u/Tall-Experience4962

Numbness.

An almost euphoric full-body numbness. That's the first thing I remember.

I opened my eyes to see the sun hanging overhead, an overbearing and oppressive sight etching itself into my retinas as I couldn't even find the strength to blink.

The numbness began to subside as it was replaced with a painful tingling. The pins and needles feeling you get if you sit on the toilet for too long or sleep on your arm wrong. The kind where it hurts to move whatever part of your body was lacking blood flow, except it was my entire body.

I didn't want to get up. Hell, I don't think I wanted anything. I'm not sure I could want. But I needed to get up. Something drove me to sit up, to get to my feet, to trudge forward... somewhere.

Slowly my body peeled itself off the wet asphalt, and I had to ignore the fact that my nerves were on fire as my blood fought to get back to its rightful place. I stumble to my feet, nearly faceplanting right back onto the road, but I manage to get upright. Surrounded by droves of others with the same goal, I marched on, keeping in step with those among the parade of nameless faces.

My name? It's... Grace. I think my name is Grace.

I'm so hungry. The pins and needles have gone away and we're back to a general numbness. A full body Novocaine cleanse, so the hunger is the only thing I can focus on. That, and the fact that I think the people around me probably smell really bad by the look of them. I... I can't smell anything. I really hope this doesn't impact my ability to eat, whenever I get to eat, that is.

Meat. God, I really need some meat. Cow, chicken, pig. Hell, I'll eat a horse if I have to. I just need some now. I hope the parade knows what it's doing. It seems trustworthy enough.

Oh God, some maniac just drove his car through a bunch of people in the parade. He's... he's shooting at us! I should... I should get closer. I have to stop him from hurting anyone. I have to... have to...

Eat.

I stumble over bodies, along with about two dozen other people beside me. They get picked off one by one, dropping to the ground dead. I got lucky. I was sure I'd been shot right in the chest, but... I guess not. I'm fine.

We get to this guy and tackle him to the ground. I'm so hungry I could just...

We tear into him like a crate of neglected toddlers being given a birthday cake. This screaming lunatic is the best meal I've ever had. Once I've had my fill, or what constitutes as your fill when you're one of about fifteen people all starving and you reduce a full adult man to something somewhere south of a memory, I march on. My only goal is to find my next meal.

Why am I so hungry? When did I eat last? Who... am I?

Veronica. I think my name is Veronica.

A few more steps forward and the two people directly in front of me drop as their heads explode. Someone's shooting at us again! I think it's coming from up ahead.

Run.

Run toward them. They have to pay, just like that other man.

Every few seconds more people drop like flies, I have to get to the shooters. I have to put an end to this. The parade reaches a tall building, at least six stories. The shots are coming from the roof. At first I didn't know how we would get inside, but with enough force, the front of the line pushes through, the windows and doors give way and we begin funnelling up the stairs.

Every step forward is another inch closer to more food. I... I need food. I'm so damn hungry.

So many people climbing the stairs weren't careful enough. They went over the railings and smashed their heads open. Poor guys.

We stumble onto the rooftop, there's about thirty of us at first. The shooters start picking us off one by one.

Twenty eight.

Twenty five.

Twenty.

Seventeen.

Twelve.

I'm able to rush one of them. I swipe at him, and luckily he panics when I scratch his arm. It throws him off and I take a bite out of his neck. He drops, and just as I'm about to have lunch, I feel like I got kicked right in the spine. Except... no. There's a giant hole in my chest.

The other shooter. He shot me.

Am I going to die? But I'm so hungry.

I stumble to my feet and get him next. He puts up a fight, and before I can start eating him like I did his friend, we go over the side of the building and crash to the sidewalk below.

It takes me a minute to catch my bearings, but when I remember I've got seconds laying beside me, he sits up. He looks just as hungry as me.

He's part of the parade now. I guess we should go find something to eat.

We get to our feet, and I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look... terrible. Where are my lips? What is this giant hole in my chest? Why isn't it killing me? Shouldn't I be dead?

Juliet. My name is Juliet. And I'm so hungry...

The parade marches on.

I want to preface this by saying this is not a joke, it is not a shit post, and it is certainly not a creepypasta. This story is as true as it gets.

I love Frasier. It's probably my favorite sitcom. Well, live action sitcom anyway. It's one of the only shows I've seen all the way through beginning to end multiple times. The first episode I ever saw, oddly enough, was a later season episode where the character dynamics were already a decade into being established.

For anyone familiar with the show, it was the one where Roz falls in love with Frasier and Marty goes to the parole hearing of the man who shot him. If you know the show and the episode, then you know it's not exactly indicative of the series as a whole.

But that episode isn't what this post is about. No, this post is about an episode I found on a bootleg VHS tape at a flea market in Wichita. The booth selling the tape in question was between a table selling hand painted ceramic bowls and labubus and a table selling cheap haircuts and labubus. When I saw a tape that just had a piece of masking tape for a label with "Frasier: S06 E00", I was intrigued, to say the least. I asked the man about it, wondering what this could be.

Based on the label, it was season 6 episode 0? That's not a real episode. That would mean that it takes place after he gets fired from the radio station in the season 5 finale, but before the actual season 6 premiere that already deals with the fallout. Would this be some kind of promo material? Maybe a recording of an episode that was cut from the production order? Or maybe this guy mislabeled the tape, possibly on purpose to reel in rubes like me.

"You don't want that," the man said to me in a raspy voice, his Scottish accent coming as a huge surprise to me given our location in the midwest. He was a large man, in every sense of the word. Easily six and a half feet tall and just as wide. He had an eye patch over one eye and a thick white Santa beard. He coughed into a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, practically hacking up a lung before spitting a dark brown liquid into a styrofoam cup beside him. "Here, 'ave a look at me other wares." I took stock of his other offerings. Power Rangers VHS tapes, Underdog on DVD, and a whole heap of labubus.

"No, sir, I want to know about this tape," I picked up the Frasier tape. "What can you tell me about this?"

"I won't say anything else. I'm not even sure from where that accursed thing came. Now buy a labubu or begone with ye!" The man stood to his feet, palms flat on the table and screamed in my face, the veins in his neck thickening to the point of dwarfing my thumbs. It should be no surprise to you then when I tell you that I watched as something inside this man's brain broke before my very eyes and he dropped to the floor, dead.

In the commotion of everyone huddling around and calling the paramedics, I grabbed the offending tape and hid it under my shirt. On my way out, I grabbed a labubu and paid for my items before leaving.

When I got home, I debated playing the episode. I had this weird feeling, like I wasn't supposed to even know about this tape, let alone watch it after having stolen it off a Scottish sea captain that I pissed off to the point of stroking out. Call me paranoid.

But, against my better judgement, I pulled my VCR out of storage, hooked it up to my TV through a series of adapters, and popped in the tape. It started fairly normal. The iconic jazz music that plays at the top of the episode with the logo and the Seattle skyline. Only, the music was... different. It was atonal and off-key. I know it sounds strange, but I immediately had this sense of unease.

But I pushed forward as the episode started properly. Fade from black to the inside of Frasier's apartment. Marty walks in after taking Eddie for a walk. He begins by scolding Eddie for running off and biting an old woman. Again, this was odd as Eddie was a very well behaved dog. Marty sees that Frasier is still moping around after losing his job, sitting at the piano continuing to press the same few keys over and over. It sounded like a weird rendition of the Psycho shower music.

Frasier then asks more about Eddie biting that old woman, and Marty said something that completely threw me for a loop.

"That's the thing, Frasier. Eddie didn't just bite that woman, he wouldn't let her go. He was like a crazed madman. He dragged that old woman into traffic and she got hit by a car!"

That's... what? Why would they write that? That's exceedingly dark for an episode of Frasier. For the OPENING of an episode of Frasier. I felt like I was in some parallel universe where Frasier was some edgy adult animated show from the mid 2010s, but this would have been 1997.

Just then, the front door opens yet again and Daphne walks in covered in blood. She's sobbing uncontrollably, and Marty hobbles over to console her.

"I hit a woman with me car," she shrieks through her tears. "I tried to give her CPR, but I couldn't save her!" The studio audience laughs. Why? What's so funny about such a tragic turn of events?

"Oh geez," Marty mutters under his breath. "Sorry about that, Eddie got away from me, but—" the audience continued laughing louder and louder, so loud I couldn't actually hear what Marty said here. I tried reading his lips, but the picture quality was too fuzzy. Best I could figure, he either said "I couldn't get him off of her fast enough" or "that bitch had it coming." I don't think Marty would say the latter, but this episode was already really weird.

The scene ended with the audience laughter crescendoing to the point of distorting the sound through the speakers. The microphones peaked and I had to turn the TV down to stop it from vibrating the windows of my house. The camera slowly zoomed in on Frasier at the piano, mindlessly pressing the same piano keys until the commercial break.

At this point I paused the tape and processed what I just witnessed. This was, by far, the weirdest turn of events they could have ever written for this show. Why was it so dark? What was with the audio problems with the audience? I had to take a break, so I made dinner. Box mac & cheese, the breakfast of champions. Put a fried egg on top and eat like a king, baby.

I decided to push forward and hit play, not ready for what was in store for me. The episode resumed with Frasier now lying face-down on his couch with Marty in his chair watching some sports game, baseball maybe? Except he said the Mariners were playing the Seahawks. Those are both Seattle teams. They don't even play the same game! Was this placeholder dialogue? There's a knock at the door and Daphne answers it.

The door opens to reveal Roz holding a gun. She asks Daphne if Frasier is home. Daphne says no, that it's just her and Marty. Roz sighs. "That's too bad," she mutters before shooting Daphne in the head!

I couldn't believe what I'd just witnessed. Roz murdered Daphne? She then turned the gun to Marty and shot him three times in the center mass. But because she was on the other side of the couch, she still didn't see Frasier. She turned on her heels and left the apartment, leaving Frasier to wallow in his depression, sobbing over the bodies of his father and his physical therapist.

Once again, the audience roars with laughter, as if the carnage on display was somehow funny. I could barely keep my mac down as I took in the horror. Frasier looks up and stares directly into the camera. He's crying blood from a pair of hyper-realistic eyes. How is that even happening? It's a live action show. But his eyes were, like, 4k while the rest of the show had that 90s sitcom fuzz to it.

I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't just take the tape out, I smashed it with a hammer, set the remains on fire, and buried it in my backyard. Nobody, not even me, should ever see the contents of this tape.

I tried to go to bed after this, but my stomach kept doing somersaults. I couldn't get the mental image of the murders to go away. That look Frasier gave the camera. The screaming laughter from the studio audience. I tried to banish the thoughts, but then I heard a noise from down the hall. Footsteps.

Bump

Bump

Bump

Bump

Bump

It stopped outside my bedroom door. The doorknob rattled slightly before the door creaked open. Slowly, the door revealed the silhouette of a man standing, staring. He shuffled forward. I pulled the blanket over my head like a child. I didn't know what else to do.

I felt the weight of someone crawling into my bed, coming to rest beside me. His arm... he drapes it over my waist. He's spooning me. I've never been so scared in my life. He pulled the blanket off of my head and licked my neck just below my ear. Best case scenario, this is how I die. He strokes my hair and whispers into my ear.

I shot up to run out of bed, through the house and out my front door. I run across the street to my neighbor Maya's house and asked her to call the police.

When they arrive, they look all around my house and take my statement. I couldn't help too much because I didn't see his face, and they didn't find any evidence of anyone having broken in. They tell me to call them if he shows up again, so that's my only option. By this point I wasn't even thinking about that weird tape anymore.

I felt so dirty I took a shower. I washed and washed and washed and washed until I bled. I felt so dirty. I still do. I turned off the water and dried off. When I stepped out of the shower, I nearly fainted from fear. Written in the fog on the mirror were two words.

I'm listening.

Rafa Oami Sufa Toana Satanus.

Those were the words. The incantation to summon the devil. At least, that's what my aunt told me.

It was an open secret in my family that my aunt summoned him in the early 2000s after my cousin was born. She was born with a bad heart, and from what people recall, the prognosis was grim. When they asked the doctor what to expect, would she make it to adulthood, would she make it to kindergarten, would she make it to Pre-K, the doctor told them she might not make it to sundown.

My aunt and uncle sat in that delivery room for days listening to the agonized wails of a baby barely even able to breathe. My aunt got understandably desperate. So now that I'm a mother myself, I understand why she spoke the words, though I still can't say I forgive her.

The matrilineal branches of my family tree are all witches. The daughter of a daughter of a daughter and so on. We have this innate grasp on these forces and concepts that most will never understand, and we can choose to learn to focus it. An untrained witch usually just has slightly better luck or is kind of good with animals. You ever had a pet that hated people except that one friend that would come over? She might be a witch and not even know.

But it's not like that with us. We all know. It's not some deep dark hidden secret that we don't want the kids to know, we're just all mostly out of practice, using our gifts to live slightly, almost imperceptibly better lives than those around us. Two years ago, for example, my sister Becca, my two cousins Ashley and Dani, our grandma Esmeralda and I demolished the competition on Family Feud and walked away with a new car for grandma. Fun stuff.

Anyway, my aunt. Her baby was dying and she couldn't take it anymore. She did the only thing she could, which was also the one thing you're warned to never do. She handed a dying baby Dani over to my uncle and stepped into the bathroom.

Rafa Oami Sufa Toana Satanus.

The next day, Dani was fine. The picture of perfect health. And on top of that, there were no records of her heart condition, and only the women of the family remember her being sick. My uncle, my dad, my brother, they remember her being born a happy and healthy baby girl.

Ten days later my mom was killed when a small passenger plane crashed into her car on her way to work. My aunt wasn't at the funeral. The women at the funeral talked, and I learned what really happened to my mom. My aunt did what she had to.

I've barely spoken to my aunt since then. What do you say to someone like that? Like I said, I don't blame her as a mother, but as a sister? How could she?

But now I have a baby girl of my own, and... I get it. I would do anything for her. If she got sick, I'd take her to any and every doctor I could reach just to save her. And that's what I've been doing. Except, they don't know what's wrong.

My beautiful baby girl is wasting away. Her skin is tearing so easily, her hair is falling out, she's losing her hearing and the doctors just say there's... nothing they can find? I don't accept that. I can't accept that.

I did what I had to.

And I know that people will stare, they'll talk, they'll blame me, but I know they'd do the same thing for their children if they had to.

So I'm going to just ignore them and spend what little time left I have with Becca before it's too late. I'm sure she'd understand.

It's Friday.

She comes around every Friday.

It's like clockwork. Every Friday afternoon for the last... I don't know... four years?

She's my ex-girlfriend. She comes around and wants to talk, but I just can't anymore. She's always so sad. All she did for the first few months or so after the end was just cry and apologize for how things ended, and that hurt to see, but I couldn't even tell her to scram.

"Go on, live your life. Don't you get it? It's over."

That's all I want to tell her, but... you know how it is.

The worst part was that, eventually, she wasn't coming by alone. She was bringing people by. Usually trying to celebrate something. She actually showed up with a cupcake on my birthday as if I'd celebrate with her.

I wish she'd move on. She needs to move on, I can tell. She looks so... lonely. I see it in her eyes. All she wants is for us to get back together, but that's never happening.

Ok, I take it back. The cupcake wasn't the worst part. The WORST part was when she started bringing the kid. She tried telling me that I got her pregnant, that we had a son. I didn't listen to her. I didn't believe her. Maybe I didn't want to.

She'd go on and on about how he was 'just like his daddy', but again, that's not me. I... I don't want him to be my son.

Is that too cruel to say? I don't think it is, given the circumstances. She's losing her mind, she can't come to terms with the end. It's O-V-E-R... OVER.

Sometimes she's here, sitting in my grass at the ass crack of dawn just... talking. To me. As if I'm listening. I mean, I am, but that's beside the point. I can't just... go out there and give her a hug, even though I wish I could sometimes. There are a lot of things I'd wish for. I wish my place didn't feel so claustrophobic. I wish her son didn't look so much like me.

I wish I wasn't stuck in this grave. We'd still be together.

Warnings: attempted SA, description of murder

If by some miracle they read this in the show, please don't be afraid to let me know if it's bad.

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THWACK

THWACK

The hammer came down heavy with two quick blows. It sounded drier than I expected.

I heard a thump as all I could do was stare at my hands desperately gripping the topsoil. His body hit the ground.

He whimpered in agonizing pain before the man continued.

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

Four more blows. At least, I think it was four. I stopped counting when the sickening cracks turned to wet crunches. A warm splatter. My boyfriend being made into a Jackson Pollock right beside me.

I hope to God he's dead.

I remember exactly what I was told. Don't look. Eyes down. Only I don't remember who gave the order.

The man stands to his feet, admiring what he's done; a grotesque tableau of my love's face. A mockery of the human form.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth as he approaches me. I taste blood. I think it's mine.

The man grabs my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look at him. I can barely see him in the dark through my tears. His face is wrapped in plastic cling wrap, four holes poked for each eye and each nostril. He's smiling at me. It makes me sick.

He climbs on top of me, warm blood dripping from the hammer onto my face, some of it getting into my eye. He pushes the hammer into my throat as he grasps me with a heavy hand. He mumbles something I can barely understand. A twisted compliment I'd rather not decipher. Whatever he's going to do, I hope he kills me first.

His hand is cold as it caresses me. Bile fills my mouth as I try to wriggle free, but he brings the hammer down onto my hand.

THUMP

CRACK

My wrist is broken. A lesson learned, I suppose. Don't fight back.

I close my eyes and wait for what I know is coming. I hear the sound of his belt buckle, then a quick beat of silence, then a return to the belt buckle.

Both hands.

He's using both hands.

In an instant and without hesitation I grab the hammer with my good hand and swing it as hard as I could. It's a clumsy blow, but it finds purchase. He stumbles off of me and with all the rage I've ever felt I continue my barrage.

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

He isn't human. Not anymore. Possibly not ever.

I keep beating him until he stops twitching. Face, head, neck, throat, sternum, I have to make sure he's down for good. I've seen too many horror movies to leave any possibility he gets up.

I stumble to my feet, hammer in hand, and trudge to the van. My boyfriend brought us out here to the woods as a fun little camping excursion. I search for my phone, my boyfriend's phone, it didn't matter. I needed to call the police. Nothing.

Maybe he took them.

I return to the clearing, desperately trying not to look at what's left of my boyfriend. I can't. Not yet. I search the man's coat pockets and I find our phones. Smashed. Fuck.

I can't give up. Maybe he has a phone?

I search some more. I find a third phone. I press the emergency button and get through to 911.

"You have to help me," I sobbed. I hadn't realized how long I'd been holding my breath until I had to speak.

"I'm in the woods about thirty miles east of Acacia Grove. My boyfriend and I were attacked. He killed my boyfriend."

I stay on the line until they show up to help. When they arrive, the sun was already showing and I could see the scene that lies before me.

The love of my life lies dead in a puddle of blood, beaten to death by my own brother.