maybe that’s why I experimented with drugs.
During lunch break on my 100th day sober, Lilly sat with me. She was making small talk, asking me how I liked the facility and if I had a favorite job. I asked her if a patient had ever worked their way into working in the doctors’ area.
Her answer gave me chills, but it made me feel as if I could achieve access to the area.
“Many of our participants have ascended and have gotten to participate in studies that take place in the doctors’ area. Keep up the good work, and you may achieve ascended status as well. Only the best of the best—the ones who truly own their guilt—make it.”

I kept her words in the back of my mind. How do I own my guilt?
That evening at chapel, Dr. Nichols was surprisingly spirited.
“Sometimes, to feel our guilt, we need to realize that punishment is the only option we have. Pain is deserved. Own the pain. Own your guilt. Repay your debt to your creator.
Repay it with sweat. Repay it with tears. Repay it with blood.
The sins of your flesh will be paid for by your flesh. Own your guilt like scars. Guilt is earned and must be paid.
The Celestial One will have His atonement. He will have His day when He confronts you with your guilt.
Own it. Yes—own your shame.”

At the end of service, he asked,
“Is there anyone here tonight that would own their shame?”
James went to the front. He sobbed softly as he whispered something to the doctor.
“Yes, son. Now repay your debt.”
He took James’s little finger and doubled it back. The sickening snap made my dinner come to my throat.
What were they doing? Is this what must be done to “own my guilt”?
I went straight to my room that night and buried my head in my pillows and cried. I was in deep. I truly didn’t know what to do.
Was I here for help? Was I here just to keep from going to jail, or was I here to atone?
Was I buying into these teachings because I felt guilty—partially for my crimes and the way I hurt my family? Or did I feel guilty for going along with these asinine teachings of the facility? Had I helped James play into their hands?
I cried myself to sleep.

I woke promptly with the alarm blaring through the PA system. I washed my face, wiped the tears from my eyes, and went to breakfast, hoping to find James there. Maybe he was fine.
I got to the table, my stomach knotting in anticipation of my fellow patient—or prisoner—being okay. I waited, but James never came.
I went to class, and James never came.
When class was over and it was time for lunch, I asked Lilly where James was.
“Oh, you haven’t heard the good news? Our brother James ascended last night and is now furthering the cause of our master.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Wherever the master sends those who have ascended. I do not question Him. You should understand this, so that one day you may be chosen for such a noble cause.”
My stomach sank. Where had they sent him? Had he gone home? Was he working for another facility?
I had to find him.

Days turned to weeks. The teaching and services seemed repetitive. I withdrew from the activities—not enough to make myself suspicious, but not enough to gain more favor from Lilly.
One day after lunch, Lilly asked me if I could fill the position of dietary clerk. I would have a permanent job buying and planning meals. It also meant I’d get access to a computer to do my job.
I happily accepted.
I sat at the terminal behind the staff desk and noticed that Lilly had her emails pulled up. I clicked on the mail icon and looked at the junk folder. I found several emails from dozens of family members asking about their loved ones.
I clicked on the most recent one:

From: Glendacampbell@gmail.com
To: Lillylovecraft@celestial.recovery
RE: James Campbell
Ms. Lovecraft,
We have received no updates on our son for weeks. We were notified by his health insurance that he is no longer listed as a patient at your facility. We have not heard from him in weeks, and we are getting worried.
We thought that after they were complete with your program, you provided them with a bus ticket home.
Please get in contact with us. I don’t want to lose my son again.
Please.

Over the next weeks, as I did my job duties, I would routinely check Lilly’s junk mail. Email after email from loved ones whose family members were no longer listed on their health insurance as patients, yet they hadn’t been updated on their status.
I recognized several names as people who had “ascended.”
What were they up to? Why had they not notified family members of the status of the patient they were related to? Most importantly, where were they?
I began to suspect that maybe they sent them to work at other facilities, but nothing I found confirmed this.

As I was closing the email tab, Lilly walked up behind me. I spun around after hearing her footsteps. Her eyes grew dim, her mouth curling in disappointment.
“I’m going to have to tell the doctor. We may have to expel you from the program.”
I was scared. If people who did well were missing, what did they do to those who flunked out—especially those who knew they were hiding something?
I panicked, and I hit Lilly as hard as I’ve ever hit anything. She hit the ground. I panicked and dragged her under the desk.
I took her badge off her shirt and ran to the forbidden door.