u/RicksHorrorArchive

I don’t like going to the doctor.
It always turns into more than it should.
The headache started three days ago.
Dull. Constant.
I’ve taken more Advil than I should. It doesn’t help.
Today, it’s worse.
It feels like my head will split.
So—
I caved.
3 p.m.
Dr. Sternbeck
I hate it. But I need it.

Brooke recommended Dr. Sternbeck.
She saw him last month for back pain.
When she left his clinic, she said she felt like a different person.
Fresh. Pain-free.
He gave her a pill. One week.
One follow-up.
Then he told her she was cured.
The pain hasn’t come back.
She says he’s a renowned pain specialist. The best in the city.
Any pain, she says,
he can cure.

Of course, I’m skeptical.
Any pain?
A week of pills and two visits?
Still, I’m desperate.
If Brooke trusts him, I’ll try it.
I stand outside Dr. Sternbeck’s practice.
Lux Street. Small sign. Tinted glass door.
Easy to miss.
I think about the cost. A month of groceries, probably.
But right now,
I’d pay anything to make this headache stop.

Inside, it’s dim.
Not the bright lights I expected.
The waiting room is empty.
No receptionist. Just a desk.
A small bell.
I ring it.
A door opens to the right.
A short man in a white coat steps out. Glasses. Thin smile.
“I’m Dr. Sternbeck.”
He shakes my hand. Leads me down the hall.
His office feels off.
Too empty. Too open.
He gestures toward the reclined chair in the center.
I sit.
And start explaining the headache.

I feel like I’m rambling.
The more I talk, the worse the headache gets.
Dr. Sternbeck moves behind me.
Every so often—
an “uh-hm,” a question.
Then he steps into view with a tray.
A syringe. A vial.
He says this isn’t a normal headache. Not a migraine.
Ashygor… something.
He draws a clear liquid into the syringe.
Says this will fix it.
Just a pinch. Like a vaccine.
His voice is calm. His eyes steady.
And right now, I just want relief.
I nod.

The next thing I know, I’m outside.
A plastic bag in my hand.
A bottle of pills.
A note. Instructions. A date and time for next week.
Then—
it hits me.
The headache. The pressure battering my skull. The constant hum.
Gone.
I grip the bag.
I smile for the first time in days.
My eyes sting.

Over the next week, I take the pills exactly as instructed.
One each night.
The headache doesn’t come back.
Now I’m standing outside the clinic again.
For the checkup.

Like last time, the waiting room is empty. No receptionist.
I know the drill now.
Dr. Sternbeck greets me. Leads me down the hall. His office. Same as before.
I tell him the pain is gone. Thank him.
He nods.
One more injection, he says. Then it’s gone for good.
I smile and offer my arm.

The next thing I know—
I’m not outside.
Not in his office. Not in the waiting room.
I’m lying down.
Naked.
Dark. Brick walls. Torches.
I try to move.
Chains.
A sound to my left—
I turn.
Dr. Sternbeck.
Black robe. Hood up. Face hidden.
“Finally,” he says.
“You’re the one we’ve been waiting for. The one he chose.”

I struggle.
I scream.
He ignores me. Circles.
I strain to follow him. I can barely move.
Suddenly—
Footsteps.
More people enter. Black robes. Hoods up. They surround me.
Dr. Sternbeck starts chanting. The others follow.
A language I don’t understand.
Their voices drown mine out.
Then—
something shifts behind me.
A low rumble.
I force my head back.
A shape in the dark. Too large.
Eyes first. Red.
Then the outline—
Horns.
The chanting grows louder.
Dr. Sternbeck steps closer.
“Hundreds of women. None fit. The doses, the pills. He rejected them all. But you— Your blood…”
He smiles.
“It changed. Adapted. Perfectly.”
The thing behind me exhales.
Hot. Close.
Eager.

I try to walk straight.
The ground tilts anyway.
Still dizzy from The Levitator. Highest drop in Michigan!
Stacy drags me along, hunting for the next ride on her list.
We weave through the crowd until it suddenly thins.
She checks her map.
Checks it again.
Are we seriously lost in an amusement park?
She tugs my sleeve, shrugs, and points.
A neon sign glowing in the distance:
OUR NEWEST RIDE

The sign looks closer than it is.
We must’ve been walking for ten minutes.
Why is the newest ride in the farthest corner of the park?
I spin around.
We seem to be the only ones heading this way.
Something feels wrong.
I stop. I want to tell Stacy we should go back.
But when I turn around—
we’re already here.
The sign looms above us.
And the towering roller coaster beside it.

There’s a line.
People.
That makes me feel better.
Before we reach the back of it, a park employee approaches.
Tall. Skinny.
Big blue eyes. Almost freakishly big.
He smiles and gestures toward another lane.
No line.
A V.I.P. lane, maybe.
Stacy shoots me a thrilled look.
Before I can ask if we’re actually allowed to skip the line,
she’s already jogging ahead.

Two spots left.
Front car.
I groan. Stacy cheers.
Another employee straps us in.
Tall and skinny too.
Huge eyes again. Green this time.
Must be a job requirement for this ride, I chuckle to myself.
The coaster inches forward.
Stacy squeezes my hand.
My stomach churns once.
And up we go.

The climb starts smooth.
Then—
jerk.
The coaster stops.
Half a second.
Then forward.
Faster.
Stop.
Forward again.
Accelerating.
Stop. Go. Stop. Go.
Like someone slamming the gas and brakes over and over.
My head spins.
I want off.
But the ride is just getting started.

We reach the top.
The car hangs there.
The usual trick before the drop.
Stacy closes her eyes. Grinning. Ready.
I swallow and grip the bars.
I close my eyes too.
And then—
we drop.

Drop.
And drop.
My hair whips upward, yanking at my scalp.
My stomach climbs into my throat.
I wait for it.
The pull. The slow deceleration. The curve. The climb back up.
But the drop keeps going.
Faster.
Longer.
Too long.
How tall is this ride?
I force my eyes open. Just a sliver.
The wind stings them raw.
My heart stops.
There’s nothing below us.
No track.
No ground.
Just darkness.
And we are still falling.

I try to scream.
No sound comes out. The wind steals it.
I turn to Stacy.
Her mouth is open mid-scream.
Alarm fills her wide eyes.
Tears rip sideways from her face.
Still falling.
I look down again.
Nothing.
No track. No lights. No park.
The roller coaster never curves. Never slows.
The drop never ends.
I look up.
The track we fell from is gone.
Above us—
only darkness.
I reach for Stacy’s hand.
We fall.
And fall.
And fall.

KTX 39.8 was the most popular daily sports show in New Jersey.
That was before what happened on air this morning.
A tragedy—broadcast live.
Two brothers. Two public icons.
One dead. One missing.
What follows is a recording we obtained shortly after the broadcast ended.
Listen closely.

Aaron: So Rob, you were at the game last night. Tell us—how was it?

Rob: (coughs) Oh, it was electric. Seriously. It’s been a while since the Giants made it this far in the playoffs. Fans were loud. Rowdy. (sniffles) Cold as hell though.

Aaron: Wasn’t it like ten degrees out there? You doing alright, brother?

Rob: As our listeners can probably hear… I think I came down with something. (sniffles) But hey—powering through.

Aaron: I’m gonna keep my distance then. I’m not trying to catch that. (chuckles)

Rob: You know what’s really got me sick though? That controversial play you mentioned at the top of the show. (coughs) That sh*t has me heated.

Aaron: Before we go there, how were the conditions on the field? It rained for much of the weekend.

Rob: (clears throat) It wasn’t too bad. A few players slipped in the first half. But after they finally changed to grass from that awful turf last year, the footing’s been a lot better even when it’s a bit wet. (sniffles)

Aaron: Real grass is definitely—

Rob: (coughs) Let’s talk about that play. That dumba** play.

Aaron: Well—

Rob: Those goddamn refs. Those blind f*ckers. That was a clear f*cking pass interference. It was r*pe. I mean, the defender might as well have shoved—

Aaron: Alright, alright, Rob. I know it was an emotional game. But we’re still a family-friendly show. Why don’t we take our first caller?

(a sneeze in the background)

Aaron: Thanks for calling into KTX 39.8. What’s your name and where are you from?

Caller: My name’s Scott and I live in Jersey City. I just want to say being at the game last night (coughs), after that no-call, I wanted to just storm that f*cking field and st*b that ref, k*ll that motherf*cker. (coughs)

Rob: You got that right, brother! (sniffles)

Aaron: Okay, let’s disconnect that caller.

Caller: I’d shove my hand down his throat and rip out his f*cking heart—

Aaron: Disconnect him now!

(click)

Rob: You know, Aaron. (sneezes and coughs) You oughta be more respectful to our listeners. Maybe you need to be held accountable for your f*cking actions too.

Aaron: Let’s calm down here, Rob. Take a sip of—

Rob: Don’t tell me what to do! (coughs violently)

(loud crash)

Aaron: Rob? You okay?

(retching)
(guttural noise)

Aaron: Can we get someone in here? Please?

(heavy movement)

Aaron: Rob… what are you doing?

(bang)

Aaron: Stop. Please stop. No—

(screaming)

The next thirty seconds of the tape are highly disturbing.
Multiple voices can be heard yelling. Objects appear to be overturned.
We were unable to determine exactly what happened to Aaron during this time.
The recording abruptly ends shortly after, likely when the station cut the broadcast.
At this time, investigators believe Rob attacked Aaron inside the studio.
Aaron was declared dead at the scene.
Rob remains missing. New Jersey authorities are actively searching for him.
We will provide further updates as information becomes available.
Now, a message from our sponsor:

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And neither do you.
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Removing the weeds. Safeguarding our green.
(company sound effect)

2 Hours Later...

A sudden wave of violence is being reported across the Tri-State area.
The governors of New York and New Jersey have declared a state of emergency.
The National Guard has been deployed.
Sources on the ground report assailants attacking pedestrians indiscriminately.
Some witnesses have described the attackers as—quote—rabid.

(pause)

We have additional reports coming in.
Authorities are now confirming similar attacks in Pennsylvania.

(pause)

George… is everything okay?
George?

(retching)
(guttural noise)

What are you doing?

(loud crash)

Stop.
Stop!

(screaming)

Have you heard of Ars Goetia from The Lesser Key of Solomon?
It teaches you how to summon 72 of the most powerful demons. 
Not stories. 
Names. Rituals. Instructions.
But that version isn’t complete.
When Samuel Liddell Mathers compiled it, he left one out.
There were supposed to be 73.
He didn’t dare write her name.

You’re probably wondering:
Who is this guy?
How does he know?
Why should I care?
I study religion for a living.
I know.
And you should care.
Because she’s real.
I’ve met her.

Six months ago, I began researching a new book on cults in Western Europe.
Like all my work, I went past the published material—
into places my peers avoid.
That’s where I found him.
A man who claimed to be a descendant of Mathers.
We spoke for weeks.
Six days ago, I agreed to meet him.
In Paris. 

We met at his apartment.
He lived alone.
That wasn’t surprising.
He led me to his study.
I recognized it instantly from our calls:
tall bookshelves,
stacks of yellowed papers,
framed symbols and texts crowding the walls.
He dug through a drawer and handed me a thick manila folder.
Photocopies of Mathers’ notes—
Ars Goetia as it was never meant to be seen.

I took the materials back to my hotel room.
For the next few days, I barely left.
I read everything. Translating. Scribing. Cross-referencing.
Mathers was meticulous.
Every source documented.
Multiple drafts. Careful revisions.
And notes—
on why certain demons were included.
And why one was not.
Buried in the middle of the stack:
six pages of barely legible writing. 
The handwriting of a man coming apart.
Journal entries.
About her.

Warnings.
Apologies.
Fragments of fear.
Why he left her out.
What she does.
What she takes.
The sixth page was ripped in half.
Whatever mattered most — gone.
I tore through the papers on my desk.
It had to be there. I needed to find it.
Then—
Drifting slowly from the edge of the desk to the floor.
The missing half.
Her name.
Her seal.
Her ritual.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
A sheet from the hotel notepad lay in front of me.
Written in dark red—
in blood—
my best friend’s name.
I tried to stand.
I couldn’t.
In my hand, the torn page.
I looked at it.
I still don’t know why I said it.
Maybe she made me.
I spoke her name.
The lights went out.
And just before the dark—
I saw her.
A shadow. Crowned.
Dark purple eyes—
the eyes of the soul taker.

I’m sitting in my best friend’s bedroom.
Writing this.
A warning.
An apology.
A confession.
It doesn’t matter. None of it can be undone.
I live in his body now.
And his soul belongs to her.
I used to envy his life—
his career,
his family,
how easily everything came to him.
I didn’t know it mattered.
I didn’t know she was listening.
I would have never agreed.
But she didn’t need my consent.
Just something I wanted badly enough.
She took that feeling—
and made the trade for me.
Now I serve her.
The torn page sits on his desk in front of me.
Waiting.
For the next name.
The next unknowing soul.

Day 3: 
I want him. 
A feeling I’ve felt twice before. 
But this time, it’s different. 
Not a passing craving. 
Something deeper. 
An ache digging into my ribs. 
A need. 
They say it gets easier each time. 
I don’t think he will be. 
I don’t want him to be.

Day 26: 
I’ve been watching him for weeks. 
Always a few steps behind. 
Across the lecture hall. 
Just out of reach. 
Once, we almost collided in the cafeteria. 
I turned away at the last second. 
He’s rarely alone. 
Always surrounded. 
Laughing. Talking. Wanted. 
That makes this harder. 
But it will make it better.

Day 31: 
Today is the day. 
I know his routine. 
When he leaves his dorm. 
Who he spends time with. 
Which classes he takes. 
Where he goes on Friday nights. 
And on Tuesdays— 
the animal shelter on Lex Street. 
4pm to 6pm 
Always through the alley out back. 
No one else uses it. 
I made sure.

I wait in my car. 
I feel calm. 
Then I see him in the mirror. 
My heart stutters once. 
I step out. 
I stumble forward, letting myself fall. 
He rushes to help me. 
Our eyes meet. 
Murky Green. 
Soft. Concerned. 
His hand reaches for mine. 
I smile. 
And slide the syringe from my pocket.

He doesn’t even see it. 
The needle slips into his neck. 
A small gasp. 
Then nothing. 
His body softens in my arms. 
Finally. Mine. 
The drive home is quiet. 
I hum a lullaby as he sleeps beside me. 
Peaceful. 
Perfect.

I keep him in the basement. 
It’s cleaner there. 
I give him another dose. 
Just in case. 
I don’t like noise. 
I tie on my apron. 
The same one as before. 
A familiar feeling settles in my chest. 
Anticipation.

It takes longer this time. 
I take my time. 
He deserves that. 
When it’s done, I plate everything carefully. 
I always do. 
I sit at the table. 
Lay the napkin across my lap. 
Raise my glass. 
And smile at him— 
set neatly across from me.

After I finish, for a while, I just stare at nothing. 
Let it settle. 
Let him settle. 
Then I reach for my phone. 
Open my notes. 
Scroll past the last two names. 
And add a third. 
It’s strange. 
No matter how many times I do this— 
that feeling never really goes away. 
That pull. 
That hunger. 
Already, it’s starting again. 
I think I know who’s next.

Do you believe in life after death? Ghosts, demons, anything supernatural? I do. Thank god I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have survived.

It started on an ordinary October day. No warnings. No signs. How fitting it was around Halloween—my favorite holiday. But you’re not here for nostalgia. You’re here to learn how to stop someone—something—from taking your place. It began with Ronda, my coworker at the bookstore. She is… Was. She was loud, funny, alive in a way that filled a room. A natural stand-up star. I’d told her that the week before. Then she changed.

The shift was subtle, visible only if you knew her. Her jokes turned dark. Cruel. The rhythm in her voice, the intonation that always made me laugh, disappeared. She’d occasionally stare into space. When I called her name, she’d smile and tell a joke like nothing happened. When we were closing up, she asked me, “Are you deserving of your life?” I laughed nervously. Didn’t answer. She leaned close and whispered, “He’ll be here soon.” Then she told a joke so vile I won’t repeat it.

I went home and searched the internet for hours. Disorders. Breakdowns. Mass hysteria. Nothing made sense. My mind landed on possession. Call me dramatic, but I’ve watched enough horror to know when something isn’t human anymore. Then my neighbor rang my doorbell.

My neighbor avoided me because he was deathly allergic to my cat. He never came near my door. “Why aren’t you opening?” he asked through it. “Because you’re allergic to my cat, Steven,” I said. He ignored that. “Come over for a drink.” I told him I was busy. No response. Just his footsteps retreating. Then the doorbell rang next door.

Ronda. Steven. They weren’t them. Something was wearing them. Not many things scare me. They did. Badly. Ten minutes later, Ronda texted: Come over. I have something to show you.

I brought a crucifix, a Bible, salt. I’m sure none of it would’ve mattered. She set a small wooden box on her table. “You’re perfect. We’ve been waiting for seventy years. Now, you and Alfred trade places.” I ran before she could open it. She screamed after me. Cursed me. But I didn’t turn back. I didn’t dare. My friend was gone. My neighbor too. Who was next?

It’s been two days since I escaped Ronda’s alive. I’ve discovered others. No one else close to me. Not yet. Just strangers online describing the same thing. Still, no one believes me. The video I recorded just shows a woman rambling. Even now I question myself. But listen carefully: If someone you know starts acting wrong—not sad, not angry, wrong—stay away. They’re making room for someone who already died.

The emergency alert woke me at 2:17 AM.

DO NOT LOOK OUTSIDE.

I thought it was fake until my phone buzzed again.

Same message.

Then my neighbor started screaming.

Her screaming stopped mid-breath.

Silence so sudden my ears rang.

I checked the peephole.

She was there. In the hall. Standing perfectly still.

Staring at my door—at me. Unsmiling.

Her irises were unnaturally large, like black holes swallowing the whites of her eyes.

My phone blared again.

DO NOT LET THEM SEE YOU LOOK.

The knob twitched.

Slowly.

Like someone—her—testing if I’d locked it.

A voice came through the door.

My voice.

“It’s okay. You can open it.”

Her eyes never left the peephole.

It was still my neighbor.

But the voice kept talking.

And it knew things only I would say.

THEY COPY WHAT THEY SEE.

the alert said.

DO NOT SHOW THEM YOUR FACE.

Something scratched gently at the door.

Patient.

Curious.

Learning.

The scratching stopped.

Footsteps moved down the hall.

Then every apartment door opened at once.

Muffled stomping on the hallway carpets.

I heard my voice echo through the building.

Dozens of me.

Laughing.

My phone rang one last time.

WE ARE SORRY.

THEY CAN USE REFLECTIONS.

I read it in the dark screen

and my eyes appeared behind the text.

Expressionless.

Enlarged black irises staring back.

I dropped the phone.

The screen went black.

The face didn’t disappear—

My face. My irises flooding my eyes like black water.

It stayed floating in the glass, detached from my face, practicing expressions I hadn’t made yet.

Still watching.

Still learning.

I felt a pull. A nudge. As I reached for the door knob, my body no longer mine.