u/Several-Leg-9173

Yesterday I woke up covered in cold sweat under the covers. I had a strong feeling that something was wrong with my body; it didn’t really hurt, but there was a kind of itch beneath the skin—as if my very skeleton wanted to crawl out. It was the middle of the night, and I turned on the lamp at the head of the bed. I threw off the covers and stared down at my body as if to find what was wrong. And then I saw it. It wasn’t my foot at the bottom of my leg.

The toes were knobby, and the nails were short and wide. I stared down at it and blinked several times, thinking maybe I hadn’t fully woken up. But the foot was still there. The heel was narrower than my left foot, too. They were two completely different feet.

It sounds crazy, but I hadn’t taken any drugs and wasn’t experiencing a psychotic episode. But it was a different right foot. I didn’t dare touch it; I just stared down and noticed a narrow, red line where the foot joined the leg. It was almost invisible, but there was a band separating my own skin from the skin of this stranger.

I ate almost nothing that day, but drank lots of coffee and stayed indoors. I called in sick to work and blamed it on a stomach bug. Mostly, I just didn’t feel like leaving the apartment. The same burning itch rumbled beneath my skin and made me anxious. I tried to ignore the foot, but sometimes I caught myself sitting there staring down at it—disgusting and odd, a completely different person’s foot on my body. I have no friends, and my family lives many miles away; mostly I hang out with my gaming buddies on my Xbox. But I can’t exactly bring up with them that someone—or something—replaced one of my body parts last night. They’d think I had lost my mind.

For a brief moment, I considered calling the police, but I didn’t. I don’t want to be hospitalized and drug-tested for a full day. Apart from beer, I haven’t taken any substances in at least a year.

Of course, I’ve been feeling like crap, and I’ve Googled the phenomenon a lot, but I can’t find a thing. There was this stuff with black-and-white photos of stumps and stories of people spontaneously catching fire and leaving only their right leg behind. But other than that, I found nothing.

When I was going to sleep last night, I thought I heard a strange thumping in the walls, especially in the apartment above. There was a strange, shuffling sound up there. An old man lives up there, but I’ve only ever seen him once down by the mailboxes. He seems harmless—downright dying, even. We nodded hello to each other, and I haven’t seen him since. Light was streaming in from the streetlamps through my crappy curtains. I felt like I was being watched and I live on the first floor, so I got up and put up some privacy with newspaper and duct tape. To block out the strange noises, I put on a pair of headphones and turned on Rammstein. The night sucked; I woke up in the dark with panic attacks several times but always managed to fall back asleep.

Today I woke up in the dawn light, and when I sat up in bed, I saw the feet on the hardwood floor.

The feet were now the same.

But neither of the feet were mine.

Both feet were like yesterday’s left foot—the knuckles were thicker than mine, and my usually elongated nails were now short, just a few centimeters long, and square. The heels were dry and cracked. These were another person’s feet. They probably weren’t even my shoe size. They looked much bigger. Rough.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I called the health clinic and had an awkward conversation with an underpaid nurse who asked me to come in. Toward the end of the call, she sounded strained, almost stressed. I didn’t want to pull my own socks over these disgusting, unfamiliar feet, and the shoes wouldn’t fit anyway. I’d have to walk barefoot to the doctor. They’d think I was crazy. In a panic, I pulled newspaper and plastic bags over my feet and taped them with more duct tape, and then I walked all the way to the health center. I couldn’t take the bus and risk running into someone I knew. My whole body felt sick, and I was close to throwing up from nervousness when I met the doctor, a young guy with blond hair whom I could tell from a distance that his parents were rich.

I pointed to my toenails, to the hair follicles on my toes, and to the red lines where my feet were attached to my legs. He was silent for a long time before saying he didn’t see anything wrong.

“They’re perfectly normal feet. And the marks are from the tops of your socks.”

I’m home now and don’t dare fall asleep.

I don’t know what will happen tonight, which part they’ll replace. I’ve blocked the front door with a dresser and taped more newspaper over the windowpane with duct tape. Tomorrow I might not even be able to write anymore. My hands might belong to someone else, and I won’t be able to control them.

Who knows what I’ll do.

Yesterday I woke up covered in cold sweat under the covers. I had a strong feeling that something was wrong with my body; it didn’t really hurt, but there was a kind of itch beneath the skin—as if my very skeleton wanted to crawl out. It was the middle of the night, and I turned on the lamp at the head of the bed. I threw off the covers and stared down at my body as if to find what was wrong. And then I saw it. It wasn’t my foot at the bottom of my leg.

The toes were knobby, and the nails were short and wide. I stared down at it and blinked several times, thinking maybe I hadn’t fully woken up. But the foot was still there. The heel was narrower than my left foot, too. They were two completely different feet.

It sounds crazy, but I hadn’t taken any drugs and wasn’t experiencing a psychotic episode. But it was a different right foot. I didn’t dare touch it; I just stared down and noticed a narrow, red line where the foot joined the leg. It was almost invisible, but there was a band separating my own skin from the skin of this stranger.

I ate almost nothing that day, but drank lots of coffee and stayed indoors. I called in sick to work and blamed it on a stomach bug. Mostly, I just didn’t feel like leaving the apartment. The same burning itch rumbled beneath my skin and made me anxious. I tried to ignore the foot, but sometimes I caught myself sitting there staring down at it—disgusting and odd, a completely different person’s foot on my body. I have no friends, and my family lives many miles away; mostly I hang out with my gaming buddies on my Xbox. But I can’t exactly bring up with them that someone—or something—replaced one of my body parts last night. They’d think I had lost my mind.

For a brief moment, I considered calling the police, but I didn’t. I don’t want to be hospitalized and drug-tested for a full day. Apart from beer, I haven’t taken any substances in at least a year.

Of course, I’ve been feeling like crap, and I’ve Googled the phenomenon a lot, but I can’t find a thing. There was this stuff with black-and-white photos of stumps and stories of people spontaneously catching fire and leaving only their right leg behind. But other than that, I found nothing.

When I was going to sleep last night, I thought I heard a strange thumping in the walls, especially in the apartment above. There was a strange, shuffling sound up there. An old man lives up there, but I’ve only ever seen him once down by the mailboxes. He seems harmless—downright dying, even. We nodded hello to each other, and I haven’t seen him since. Light was streaming in from the streetlamps through my crappy curtains. I felt like I was being watched and I live on the first floor, so I got up and put up some privacy with newspaper and duct tape. To block out the strange noises, I put on a pair of headphones and turned on Rammstein. The night sucked; I woke up in the dark with panic attacks several times but always managed to fall back asleep.

Today I woke up in the dawn light, and when I sat up in bed, I saw the feet on the hardwood floor.

The feet were now the same.

But neither of the feet were mine.

Both feet were like yesterday’s left foot—the knuckles were thicker than mine, and my usually elongated nails were now short, just a few centimeters long, and square. The heels were dry and cracked. These were another person’s feet. They probably weren’t even my shoe size. They looked much bigger. Rough.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I called the health clinic and had an awkward conversation with an underpaid nurse who asked me to come in. Toward the end of the call, she sounded strained, almost stressed. I didn’t want to pull my own socks over these disgusting, unfamiliar feet, and the shoes wouldn’t fit anyway. I’d have to walk barefoot to the doctor. They’d think I was crazy. In a panic, I pulled newspaper and plastic bags over my feet and taped them with more duct tape, and then I walked all the way to the health center. I couldn’t take the bus and risk running into someone I knew. My whole body felt sick, and I was close to throwing up from nervousness when I met the doctor, a young guy with blond hair whom I could tell from a distance that his parents were rich.

I pointed to my toenails, to the hair follicles on my toes, and to the red lines where my feet were attached to my legs. He was silent for a long time before saying he didn’t see anything wrong.

“They’re perfectly normal feet. And the marks are from the tops of your socks.”

I’m home now and don’t dare fall asleep.

I don’t know what will happen tonight, which part they’ll replace. I’ve blocked the front door with a dresser and taped more newspaper over the windowpane with duct tape. Tomorrow I might not even be able to write anymore. My hands might belong to someone else, and I won’t be able to control them.

Who knows what I’ll do.

Yesterday I woke up covered in cold sweat under the covers. I had a strong feeling that something was wrong with my body; it didn’t really hurt, but there was a kind of itch beneath the skin—as if my very skeleton wanted to crawl out. It was the middle of the night, and I turned on the lamp at the head of the bed. I threw off the covers and stared down at my body as if to find what was wrong. And then I saw it. It wasn’t my foot at the bottom of my leg.

The toes were knobby, and the nails were short and wide. I stared down at it and blinked several times, thinking maybe I hadn’t fully woken up. But the foot was still there. The heel was narrower than my left foot, too. They were two completely different feet.

It sounds crazy, but I hadn’t taken any drugs and wasn’t experiencing a psychotic episode. But it was a different right foot. I didn’t dare touch it; I just stared down and noticed a narrow, red line where the foot joined the leg. It was almost invisible, but there was a band separating my own skin from the skin of this stranger.

I ate almost nothing that day, but drank lots of coffee and stayed indoors. I called in sick to work and blamed it on a stomach bug. Mostly, I just didn’t feel like leaving the apartment. The same burning itch rumbled beneath my skin and made me anxious. I tried to ignore the foot, but sometimes I caught myself sitting there staring down at it—disgusting and odd, a completely different person’s foot on my body. I have no friends, and my family lives many miles away; mostly I hang out with my gaming buddies on my Xbox. But I can’t exactly bring up with them that someone—or something—replaced one of my body parts last night. They’d think I had lost my mind.

For a brief moment, I considered calling the police, but I didn’t. I don’t want to be hospitalized and drug-tested for a full day. Apart from beer, I haven’t taken any substances in at least a year.

Of course, I’ve been feeling like crap, and I’ve Googled the phenomenon a lot, but I can’t find a thing. There was this stuff with black-and-white photos of stumps and stories of people spontaneously catching fire and leaving only their right leg behind. But other than that, I found nothing.

When I was going to sleep last night, I thought I heard a strange thumping in the walls, especially in the apartment above. There was a strange, shuffling sound up there. An old man lives up there, but I’ve only ever seen him once down by the mailboxes. He seems harmless—downright dying, even. We nodded hello to each other, and I haven’t seen him since. Light was streaming in from the streetlamps through my crappy curtains. I felt like I was being watched and I live on the first floor, so I got up and put up some privacy with newspaper and duct tape. To block out the strange noises, I put on a pair of headphones and turned on Rammstein. The night sucked; I woke up in the dark with panic attacks several times but always managed to fall back asleep.

Today I woke up in the dawn light, and when I sat up in bed, I saw the feet on the hardwood floor.

The feet were now the same.

But neither of the feet were mine.

Both feet were like yesterday’s left foot—the knuckles were thicker than mine, and my usually elongated nails were now short, just a few centimeters long, and square. The heels were dry and cracked. These were another person’s feet. They probably weren’t even my shoe size. They looked much bigger. Rough.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I called the health clinic and had an awkward conversation with an underpaid nurse who asked me to come in. Toward the end of the call, she sounded strained, almost stressed. I didn’t want to pull my own socks over these disgusting, unfamiliar feet, and the shoes wouldn’t fit anyway. I’d have to walk barefoot to the doctor. They’d think I was crazy. In a panic, I pulled newspaper and plastic bags over my feet and taped them with more duct tape, and then I walked all the way to the health center. I couldn’t take the bus and risk running into someone I knew. My whole body felt sick, and I was close to throwing up from nervousness when I met the doctor, a young guy with blond hair whom I could tell from a distance that his parents were rich.

I pointed to my toenails, to the hair follicles on my toes, and to the red lines where my feet were attached to my legs. He was silent for a long time before saying he didn’t see anything wrong.

“They’re perfectly normal feet. And the marks are from the tops of your socks.”

I’m home now and don’t dare fall asleep.

I don’t know what will happen tonight, which part they’ll replace. I’ve blocked the front door with a dresser and taped more newspaper over the windowpane with duct tape. Tomorrow I might not even be able to write anymore. My hands might belong to someone else, and I won’t be able to control them. Who knows what I’ll do.

This is the story of when I was twelve and was dared to spend the night in an abandoned house in northern Sweden. I was a strange kid who never really fit in, and when the popular kids in my class challenged me, I didn’t think twice—I took the chance. And boy, have I regretted it.

This was the turning point of my life, the thing that would change everything. If I played my cards right, managed to bullshit my way into their respect, I wouldn’t end up as the class victim.
“Go there tonight, then. My big brother will give you a ride”, Mikaela, the prettiest (and meanest) girl in the class said.
My mouth went completely dry. I didn’t know what to say.
“You know the owner died like a month ago, right?” Ellan said quietly to me. I didn’t know if she was saying it to warn me or to rub salt in the wound.
I couldn’t back out.

It was arranged for me; I had no say in the matter, and like wildfire, the news spread among the school’s students that I was going to spend the night alone at the abandoned house. I’ve never seen children and teenagers work together like that.
Ellan and Mikaela whipped up a note in no time—a fake invitation to a birthday pajama party at Mikaela’s, saying I was invited. When my parents dropped me off at her place, Hoggan’s brother would soon show up in his beat-up Volvo to drive me and as many others as could fit to the house. Johannes was going to give me his camera, a fairly modern model with a film roll in a box and a flash. I was supposed to take pictures every hour throughout the night and in every room of the farm, especially the room where the owner had died.

I prayed to God that my parents would see through the scam and refuse to let me go. I had never been invited to a party in my life. But the kids probably had a feeling about it, and that’s why a whole bunch of kids were waiting in the schoolyard at the end of the school day when Dad picked me up after work. They were shouting and cheering and talking loudly about the sleepover at Mikaela’s that evening. Mikaela herself handed me my handwritten invitation with drawn pajamas on it right in front of Dad.
“See you tonight,” she beamed at me.
The knot in my stomach was enormous.

Everything went way too smoothly. Mom was overjoyed that I’d finally made friends—it had only taken six years of elementary school. Dad was a little more cautious but helped me pack my overnight bag. Since I was going to Mikaela’s sleepover, he insisted that I wear my pajamas when I arrived, even though I protested loudly.
   “That’s just how it’s done,” he explained, as if I were completely socially challenged. Which, I admit, I was.
 
I packed the rest of my backpack in the privacy of my room, completely baffled as to what I might possibly need. Just the thought of having to spend the first night of my life anywhere other than at home in my bunk bed made me feel pretty queasy, but the thought of being driven to the house made my throat tighten. I was close to bursting into tears and confessing everything to my mom and dad, even during the entire car ride to Mikaela’s. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I chickened out every time. I hated myself.

Mikaela, Hoggan, and Ellan met me on the steps of Mikaela’s white single-story house. She lived close to town and was within biking distance of school and the grocery store. Having grown up several miles out in the country, I felt a twinge, a touch of envy. They waved overenthusiastically at dad's car as we pulled into the gravel driveway. None of them were wearing pajamas, but dad didn't think about that. We stopped next to a car that was idling, and the driver was Hoggan's older brother. I don’t remember his name, and I’m not sure I knew it back then either. He had a side-swept fringe and stared down at a magazine until my dad drove home. Then he looked up at me, and I saw the ring in his ear. I felt so small and young that I just wanted to drop my backpack and run the hour-long walk home that it would surely take me. But instead, I was shoved into the dirty Volvo, squeezed between the teenagers who were grinning and whispering.

The outcome of that night would shape my entire future. I knew it. I had to do the right thing.

I got carsick—or had a panic attack, as I’ve realized in hindsight—and had to ask them to stop the car twice before we reached the foot of the mountain. The open asphalt road had given way to a gravel road with small spruce shoots poking up from it, forcing the driver to drive carefully so as not to scrape the car’s undercarriage. The wheel tracks were deep and caused the car to sway violently from side to side. We’d probably been driving for forty minutes, but I couldn’t possibly tell the time right then and there. It really felt like I was going to die.

The kids tumbled out of the Volvo and someone tossed my backpack out. I got out last of all and tried not to breathe too loudly through my mouth, but my heart was pounding so hard it was impossible.
   “We’re here,” Hoggan sang, smiling wider than ever, so that the gap between his front teeth stood out like a black hole in his face.

I saw the building higher up on the mountaintop. We had stopped down by an unlocked, tall metal gate, which was extremely unusual to have around a house here in my village. But we weren’t in my village anymore; we were outside it, on land that had belonged to wealthy people who had likely wielded more influence over the community than the current leaders do. The car was still running, and its headlights shone through the iron gate, but didn’t reach all the way up to the main building. It was freezing outside, and I was shivering in my striped pajamas. Thankfully, dad hadn’t noticed that I’d worn my lace-up boots.

Mikaela tossed something into my arms. It was a small camera. Not a digital one—this was long before that—but one where you could pop up a little flash and peer into a tiny glass window to see what you’d captured on the film. You had to mail the film roll to a photo lab in the nearest big city.
   “Let’s see then, tough guy,” they shouted. 
   The big brother was still behind the wheel, clearly bored, waiting for a case of beer or some other bribe from my classmates. 

They drove off the same way we’d come. When the car’s headlights left me, I was left in total darkness, except for a few small points of light from the lamps up on the big house, but I was immediately struck by panic and dug into my Spider-Man backpack. I grabbed my white flashlight with a red ring around the top and turned it on quickly. The beam of my flashlight fell on my shoes, and I saw fog swirling around them. All around me was dense pine forest, and a half-moon hung above it, serving as a marker for which way was north.
I had two choices: to run down the mountain, running for hours until dawn broke and I could get home. Avoiding bears and wolves and breaking my legs on the bumpy road. Or to get inside the building, stay warm, safe, and awake—terrified but safe—take a few photos, and wait for them to pick me up first thing in the morning. With my legs on my back, I chose the latter. I was slim and lanky, so I slipped through the bars instead of opening the gate; I didn’t want to make a sound.

Only the sound of my breathing and my feet on the gravel kept me company, but I made my way toward the abandoned house.

Okay. So I walked toward the deserted house I’d been bullied into spending the night in. Alone. With no way to leave. Wearing my pajamas and holding a flashlight. Okay. Breathe.

Only a single star lit up the sky, and the moon was hidden behind dark clouds that almost shimmered with a purple hue. The house in front of me was a three-story building with two tiny dots of light on the porch, welcoming me to the worst night of my life.

In the darkness, I could barely make out the color of the wooden planks for walls, but I saw the windows—curtains drawn and no light seeping out. When I reached the stairs, however, it hit me—how the hell was I supposed to get in? The thought of sleeping outdoors made me panic even more, and I yanked at the front door like an idiot. As I tugged on the handle, a small, faint sound came from inside. 

I let go of the door and backed away while I thought. The flashlight’s beam rested on my shoes. Puzzled, I started walking around the side of the house, following some kind of thorny flower bushes until I found a back door leading to a large patio. The patio was huge; you could easily throw a ball out here. If I couldn’t get inside, maybe I could sleep out here. And then I realized I’d totally screwed up by forgetting my sleeping pad. I only had a sleeping bag strapped to my Spider-Man backpack. Maybe inside there was a couch to lie on, at least. 

The back door was open.

I thanked all my lucky stars as I carefully pulled open the large door, half of which was made of glass. It, too, was covered by a thick curtain.  Before stepping inside, I paused at a new sound. It sounded like a bell chiming, like when you walk into a store. I looked around and saw that someone had hung a bell on a string just above me on the inside of the door, and it was swaying in the draft. Strange.

From the forest and the dangers of the outdoors to a huge, unfamiliar house shrouded in pitch darkness. My pulse was pounding so hard I could feel it on the side of my neck. I closed the door behind me and looked for a lock I could push to feel more secure. Then I swept the flashlight across the room I had entered. It appeared to be a dining room with a long table and twelve chairs standing as the centerpiece of the room. I saw a fireplace that had long since been extinguished and several doors leading out from here. On the walls hung portraits of old men with mustaches and bow ties. I shuddered and looked away from them. I had been told to take photographs throughout the night, and I fished the camera out of my trousers pocket. Clumsily, I took a picture of the room, and when the flash lit up the room, I thought I saw a movement in the farthest doorway. 
   “Hello?” I thought I shouted, but what came out was just a hoarse, trembling whisper.

“Someone’s fucking died in here,” I thought. But then again, hadn’t someone died in every house? The village was old, and our house was built in 1935, so probably lots of people had died and been born all over the place. That was the thought I clung to as I shuffled forward, my bladder full of piss and on the verge of bursting.

As I walked past the table, I noticed the bells. They were sewn onto the upholstery of each chair, so they hung over the edge like a lace trim. There were four on each chair—one on each side.

I definitely didn’t take the door where I’d seen something flash by out of the corner of my eye. I took the one farthest from it, the one on the left, and I came to a narrow passageway with a staircase leading up, so narrow that I’d have to walk sideways to get past with my backpack and sleeping bag. I decided not to leave this floor just yet. Maybe there was a couch or some place that felt safe down here. I wasn’t in the mood to explore, yet an ancient instinct tugged at me, urging me to secure all areas before setting up camp. So I took the middle door from the hall and came to what I assumed was the foyer, because I saw several pairs of shoes by a door.

Jingle.

What?
I looked around and then I saw that I had walked through a taut string with a bell tied to its center. I was completely breathless with confusion but stood still as a statue, waiting for something more. But nothing came. The string against my calf was still, except for the bell, which was still shaking faintly. I flashed the light wildly around me and then I saw the ceiling.

There were surely thirty strings hanging from the ceiling, all tied with small bells at the bottom. I was too short to reach them, but an adult could set them all in motion.

I was still standing there, frozen. I didn’t take note of any shoes, shoe sizes, jackets, keys—all the things you’re supposed to do in books and tabletop role-playing games—I was too shocked. The only thing that stuck in my mind was a pair of old leather children’s shoes on top of the hat rack; it was the only thing that stood out enough for me to notice it. I don’t know if I stood there trying to make sense of it all for a minute or three. I couldn’t find a logical explanation for this. 

“Don’t touch the bells,” I thought to myself, and very carefully I stepped over the cord in the doorway. I took a quick photo straight up at the ceiling and didn’t know if it would end up being a blurry, unrecognizable shot or if you’d be able to see all the little round spheres swaying faintly in the air.

I saw a bathroom door ajar and I was dying to pee from all the suspense. I had considered finding a flowerpot to urinate in, but this was better, even though it felt wrong in every way to relieve myself in a dead person's abandoned house. I avoided the habit of closing and locking the door; I wanted to know if anyone was standing outside the door waiting for me. So I left it half-open and pointed the flashlight straight out into the hallway like a spotlight.

Jingle.

There was a bell hanging on the doorknob, a little bigger than the others. It looked like a rusty old cowbell. I pulled on the door itself instead of the handle and sat down on the toilet. It was a yellowed old porcelain toilet with a strange, foul-smelling coating at the bottom. The bathroom was cramped; I could touch the sink from where I was sitting. There was a low gurgling sound coming from the pipe at the bottom of it. Like a faint murmur. I peed as fast as I could without wiping, and when I stood up, I looked straight into the mirror. A skinny twelve-year-old stared back at me with hollow eyes, and behind me I saw the open door. I swear I saw someone standing there, further back toward the dining room. It happened so fast that when I turned around with a scream in my throat, it was gone.
I snatched the flashlight from the floor, and it jingled as I shoved the door open with force, as if to chase the other thing away.  But it was completely gone.

Further in, I found the kitchen itself. A run-down, unrenovated 1950s kitchen with mint-green cabinets reaching all the way to the ceiling. I dutifully photographed the countertop and a humming, orange refrigerator. A large freezer stood on the floor behind a small table with four chairs. Those bells were hanging on the freezer and the refrigerator. It smelled strange in here, like a musty, sour stench that made my nostrils quiver. I followed the stench and found piles of cans in the sink. Knorr soup cans lay open and half-eaten, with food scraps at the bottom spreading a musty odor throughout the room. I saw no plates or glasses, but three empty coffee cups with black sludge around the rim. As I stood there, I noticed that every cabinet door had bells on it. There must have been thirty bells in this kitchen. I didn’t dare touch any of them, so I backed carefully out into the hallway.

Maybe it was best to check the upstairs as well.

To this day, I still have nightmares about this place and what I would find—that cassette tape I wish I’d never heard, with the screams. That pool of sludge and dried secretions. The dead man.

I will post the rest of my story tomorrow. Now I'm going to take two sleeping pills and hope I only have a few nightmares tonight.

This is the story of when I was twelve and was dared to spend the night in an abandoned house in northern Sweden. I was a strange kid who never really fit in, and when the popular kids in my class challenged me, I didn’t think twice—I took the chance. And boy, have I regretted it.

This was the turning point of my life, the thing that would change everything. If I played my cards right, managed to bullshit my way into their respect, I wouldn’t end up as the class victim.
“Go there tonight, then. My big brother will give you a ride”, Mikaela, the prettiest (and meanest) girl in the class said.
My mouth went completely dry. I didn’t know what to say.
“You know the owner died like a month ago, right?” Ellan said quietly to me. I didn’t know if she was saying it to warn me or to rub salt in the wound.
I couldn’t back out.

It was arranged for me; I had no say in the matter, and like wildfire, the news spread among the school’s students that I was going to spend the night alone at the abandoned house. I’ve never seen children and teenagers work together like that.
Ellan and Mikaela whipped up a note in no time—a fake invitation to a birthday pajama party at Mikaela’s, saying I was invited. When my parents dropped me off at her place, Hoggan’s brother would soon show up in his beat-up Volvo to drive me and as many others as could fit to the house. Johannes was going to give me his camera, a fairly modern model with a film roll in a box and a flash. I was supposed to take pictures every hour throughout the night and in every room of the farm, especially the room where the owner had died.

I prayed to God that my parents would see through the scam and refuse to let me go. I had never been invited to a party in my life. But the kids probably had a feeling about it, and that’s why a whole bunch of kids were waiting in the schoolyard at the end of the school day when Dad picked me up after work. They were shouting and cheering and talking loudly about the sleepover at Mikaela’s that evening. Mikaela herself handed me my handwritten invitation with drawn pajamas on it right in front of Dad.
“See you tonight,” she beamed at me.
The knot in my stomach was enormous.

Everything went way too smoothly. Mom was overjoyed that I’d finally made friends—it had only taken six years of elementary school. Dad was a little more cautious but helped me pack my overnight bag. Since I was going to Mikaela’s sleepover, he insisted that I wear my pajamas when I arrived, even though I protested loudly.
   “That’s just how it’s done,” he explained, as if I were completely socially challenged. Which, I admit, I was.
 
I packed the rest of my backpack in the privacy of my room, completely baffled as to what I might possibly need. Just the thought of having to spend the first night of my life anywhere other than at home in my bunk bed made me feel pretty queasy, but the thought of being driven to the house made my throat tighten. I was close to bursting into tears and confessing everything to my mom and dad, even during the entire car ride to Mikaela’s. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I chickened out every time. I hated myself.

Mikaela, Hoggan, and Ellan met me on the steps of Mikaela’s white single-story house. She lived close to town and was within biking distance of school and the grocery store. Having grown up several miles out in the country, I felt a twinge, a touch of envy. They waved overenthusiastically at dad's car as we pulled into the gravel driveway. None of them were wearing pajamas, but dad didn't think about that. We stopped next to a car that was idling, and the driver was Hoggan's older brother. I don’t remember his name, and I’m not sure I knew it back then either. He had a side-swept fringe and stared down at a magazine until my dad drove home. Then he looked up at me, and I saw the ring in his ear. I felt so small and young that I just wanted to drop my backpack and run the hour-long walk home that it would surely take me. But instead, I was shoved into the dirty Volvo, squeezed between the teenagers who were grinning and whispering.

The outcome of that night would shape my entire future. I knew it. I had to do the right thing.

I got carsick—or had a panic attack, as I’ve realized in hindsight—and had to ask them to stop the car twice before we reached the foot of the mountain. The open asphalt road had given way to a gravel road with small spruce shoots poking up from it, forcing the driver to drive carefully so as not to scrape the car’s undercarriage. The wheel tracks were deep and caused the car to sway violently from side to side. We’d probably been driving for forty minutes, but I couldn’t possibly tell the time right then and there. It really felt like I was going to die.

The kids tumbled out of the Volvo and someone tossed my backpack out. I got out last of all and tried not to breathe too loudly through my mouth, but my heart was pounding so hard it was impossible.
   “We’re here,” Hoggan sang, smiling wider than ever, so that the gap between his front teeth stood out like a black hole in his face.

I saw the building higher up on the mountaintop. We had stopped down by an unlocked, tall metal gate, which was extremely unusual to have around a house here in my village. But we weren’t in my village anymore; we were outside it, on land that had belonged to wealthy people who had likely wielded more influence over the community than the current leaders do. The car was still running, and its headlights shone through the iron gate, but didn’t reach all the way up to the main building. It was freezing outside, and I was shivering in my striped pajamas. Thankfully, dad hadn’t noticed that I’d worn my lace-up boots.

Mikaela tossed something into my arms. It was a small camera. Not a digital one—this was long before that—but one where you could pop up a little flash and peer into a tiny glass window to see what you’d captured on the film. You had to mail the film roll to a photo lab in the nearest big city.
   “Let’s see then, tough guy,” they shouted. 
   The big brother was still behind the wheel, clearly bored, waiting for a case of beer or some other bribe from my classmates. 

They drove off the same way we’d come. When the car’s headlights left me, I was left in total darkness, except for a few small points of light from the lamps up on the big house, but I was immediately struck by panic and dug into my Spider-Man backpack. I grabbed my white flashlight with a red ring around the top and turned it on quickly. The beam of my flashlight fell on my shoes, and I saw fog swirling around them. All around me was dense pine forest, and a half-moon hung above it, serving as a marker for which way was north.
I had two choices: to run down the mountain, running for hours until dawn broke and I could get home. Avoiding bears and wolves and breaking my legs on the bumpy road. Or to get inside the building, stay warm, safe, and awake—terrified but safe—take a few photos, and wait for them to pick me up first thing in the morning. With my legs on my back, I chose the latter. I was slim and lanky, so I slipped through the bars instead of opening the gate; I didn’t want to make a sound.

Only the sound of my breathing and my feet on the gravel kept me company, but I made my way toward the abandoned house.

Okay. So I walked toward the deserted house I’d been bullied into spending the night in. Alone. With no way to leave. Wearing my pajamas and holding a flashlight. Okay. Breathe.

Only a single star lit up the sky, and the moon was hidden behind dark clouds that almost shimmered with a purple hue. The house in front of me was a three-story building with two tiny dots of light on the porch, welcoming me to the worst night of my life.

In the darkness, I could barely make out the color of the wooden planks for walls, but I saw the windows—curtains drawn and no light seeping out. When I reached the stairs, however, it hit me—how the hell was I supposed to get in? The thought of sleeping outdoors made me panic even more, and I yanked at the front door like an idiot. As I tugged on the handle, a small, faint sound came from inside. 

I let go of the door and backed away while I thought. The flashlight’s beam rested on my shoes. Puzzled, I started walking around the side of the house, following some kind of thorny flower bushes until I found a back door leading to a large patio. The patio was huge; you could easily throw a ball out here. If I couldn’t get inside, maybe I could sleep out here. And then I realized I’d totally screwed up by forgetting my sleeping pad. I only had a sleeping bag strapped to my Spider-Man backpack. Maybe inside there was a couch to lie on, at least. 

The back door was open.

I thanked all my lucky stars as I carefully pulled open the large door, half of which was made of glass. It, too, was covered by a thick curtain.  Before stepping inside, I paused at a new sound. It sounded like a bell chiming, like when you walk into a store. I looked around and saw that someone had hung a bell on a string just above me on the inside of the door, and it was swaying in the draft. Strange.

From the forest and the dangers of the outdoors to a huge, unfamiliar house shrouded in pitch darkness. My pulse was pounding so hard I could feel it on the side of my neck. I closed the door behind me and looked for a lock I could push to feel more secure. Then I swept the flashlight across the room I had entered. It appeared to be a dining room with a long table and twelve chairs standing as the centerpiece of the room. I saw a fireplace that had long since been extinguished and several doors leading out from here. On the walls hung portraits of old men with mustaches and bow ties. I shuddered and looked away from them. I had been told to take photographs throughout the night, and I fished the camera out of my trousers pocket. Clumsily, I took a picture of the room, and when the flash lit up the room, I thought I saw a movement in the farthest doorway. 
   “Hello?” I thought I shouted, but what came out was just a hoarse, trembling whisper.

“Someone’s fucking died in here,” I thought. But then again, hadn’t someone died in every house? The village was old, and our house was built in 1935, so probably lots of people had died and been born all over the place. That was the thought I clung to as I shuffled forward, my bladder full of piss and on the verge of bursting.

As I walked past the table, I noticed the bells. They were sewn onto the upholstery of each chair, so they hung over the edge like a lace trim. There were four on each chair—one on each side.

I definitely didn’t take the door where I’d seen something flash by out of the corner of my eye. I took the one farthest from it, the one on the left, and I came to a narrow passageway with a staircase leading up, so narrow that I’d have to walk sideways to get past with my backpack and sleeping bag. I decided not to leave this floor just yet. Maybe there was a couch or some place that felt safe down here. I wasn’t in the mood to explore, yet an ancient instinct tugged at me, urging me to secure all areas before setting up camp. So I took the middle door from the hall and came to what I assumed was the foyer, because I saw several pairs of shoes by a door.

Jingle.

What?
I looked around and then I saw that I had walked through a taut string with a bell tied to its center. I was completely breathless with confusion but stood still as a statue, waiting for something more. But nothing came. The string against my calf was still, except for the bell, which was still shaking faintly. I flashed the light wildly around me and then I saw the ceiling.

There were surely thirty strings hanging from the ceiling, all tied with small bells at the bottom. I was too short to reach them, but an adult could set them all in motion.

I was still standing there, frozen. I didn’t take note of any shoes, shoe sizes, jackets, keys—all the things you’re supposed to do in books and tabletop role-playing games—I was too shocked. The only thing that stuck in my mind was a pair of old leather children’s shoes on top of the hat rack; it was the only thing that stood out enough for me to notice it. I don’t know if I stood there trying to make sense of it all for a minute or three. I couldn’t find a logical explanation for this. 

“Don’t touch the bells,” I thought to myself, and very carefully I stepped over the cord in the doorway. I took a quick photo straight up at the ceiling and didn’t know if it would end up being a blurry, unrecognizable shot or if you’d be able to see all the little round spheres swaying faintly in the air.

I saw a bathroom door ajar and I was dying to pee from all the suspense. I had considered finding a flowerpot to urinate in, but this was better, even though it felt wrong in every way to relieve myself in a dead person's abandoned house. I avoided the habit of closing and locking the door; I wanted to know if anyone was standing outside the door waiting for me. So I left it half-open and pointed the flashlight straight out into the hallway like a spotlight.

Jingle.

There was a bell hanging on the doorknob, a little bigger than the others. It looked like a rusty old cowbell. I pulled on the door itself instead of the handle and sat down on the toilet. It was a yellowed old porcelain toilet with a strange, foul-smelling coating at the bottom. The bathroom was cramped; I could touch the sink from where I was sitting. There was a low gurgling sound coming from the pipe at the bottom of it. Like a faint murmur. I peed as fast as I could without wiping, and when I stood up, I looked straight into the mirror. A skinny twelve-year-old stared back at me with hollow eyes, and behind me I saw the open door. I swear I saw someone standing there, further back toward the dining room. It happened so fast that when I turned around with a scream in my throat, it was gone.
I snatched the flashlight from the floor, and it jingled as I shoved the door open with force, as if to chase the other thing away.  But it was completely gone.

Further in, I found the kitchen itself. A run-down, unrenovated 1950s kitchen with mint-green cabinets reaching all the way to the ceiling. I dutifully photographed the countertop and a humming, orange refrigerator. A large freezer stood on the floor behind a small table with four chairs. Those bells were hanging on the freezer and the refrigerator. It smelled strange in here, like a musty, sour stench that made my nostrils quiver. I followed the stench and found piles of cans in the sink. Knorr soup cans lay open and half-eaten, with food scraps at the bottom spreading a musty odor throughout the room. I saw no plates or glasses, but three empty coffee cups with black sludge around the rim. As I stood there, I noticed that every cabinet door had bells on it. There must have been thirty bells in this kitchen. I didn’t dare touch any of them, so I backed carefully out into the hallway.

Maybe it was best to check the upstairs as well.

To this day, I still have nightmares about this place and what I would find—that cassette tape I wish I’d never heard, with the screams. That pool of sludge and dried secretions. The dead man.

I will post the rest of my story tomorrow. Now I'm going to take two sleeping pills and hope I only have a few nightmares tonight.

Part three: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/comments/1tghqe8/why_were_there_so_many_bells_in_that_house_part/

Okay. So I walked toward the deserted house I’d been bullied into spending the night in. Alone. With no way to leave. Wearing my pajamas and holding a flashlight. Okay. Breathe.

Only a single star lit up the sky, and the moon was hidden behind dark clouds that almost shimmered with a purple hue. The house in front of me was a three-story building with two tiny dots of light on the porch, welcoming me to the worst night of my life.

In the darkness, I could barely make out the color of the wooden planks for walls, but I saw the windows—curtains drawn and no light seeping out. When I reached the stairs, however, it hit me—how the hell was I supposed to get in? The thought of sleeping outdoors made me panic even more, and I yanked at the front door like an idiot. As I tugged on the handle, a small, faint sound came from inside. 

I let go of the door and backed away while I thought. The flashlight’s beam rested on my shoes. Puzzled, I started walking around the side of the house, following some kind of thorny flower bushes until I found a back door leading to a large patio. The patio was huge; you could easily throw a ball out here. If I couldn’t get inside, maybe I could sleep out here. And then I realized I’d totally screwed up by forgetting my sleeping pad. I only had a sleeping bag strapped to my Spider-Man backpack. Maybe inside there was a couch to lie on, at least. 

The back door was open.

I thanked all my lucky stars as I carefully pulled open the large door, half of which was made of glass. It, too, was covered by a thick curtain.  Before stepping inside, I paused at a new sound. It sounded like a bell chiming, like when you walk into a store. I looked around and saw that someone had hung a bell on a string just above me on the inside of the door, and it was swaying in the draft. Strange.

From the forest and the dangers of the outdoors to a huge, unfamiliar house shrouded in pitch darkness. My pulse was pounding so hard I could feel it on the side of my neck. I closed the door behind me and looked for a lock I could push to feel more secure. Then I swept the flashlight across the room I had entered. It appeared to be a dining room with a long table and twelve chairs standing as the centerpiece of the room. I saw a fireplace that had long since been extinguished and several doors leading out from here. On the walls hung portraits of old men with mustaches and bow ties. I shuddered and looked away from them. I had been told to take photographs throughout the night, and I fished the camera out of my trousers pocket. Clumsily, I took a picture of the room, and when the flash lit up the room, I thought I saw a movement in the farthest doorway. 
   “Hello?” I thought I shouted, but what came out was just a hoarse, trembling whisper.

“Someone’s fucking died in here,” I thought. But then again, hadn’t someone died in every house? The village was old, and our house was built in 1935, so probably lots of people had died and been born all over the place. That was the thought I clung to as I shuffled forward, my bladder full of piss and on the verge of bursting.

As I walked past the table, I noticed the bells. They were sewn onto the upholstery of each chair, so they hung over the edge like a lace trim. There were four on each chair—one on each side.

I definitely didn’t take the door where I’d seen something flash by out of the corner of my eye. I took the one farthest from it, the one on the left, and I came to a narrow passageway with a staircase leading up, so narrow that I’d have to walk sideways to get past with my backpack and sleeping bag. I decided not to leave this floor just yet. Maybe there was a couch or some place that felt safe down here. I wasn’t in the mood to explore, yet an ancient instinct tugged at me, urging me to secure all areas before setting up camp. So I took the middle door from the hall and came to what I assumed was the foyer, because I saw several pairs of shoes by a door.
Jingle.
What?
I looked around and then I saw that I had walked through a taut string with a bell tied to its center. I was completely breathless with confusion but stood still as a statue, waiting for something more. But nothing came. The string against my calf was still, except for the bell, which was still shaking faintly. I flashed the light wildly around me and then I saw the ceiling.

There were surely thirty strings hanging from the ceiling, all tied with small bells at the bottom. I was too short to reach them, but an adult could set them all in motion.

I was still standing there, frozen. I didn’t take note of any shoes, shoe sizes, jackets, keys—all the things you’re supposed to do in books and tabletop role-playing games—I was too shocked. The only thing that stuck in my mind was a pair of old leather children’s shoes on top of the hat rack; it was the only thing that stood out enough for me to notice it. I don’t know if I stood there trying to make sense of it all for a minute or three. I couldn’t find a logical explanation for this. 

“Don’t touch the bells,” I thought to myself, and very carefully I stepped over the cord in the doorway. I took a quick photo straight up at the ceiling and didn’t know if it would end up being a blurry, unrecognizable shot or if you’d be able to see all the little round spheres swaying faintly in the air.

I saw a bathroom door ajar and I was dying to pee from all the suspense. I had considered finding a flowerpot to urinate in, but this was better, even though it felt wrong in every way to relieve myself in a dead person's abandoned house. I avoided the habit of closing and locking the door; I wanted to know if anyone was standing outside the door waiting for me. So I left it half-open and pointed the flashlight straight out into the hallway like a spotlight.
Jingle.
There was a bell hanging on the doorknob, a little bigger than the others. It looked like a rusty old cowbell. I pulled on the door itself instead of the handle and sat down on the toilet. It was a yellowed old porcelain toilet with a strange, foul-smelling coating at the bottom. The bathroom was cramped; I could touch the sink from where I was sitting. There was a low gurgling sound coming from the pipe at the bottom of it. Like a faint murmur. I peed as fast as I could without wiping, and when I stood up, I looked straight into the mirror. A skinny twelve-year-old stared back at me with hollow eyes, and behind me I saw the open door. I swear I saw someone standing there, further back toward the dining room. It happened so fast that when I turned around with a scream in my throat, it was gone.
I snatched the flashlight from the floor, and it jingled as I shoved the door open with force, as if to chase the other thing away.  But it was completely gone.

Further in, I found the kitchen itself. A run-down, unrenovated 1950s kitchen with mint-green cabinets reaching all the way to the ceiling. I dutifully photographed the countertop and a humming, orange refrigerator. A large freezer stood on the floor behind a small table with four chairs. Those bells were hanging on the freezer and the refrigerator. It smelled strange in here, like a musty, sour stench that made my nostrils quiver. I followed the stench and found piles of cans in the sink. Knorr soup cans lay open and half-eaten, with food scraps at the bottom spreading a musty odor throughout the room. I saw no plates or glasses, but three empty coffee cups with black sludge around the rim. As I stood there, I noticed that every cabinet door had bells on it. There must have been thirty bells in this kitchen. I didn’t dare touch any of them, so I backed carefully out into the hallway.

Maybe it was best to check the upstairs as well.

To this day, I still have nightmares about this place and what I would find—that cassette tape I wish I’d never heard, with the screams. That pool of sludge and dried secretions. The dead man.

Part four of my story comes tomorrow.

Part one and two: https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/comments/1tfzrgx/comment/omfeg71/

Everything went way too smoothly. Mom was overjoyed that I’d finally made friends—it had only taken six years of elementary school. Dad was a little more cautious but helped me pack my overnight bag. Since I was going to Mikaela’s sleepover, he insisted that I wear my pajamas when I arrived, even though I protested loudly. “That’s just how it’s done,” he explained, as if I were completely socially challenged. Which, I admit, I was.

I packed the rest of my backpack in the privacy of my room, completely baffled as to what I might possibly need. Just the thought of having to spend the first night of my life anywhere other than at home in my bunk bed made me feel pretty queasy, but the thought of being driven to Kattagården made my throat tighten. I was close to bursting into tears and confessing everything to my mom and dad, even during the entire car ride to Mikaela’s. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I chickened out every time. I hated myself.

Mikaela, Hoggan, and Ellan met me on the steps of Mikaela’s white single-story house. She lived close to town and was within biking distance of school and the grocery store. Having grown up several miles out in the country, I felt a twinge, a touch of envy. They waved overenthusiastically at dad's car as we pulled into the gravel driveway. None of them were wearing pajamas, but dad didn't think about that. We stopped next to a car that was idling, and the driver was Hoggan's older brother. I don’t remember his name, and I’m not sure I knew it back then either. He had a side-swept fringe and stared down at a magazine until my dad drove home. Then he looked up at me, and I saw the ring in his ear. I felt so small and young that I just wanted to drop my backpack and run the hour-long walk home that it would surely take me. But instead, I was shoved into the dirty Volvo, squeezed between the teenagers who were grinning and whispering.

The outcome of that night would shape my entire future. I knew it. I had to do the right thing.

I got carsick—or had a panic attack, as I’ve realized in hindsight—and had to ask them to stop the car twice before we reached the foot of the mountain. The open asphalt road had given way to a gravel road with small spruce shoots poking up from it, forcing the driver to drive carefully so as not to scrape the car’s undercarriage. The wheel tracks were deep and caused the car to sway violently from side to side. We’d probably been driving for forty minutes, but I couldn’t possibly tell the time right then and there. It really felt like I was going to die.

The kids tumbled out of the Volvo and someone tossed my backpack out. I got out last of all and tried not to breathe too loudly through my mouth, but my heart was pounding so hard it was impossible. “We’re here,” Hoggan sang, smiling wider than ever, so that the gap between his front teeth stood out like a black hole in his face.

I saw the building higher up on the mountaintop. We had stopped down by an unlocked, tall metal gate, which was extremely unusual to have around a house here in my village. But we weren’t in my village anymore; we were outside it, on land that had belonged to wealthy people who had likely wielded more influence over the community than the current leaders do. The car was still running, and its headlights shone through the iron gate, but didn’t reach all the way up to the main building. It was freezing outside, and I was shivering in my striped pajamas. Thankfully, dad hadn’t noticed that I’d worn my lace-up boots.

Mikaela tossed something into my arms. It was a small camera. Not a digital one—this was long before that—but one where you could pop up a little flash and peer into a tiny glass window to see what you’d captured on the film. You had to mail the film roll to a photo lab in the nearest big city. “Let’s see then, tough guy,” they shouted. The big brother was still behind the wheel, clearly bored, waiting for a case of beer or some other bribe from my classmates.

They drove off the same way we’d come. When the car’s headlights left me, I was left in total darkness, except for a few small points of light from the lamps up on the big house, but I was immediately struck by panic and dug into my Spider-Man backpack. I grabbed my white flashlight with a red ring around the top and turned it on quickly. The beam of my flashlight fell on my shoes, and I saw fog swirling around them. All around me was dense pine forest, and a half-moon hung above it, serving as a marker for which way was north. I had two choices: to run down the mountain, running for hours until dawn broke and I could get home. Avoiding bears and wolves and breaking my legs on the bumpy road. Or to get inside the building, stay warm, safe, and awake—terrified but safe—take a few photos, and wait for them to pick me up first thing in the morning. With my legs on my back, I chose the latter. I was slim and lanky, so I slipped through the bars instead of opening the gate; I didn’t want to make a sound.

Only the sound of my breathing and my feet on the gravel kept me company, but I made my way toward the abandoned house.

READ PART ONE HERE: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/comments/1tdxm7m/why_were_there_so_many_bells_in_that_house_part/

As I said before, we Norrbotten locals are considered naturally reserved, as if the barren landscape has shaped our identities over thousands of years. People in southern Sweden joke that we’re hard-nosed and that even if you slap us, we’ll just stand there and stare back. Not because we’re emotionally cold; on the opposite, I believe we have storms raging inside us that the rest of the population doesn’t. The things we go through when we try to tame the wild, dark forest with our tractors and chainsaws, and when we try to get by during the darkest days of the year when the sun doesn’t even rise—that’s what’s inside us. 

On the other hand, I’ve never been calm on the inside or even been able to keep my cool in the most demanding situations. If Instagram had existed in the nineties when I was young, I probably would have gotten completely hooked on it, just scrolling for hours every day to numb my emptiness. I’ve always felt different, but then again, who hasn’t? But I’ve always felt… lonely? Even when I was in a room full of people, both at my current workplace and at school. It started in elementary school. 

As a child, I was curious and eager to learn. I was quite short for my age, and my now rat-colored hair was even lighter back then, lying flat against my head. My mom cut my hair herself at home with kitchen scissors since we didn’t have a hairdresser within about 150 miles. She also cut Dad’s and her own hair with some kind of hair clipper she’d bought from a TV shopping channel. She also cut Dad’s hair and her own, using some kind of hair clipper she’d bought from a TV shopping channel. It was perfectly normal in my village to do your own hair. Even today, my friends cut each other’s hair in the living room while drinking coffee and talking about how bad childcare has become, with all the schools that have closed down. 

The hairstyle she gave me for my first day of school, in first grade, was shoulder-length hair and bangs that ended about halfway down my forehead, several centimeters above my eyebrows.
I looked like He-Man.

Mom dropped me off on the school steps, just like all the other moms (dads weren’t that involved here in the ’90s) and waved me off even though I was bawling my eyes out. There were a total of 100 students at my school, from first through ninth grade. We were a small village and everyone literally knew everyone else, with our 690 residents spread out over a five-mile radius. I, on the other hand, didn’t know any of the kids when I started first grade. Our house was too far into the woods for me to walk or bike to the nearest neighbor, so I didn’t even know who the kids next door were. I didn’t have any siblings either, so I was completely used to entertaining myself down by the stream or climbing up into the treehouse my dad had built for me. So now, sitting here on the school steps, I watched as they paired off, all the ones who had met before; they hugged, jumped excitedly, played around, and showed off their backpacks, while I cried and sniffled. They moved like ants, following invisible patterns that only they could understand through telepathy, and I stood there with my ugly hairstyle, completely clueless.

I wasn’t bullied during my school years, but I was definitely an oddball who stood out completely from the otherwise nice class. If the concept of autism had existed back then, I might have been classified as having some of the symptoms, but at that time there was only the term “damp,” which in Swedish roughly means “annoying little brat with a defect in his head.” The kids with the most severe ADHD who absolutely couldn’t sit still and were constantly violent toward other kids were diagnosed with “damp” by the school nurse. There were no other diagnoses available to us; you were either normal or a “damp” kid.

I, who “just” didn’t get along with other people or who felt a constant emptiness in my chest, was a normal kid. We had a special class where the hyperactive kids went, and a guy who was called “Crooked-Skull Olle” because he was born with a severe right-leaning skull. Crooked-Skull-Olle’s real name was actually Olov, but it sounded much funnier to call him Olle using his mean nickname. 

One day in sixth grade—I was almost twelve at the time—I was sitting in the schoolyard, which consisted of a fenceless forest and a few battered jungle gyms. Child safety wasn’t a thing, even though there were constant whispers about children who had died after falling down the hillside while the teachers looked away. Today I know those were just rumors, but back then we kids took it all too seriously. 

When darkness began to fall as early as two o’clock in October, we stayed away from that part of the schoolyard. We had lights on the red wall of the building that cast a spotlight across the soccer field, but the light didn’t reach down to the hill, leaving the area around us in total darkness. The two-story wooden building was a metropolis in the darkness; and was our only refuge in an otherwise vast forest.

My dad had given me some hockey cards, and I was fondly flipping through them when the guy with the crooked head came over to me. He had a shuffling walk, and I looked down to avoid feeling some kind of strange shame at staring at him. He didn’t sit down on the bench next to me but stood far too close, so that his leg brushed mine, and breathed through his mouth. I felt shivers run through my body but didn’t dare look up from the hockey cards. He had a strange scent, like a basement and moldy fabric.
   “You do know, don’t you?” he said to me, but I avoided his gaze by hiding my face with my cap.
   “You do know.”
   He stood there, and I looked around desperately for teachers and children, but saw none. They were farther away by the swings and at the edge of the spotlight. The leaves rustled under his heavy feet as he swayed back and forth.
   “You know,” he said again, and this time he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Everyone thinks you’re strange.”

That interaction made me act the way I did the next day. I thought about it all night as I lay in my bunk bed with no sibling below me. I thought about it throughout breakfast—bacon and toast that my loving mother made for me every morning. And when the opportunity arose that Friday afternoon, I seized it.

I mentioned earlier that in this village, your reputation was everything. And I wasn’t going to accept being considered weirder than Crooked-Skull Olle. So when Hoggan (his real name was Hugo, but it was standard practice to give each other strange nicknames that were considered cool) sat next to me in art class and stuck a piece of gum in my straight hair, it hit me. I may have been quiet and lonely, but this wasn’t a path I intended to continue down. I wasn’t going to become society’s oddball. I realized a change was needed.

“I’ve spent a night at Kattagården,” I said bluntly.

Silence fell over the art room. 

“What did you say?” Hoggan asked, staring at me with utter disbelief.
“I’ve slept in Kattagården.”
It was a peculiar lie. But it slipped out of me in a desperate need to stop my transformation into the school’s victim of bullying. Kattan (Katarina) and Ellan (Elin) across from me had frozen in scornful smiles that didn’t know where to direct themselves.
“You? The nerd?” was all Hoggan could manage. “No way. Prove it.”

I swallowed, but strained every muscle to keep a neutral expression on my face. I didn’t know what to say or how to continue the conversation. I had thought it would end right then and there.

That was stupid of me.  Kattagården (Cat House, roughly translated) was located a few miles from the city center and was an old 19th-century farmhouse with three stories, perched atop Kattaberget (Cat Mountain). Older teenagers would sometimes ride there on their mopeds and try to throw parties in the yard, but they always came back before it got too dark. I didn’t even really know what it looked like there, and the lie had been as stupid as it was desperate.

“I can sleep there again,” it just slipped out of me after a silence so thick I could feel it in my body.
This was the turning point of my life, the thing that would change everything. If I played my cards right, managed to bullshit my way into their respect, I wouldn’t end up as the class victim.
“Go there tonight, then. My big brother will give you a ride.”
My mouth went completely dry. I didn’t know what to say.
“You know the owner died like a month ago, right?” Ellan said quietly to me. I didn’t know if she was saying it to warn me or to rub salt in the wound.
I couldn’t back out.

It was arranged for me; I had no say in the matter, and like wildfire, the news spread among the school’s students that I was going to spend the night alone at Kattaberget. I’ve never seen children and teenagers work together like that.
Ellan and Mikaela whipped up a note in no time—a fake invitation to a birthday pajama party at Mikaela’s, saying I was invited. When my parents dropped me off at her place, Hogan’s brother would soon show up in his beat-up Volvo to drive me and as many others as could fit to Kattagården. Johannes was going to give me his camera, a fairly modern model with a film roll in a box and a flash. I was supposed to take pictures every hour throughout the night and in every room of the farm, especially the room where the owner had died.

I prayed to God that my parents would see through the scam and refuse to let me go. I had never been invited to a party in my life. But the kids probably had a feeling about it, and that’s why a whole bunch of kids were waiting in the schoolyard at the end of the school day when Dad picked me up after work. They were shouting and cheering and talking loudly about the sleepover at Mikaela’s that evening. Mikaela herself handed me my handwritten invitation with drawn pajamas on it right in front of Dad.
“See you tonight,” she beamed at me.

The knot in my stomach was enormous.

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Part three coming up

I probably am not the target audience for this forum, and I’ve been hesitant for a long time to post my story here. I don’t usually read ghost stories, and I’ve never written one before.

Sometimes I’ve felt a little lonely with the PTSD I’ve developed since this happened, and on late nights when I haven’t taken my sleeping pills on time, I usually sit and Google for someone—anyone—who might understand me. You’re the closest I’ve come.

Please also excuse my spelling mistakes and my likely flawed grammar. I was born and raised in Sweden and have translated this story just so you can read it.
I am perhaps a little older than most of you. I was born in 1986 and grew up far from big cities and highways, and in a time when we didn’t carry our whole world in our pockets. We called each other on home phones with area codes, and we ran barefoot over to each other’s houses to hang out. We weren’t afraid of being called out as embarrassing on Instagram; instead, we were our silly, cringey, and nerdy selves—though, of course, there were downsides to that life, too. Instead, all the rumors traveled verbally between us—in the school hallways, behind the gym, over the white-painted fences, and next to the coffee makers in the staff room. We didn’t show each other pictures when we told stories about what happened at the school dance or down at the beach. We had to describe it as vividly as we could, and that could absolutely distort the stories into something ultimately unrecognizable. A story about meaningful glances exchanged between two married people—who weren’t married to each other—could be gossiped about and twisted into a tale of how he’d had sex with her on a photocopier. If you became the victim of that rumor, you were screwed, because you could never disprove it by showing text messages, Snapchat stories, or photos. You couldn’t show your GPS location and disprove all the nasty rumors about you.

In other words, your reputation was everything.

I’ve thought about my upbringing many times. My parents were normal—boringly normal, downright embarrassing in how content they were with life. The most common Swedish names are Maria and Johan, and that’s exactly what they were called. They only drank wine at dinners when they had other adults over, and they always drove me to soccer practice when it was pouring rain. Sometimes I’ve thought that it might be easier to understand this story if they had been heartless and abused me, made me completely lose my self-esteem, and locked me in the basement when I was disobedient; but everything I’m about to tell you will be entirely my own fault. 

Sweden is a long, narrow country, and there are major differences between the southern, central, and northern regions. In the south lies the capital, Stockholm, and it buzzes with life, energy, and unconventional subcultures. There is significantly more crime and drug trafficking than in the north, but despite this, many frustrated northerners move south as soon as they come of age, in search of a better life and their dream jobs. In central Sweden, things start to get a bit more intolerant and redneck; there’s a much greater interest in hunting, snowmobiles, outdoor activities, and rural life. Of course, there are big cities here too, such as Sundsvall, with a strong focus on factories and the forestry industry.

I grew up in northern Sweden.
There is so much to say about Norrland, this beautiful, enchanting blend of primeval forest and city. Sweden is an ancient country with roots in Sápmi, our indigenous people who lived off reindeer herding and hunting, and those people still live in the north today. We learn about their oppressed history as early as elementary school and get to experience their traditions and customs in everyday life, through museums and festivals. I have no Sami relatives. I’m an ordinary, boring Swede with mouse-colored hair and gray eyes. There is no historical magic in me; probably just old Finnish blood that has worked the fields for generations. I’ve never been particularly interested in history and used to smear gum on all the big posters of Sami huts when we had to go on a class trip to some local museum. It wasn’t out of racism, but just out of boredom. I remember a teacher saw me and it turned into a huge fuss about the oppression of indigenous peoples, so today I mostly keep my mouth shut on the subject. If anyone talks about the Sami, I just stay quiet so I don’t get into trouble. Not because I have anything negative to say, but mostly because I’m afraid of being the center of attention.

 
I live in Norrbotten. It’s the very northernmost part of Sweden—the coldest, darkest, barrenest, and harshest. Swedes in general are considered to be pretty friendly, if somewhat neutral about everything, and I think that’s true. The people of Norrbotten, on the other hand, are a breed of their own.

If you’re not Swedish, it’s a bit hard to describe us and make it sound charming. We in Norrbotten are fairly quiet, and even though we keep to ourselves, we’re always there for one another. We live far apart, sometimes with several miles to the nearest neighbor. During the long, pitch-black winters, we get deep snow. It goes without saying that we help each other; otherwise, we’d die. Seriously, even though it’s the modern age and everyone has cell phones. But if your neighbor calls you and says their car has stalled—the battery often dies when it gets down to -40 degrees—then whoever’s car still starts has to come pick you up. There are no buses where I live. There are no streetlights either. The decision-makers in southern Sweden cut funding for our streetlights every year, leaving us in pitch darkness between August and April. By the way, there’s a strong feeling that southern Sweden has abandoned us and left us to our own fate. There’s a general perception that northerners are stupid. We absolutely are not. Perhaps the percentage of people who’ve attended university is slightly lower, since most can find work in the forest or with tractors, but we possess a completely different kind of intelligence that the cities lack. We have a respect for the invisible.

I had never believed in the supernatural, even though I’d say it’s the norm up here. Even as small children, we’re told stories to keep us away from the vast forests and dark rivers, but also from harmless things, like an abandoned farmhouse in a field. Perhaps you could say the stories are meant to teach children to stay away from buildings that might collapse, or to avoid places where you might get lost. That’s how I’ve always interpreted it. Until I turned thirteen, and that’s where my story begins.