r/DarkTales

The clock on the wall rations the silence.
Tick. Tock.
Time is a loose concept. The rhythm, though—the rhythm is cold, mechanical, and honest.

I live in the basement shadows. I’ve made a home out of her floorboards since we ended. Above me, her footsteps map the ceiling: tick, tock. She is punctual. A creature of perfect, predictable gears. She rises, she walks, she pours her coffee, she sleeps.
Tick. Tock.
I know the exact weight of her step. I know her better than she knows herself. We exist in a flawless, quiet symbiosis—the host and the parasite, breathing the same air, separated only by joists and plaster. She has no idea I am here.

2:00 AM. Sleep is a luxury I don't own. I lie in the dark, remembering the taste of her, the way we used to be before the collapse. Now, we only have this.
Tick. Tock.

Then, the rhythm breaks. Her floorboards creak out of turn.
I hold my breath. The dust motes freeze in the dark. The clock seems to choke on its own gear.

CRACK.
The front door splinters.

A raw, territorial venom floods my throat. They have breached the sanctuary. These men—loud, clumsy, stupid—have stepped into a house that already belongs to me by silent right. They are trespassing on my obsession.

I freeze, paralyzed for a heartbeat. Then her scream cuts through the floorboards, only to be choked off mid-breath. Two male voices, coarse and jagged, tear through her quiet. I hear the violent, metallic rip of duct tape. I hear the wet, heavy crack of a palm hitting flesh. I hear her muffled, desperate whimpers.

My mind snaps clean off its hinges.

Suddenly, I am looking at myself from the ceiling. The world goes flat, virtualized, a cold 3D render. The noise of the assault drops into a deep, underwater hush. My body moves on autopilot. My hands find the metal box in the corner. The .22 pistol is light, freezing, and familiar. I glide up the wooden steps, weightless, a ghost reclaiming his haunt.

I reach the top of the stairs. What is happening in the bedroom is a stain on my sanity. She is bound, treated like a discarded doll, her eyes wide with a terror that screams through her gag.

I am entirely outside of myself now. A spectator. The small .22—quiet, surgical, merciless—fires. A dull pop into the first man's neck. He drops like wet clay.
The second one freezes, his hands slick with her sweat. He looks up, realizing too late that death didn't come through the broken front door. It crawled out of the floor. He opens his mouth to beg, staring at the shadow before him.

I press the muzzle against his forehead. The trigger gives. A dry snap silences the plea.

The silence that follows is deafening. The only sound is the wet, heavy rattle of their dying breaths on the hardwood. The barrel of the gun is hot. It tempts my temple. I want to pull the trigger again. I want to shoot myself. I want to shoot her, too, just to keep her safe from ever being touched again.

But I don't.

If I take one step into the bedroom, the yellow light will hit my face. She will see me. She will see the man she thinks is gone forever, standing over two corpses, drenched in their blood. The illusion would shatter. The symbiosis would die.

To keep her, I must remain a myth.

I step backward, letting the hallway darkness swallow me whole. I don't touch her. I walk to the kitchen, lift the receiver with the edge of my sleeve, and dial.

"Double homicide," I tell the dispatcher, my voice flat, dead, and steady. "Self-defense. There is a bound woman upstairs. Send help."

I hang up. Behind me, she is screaming through the tape, begging her savior to come back. But I am already gone, watching my own escape through a cold, distant lens. I take the keys. I drive into the black gut of the highway. I drift between cheap, neon-lit motels. I watch the news. I listen to the anchor talk about the "mysterious guardian angel," and I turn off the static.

The clock in her house stopped in the blood. But here, on the ceiling of this cheap room, the rhythm finds me again.
Tick. Tock.
It beats inside my skull. A reminder of a connection that is now permanent.

They never looked for me. They never blamed me. I committed atrocities that night, but it wasn't really me in that room.

Still... I would do it all over again.

When I was fifteen, my grandpa died of cancer.
For my entire childhood, I thought he was one of the greatest people I’d ever known. He was my grandpa. My safe place.
Then, near the end of his life, I learned things about him that completely shattered that image. Things he’d done to people that never should have happened. It was like mourning someone twice. First, the man I thought he was. Then the man he actually turned out to be.
Not long after he died, our house changed.
He’d never lived with us. In fact, he wasn’t even at our house very often. But after his funeral, it felt like something had moved in.
The only way I know how to describe it is that the air felt… wrong.
Every room felt heavy. I constantly had the sensation that someone was standing just behind me. I’d walk down the hallway and suddenly feel like I needed to turn around because I was so certain someone was there.
I never actually saw anything.
Honestly, I begged God not to let me.
Every night I’d pray the same prayer: “Please don’t let anything show itself to me. Please don’t let me see whatever this is.”
I wasn’t asking for proof that ghosts existed.
I was asking not to become someone who had proof.
I never told anyone how scared I was because I assumed it was just me. Maybe I was grieving. Maybe my imagination was getting the best of me.
Years later, after we’d both grown up, my brother brought up that house.
He asked me if I’d ever felt like something was there.
I remember just staring at him.
He said he always felt like he was being watched too.
Then he told me something he’d never mentioned before.
One day he was home alone. We had several old glass Coca-Cola bottles sitting on a shelf as decorations. According to him, they suddenly flew off the shelf. Not slid. Not tipped over.
Flew.
They landed several feet away and shattered across the room.
No one else was home.
He never told me at the time because he didn’t want to scare me.
Instead, we both spent years thinking we were the only one who felt something was wrong in that house.
Eventually, we moved away.
The strange feeling disappeared almost immediately.
Whatever had made that house feel so heavy never came with us.
I’ve spent years trying to explain it.
Maybe learning the truth about my grandfather changed how I saw everything around me. Maybe grief and fear can settle into the walls of a house.
Or maybe there really was something there.
I don’t know if it was my grandfather.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t him at all.
Whatever we felt…
It stayed behind when we left.

Your therapist seemed like a nice guy.

You were depressed after breaking up with your boyfriend. You’d lost your appetite, you

were sleeping all the time, you felt lethargic and unmotivated. Your parents were worried

about you, so you avoided them. Your friends noticed your resistance to their attempts

to cheer you up, and you avoided them too. You kept hearing ads for therapy on

podcasts, so you decided to try to find a therapist.

You looked online but quickly became overwhelmed. There were so many profiles, so

many different specialties and modalities. You scrolled through the profiles until one

caught your eye. It was a man with a warm smile and an office just a few miles away

from your apartment. So you emailed him.

Your therapist returned your email within the hour. Your therapist offered you a free 30

minute phone consultation to see if he was the right therapist for you. Your therapist

even mentioned the possibility that he might not be the right therapist for you. Which

made you feel like your therapist was the right therapist for you.

The phone call with your therapist went well. He seemed to understand your situation,

the sadness after the break up, the depression you found yourself struggling with. You

mentioned the idea of seeing your therapist online, but your therapist suggested that in-

person therapy would be better for you. You decided to start therapy with him. Your

therapist said he could see you the next day. You hung up the phone and noticed you

felt a little bit better.

Your therapist’s office was on a walkable block with several cafes. You arrived early for

your first session, and waited in the lobby until your therapist came to greet you. Your

therapist shook your hand, and smiled warmly. Your therapist walked you back to to his

office. Windows let the morning sunlight in, illuminating a comfortable couch with pillows

on each side, and a coffee table with coasters and a box of tissues on it. Your therapist

explained his cancellation policy, his note taking practices, and then asked you a simple

question: How were you doing?

It all gushed out like water from a fire hydrant. The deterioration of your relationship with

your boyfriend, the arguments, the infidelity, the anger. Your confusion about whether to

try to repair things or end them. The aftermath of the breakup, the back and forth, the

depression. Your therapist looked at you intently, nodding along in understanding. When

you started to cry, your therapist let you. Your therapist didn’t try to cheer you upimmediately. He didn’t tell you everything was going to be okay. Your therapist just sat

across from you with a sympathetic, comforting look on his face. Your therapist nudged

the box of tissue in your direction, and you blew your nose and laughed awkwardly.

Before you knew, it the session was over. You admitted you felt better after getting all

that off your chest. Your therapist was glad to hear this, and said he looked forward to

seeing you next week. Your therapist also offered you his phone number, in case you

had any kind of emergency between sessions, and said you could call or text him if you

needed to. You thanked him and left. You went home and fell asleep on the couch.

Your therapist tracked your progress over the next few weeks, noting that you had

become able to talk about the breakup without crying. Your therapist encouraged you to

see this as a positive sign, as even if the external events in your life hadn’t changed,

your reaction to them had. You admitted that you felt better, but even so that feeling was

more of a glimmer of hope within the overall depression. Still, your therapist’s positive

attitude gave you hope.

Your therapist was the one who suggested you start seeing him twice a week. Your

therapist was happy with your progress, and wanted to intensify treatment now while

you were seeing positive results. You didn’t feel strongly either way, and since you

worked remotely it was relatively easy to fit two sessions a week into your schedule.

Your insurance was still making it pretty affordable, so you agreed.

Your therapist asked you about your childhood, your parents, your hopes and dreams.

You hadn’t thought about things like that for a long time. You’d been consumed with the

trauma of the breakup. It was nice to talk about something else. You told your therapist

about your parents. How your father was domineering and your mother submissive.

How your father was quick to anger and your mother tiptoed around it. How you couldn’t

wait to leave for college and get away from them, but at the same time found yourself

relying on them for emotional and financial support. Your therapist assured you he

understood. And you felt better knowing your therapist understood.

One night your therapist took you out to dinner. After one early evening session you

walked out together, and when you reached the sidewalk your therapist mentioned he

was going to grab a quick bite and invited you to join him. You hesitated, but before you

could think of what to say your therapist assured you it would be okay, there was

nothing improper or unethical about it. It was just dinner. So you agreed.Your therapist took you to an Italian restaurant around the corner, a neighborhood place

that was nice but not too nice. Your therapist said he liked to have a glass of wine at the

end of the work day, and suggested you have one too. You weren’t sure about this, but

your therapist told you dinner was on him, so why not treat yourself? Your therapist

ordered you a glass of pinot noir.

You had a nice time at dinner. You talked and laughed in a way that you hadn’t in a long

time. Your therapist noticed this too, and remarked on it. Your therapist suggested that

this was a result of both your clinical work in therapy, as well as this new experience of

being together outside of therapy in a social setting. Your therapist said he was glad to

see you smile, that you have a beautiful smile, and that he hoped through your work

together you’d find more reasons to smile. You blushed, and agreed.

Your therapist is the one who suggested you add a weekly meal to your weekly

sessions. Your therapist explained that these social interactions would help you recover

from the breakup. Your therapist described how he would model what an ideal partner

would be like, showing you how a man could be trustworthy and supportive, and how

you could learn to feel comfortable being with someone who could be accepting of you.

Your therapist insisted he wasn’t trying to replace your ex-boyfriend, but that he was

trying to help you prepare for your next relationship, a relationship that would be better,

happier, and more fulfilling, because of the work you were doing in therapy together.

You nodded at that.

Your therapist dropped you off at your apartment after dinner one night. You’d started to

split a bottle of wine with your therapist at your weekly dinners, and he observed that it

would be safer if you didn’t drive. Your therapist encouraged you to take a Waymo to his

office for your session that day, and said he would drive you home after dinner. Your

therapist liked the idea of sharing time in the car together, telling you that it would be

good for you to continue to develop both your clinical relationship and your friendship.

You directed your therapist to your apartment, where your therapist pulled up and

stopped the car, turning off the ignition. Your therapist told you how proud he was of

your progress, how he admired the way you’d overcome your depression and started to

enjoy life again. Your therapist looked at you for a long moment, then leaned over and

kissed you. You were surprised, but you didn’t flinch. You accepted the kiss without

protest.

The kiss ended, and your therapist said he was looking forward to seeing you tomorrow,

and every day after that. You smiled and nodded, then got out of the car. You walked upto your front door, and as you opened it you turned back to see your therapist in his car,

watching you. Your therapist waved, and waited until you’d gone inside and closed the

door. Then your therapist drove away.

Your therapist sympathized when you told him your insurance was going to stop paying

for your sessions. Your therapist is the one who suggested your reach out to your

parents about paying for therapy. So you asked them, and your parents said yes. They

were happy to pay for therapy, because they hoped it would help mend the conflict

between you. They were skeptical of the twice a week sessions, but went along with it

because what they cared about the most was your well being, and you told them

therapy was helping.

Your therapist enjoyed cooking in your apartment. You started having dinners at your

place. Your therapist would pick up ingredients on the way over from work and have you

sit on the floor in the corner of the kitchen and keep him company while he cooked. At

one of these dinners your therapist explained that the way your relationship was

progressing was good for your sense of intimacy. This was something you struggled

with in your previous relationships, so it made sense that developing more intimacy with

your therapist would help your experience of it. Your therapist insisted that the way your

relationship was developing was completely appropriate.

Your therapist explained that the fact that you were having sex wouldn’t take away from

the clinical impact of your work together. One night after dinner your therapist took you

by the hand, led you to your bedroom, and had sex with you. No words were

exchanged. You didn’t protest. You knew it was something he wanted to do, so you

accepted it. Afterwards he cuddled with you, telling you how special you were and how

much you meant to him. You smiled and nodded in agreement.

Your therapist was concerned when you mentioned your recent contact with your ex-

boyfriend. He had texted you, asking if he could see you, and part of you wanted to see

him. Your therapist listened carefully, then shared his opinion that any attempt to

rekindle that relationship would only lead to more heartbreak and pain. Your therapist

encouraged to resist the urge to talk to your ex-boyfriend. The conviction your therapist

showed made you feel like you should agree with him, so you did.

Your ex-boyfriend had come over unannounced one day. You were reluctant to let him

in, so you had the conversation at your front door. Your ex-boyfriend said he was

worried about you, that this was less about him wanting to get back together and more

about him being concerned about you. He told you your friends had reached out to himwith their concerns about you, that you were avoiding them. Part of you did want to

reconnect with your ex-boyfriend, but you knew your therapist thought it was a bad idea,

so you dismissed that feeling. You assured your ex-boyfriend you were over the

breakup and moving on with your life. Your ex-boyfriend seemed skeptical. After your

ex-boyfriend drove away you noticed your therapist in his car across the street. Your

therapist locked eyes with you for a moment with a look you’d never seen before. Then

your therapist drove off.

Your therapist didn’t mention any of this at your next session. Your therapist was his

normal, supportive self. You were happy to avoid talking about that awkward moment

from the night before. Later that night you texted your ex-boyfriend asking him if you

could see him again, but you never heard back.

Your therapist was alarmed when you told him your parents wanted to meet him. When

your parents told you they were going to come visit you didn’t put up a fight, but you

didn’t tell your therapist right away. When you finally told your therapist, he wanted to

know all the details about how long they’d be in town and what your plans were with

them. Your therapist observed that your parents might not understand your relationship,

and that they might not approve of your relationship, even though there was nothing

wrong with your relationship. Your therapist decided you would tell your parents he was

out of town that week. You felt relieved about this plan. Part of you wanted your parents

to know about your relationship with your therapist, but another part of you knew it had

to be kept hidden from them. You didn’t want your parents to think anything was wrong.

Your therapist was the one who suggested the tattoo. Your therapist said that having his

name on your body would be your secret to share, and this secret would increase the

sense of intimacy between you. Your therapist chose where the tattoo would go: across

your stomach, below your belly button. Your therapist told you that the knowledge that

his name was written on your skin would be of comfort to him during the week you were

apart when your parents were in town.

Your parents’ visit was difficult. You could tell they were worried about you but didn’t

want to alarm you by revealing just how worried they were. Your father assessed your

apartment, replaced some light bulbs, and fixed the clicking sound your stove made.

Your mother busied herself doing laundry and cleaning out your refrigerator. You went to

dinner a couple of times, saw a movie, and spent plenty of time sitting together in your

living room, on your phones.Towards the end of the visit your parents said they wanted to talk to you about your

therapist. Your father wanted to know more about him, and what you talked about in

therapy. You were resistant to this, but your father told you he was paying for it, and that

give him some right to be included. You mother tried to soften your father’s brusque

manner, translating his questions into more a pleasant form so you’d feel less attacked.

You were vague, saying your therapist understood you, and that he was a big reason

why you were doing so much better. Your father had looked up your therapist’s profile

online and had questions about his education and training, but you didn’t have the

answers. This made your father angry. You ended up having a big fight, and you told

them you were sick of how they didn’t trust you and couldn’t let you live your own life,

and if they wanted to stop paying for therapy fine, they could just save the money for

your funeral after you committed suicide. Then you went into your bedroom and

slammed the door.

Your parents said goodbye the next morning. You apologized for the suicide threat, and

told them you didn’t really mean it. They appreciated this, and seemed relieved, but

avoided talking about it further. You hugged them both, and apologized for not driving

them to the airport. When your father went to take their suitcases to the street your

mother told you she was concerned about your relationship with your therapist, that she

didn’t want you to do anything rash, and that you could talk to her about anything,

anything at all. You thanked her, and assured her everything was totally fine and normal.

Your therapist was happy to move in to your apartment. Your therapist mentioned it first,

noting how much bigger it was than his place, how his landlord was raising his rent a

ridiculous amount, and how he spent so much time at your place anyways. Your

therapist said this was a decision you needed to make together, as therapist and

patient, so you went over the pros and cons together, and after some consideration your

therapist said that it made sense for him to move in. You didn’t feel strongly about it one

way or the other, so you agreed. Your therapist told you he thought that even though

you had made this decision together, you should still officially ask him to move in. So,

you asked your therapist to move in. Your therapist said yes.

Your therapist explained why it was a good idea to add him to your bank accounts. Your

therapist said it would easier if you didn’t have to keep track of paying him for each

therapy session, especially since now that you were living together every interaction

had the possibility of being a therapy session. You felt ambivalent about giving your

therapist access to your banking information, but your therapist insisted that this

arrangement was best for you, so you went along with it.Your friends had an intervention. They invited you to brunch and told you how

concerned they were about you. They didn’t think your relationship with your therapist

was healthy. They were worried you were being brainwashed, taken advantage of. You

listened to their concerns and validated them, then admitted that you’d lost touch with

them, and promised to be more available. You convinced them that your relationship

with your therapist was totally fine, and there was nothing to worry about.

Your therapist said you’d get used to the cage eventually. Your therapist explained how

it was really more for him than for you, how knowing that while he was at work you were

at home, in a cage that was too small for you to stand up straight in but big enough for

you to crouch and lie down, made him feel closer to you. Your therapist knew that him

feeling closer to you made you feel closer to him, and that developing these feelings of

intimacy would be good for you in the long term. You were surprised you didn’t react

with more opposition. Something about the choices in your life being made by someone

else made you feel relieved, like somehow giving your therapist responsibility for your

life was one less thing you had to worry about. You got used to the cage.

Your therapist came home upset one day and told you he had gotten a disturbing phone

call from a private investigator asking if you were a client of his, and wanting to know

more about your relationship. Your therapist also revealed he had gotten a call from a

professional mental health organization he was a member of following up on a tip about

an improper relationship he was accused of having. Your therapist was worried about

these developments, and told you he suspected that your parents were behind it. Your

therapist asked you in a threatening manner if you had anything to do with this, and you

told him you didn’t, that you hadn’t spoken to your parents since their visit. Your

therapist said that your parents were trying to sabotage your relationship, and that if

they kept it up they would end up like your ex-boyfriend. You understand what this

meant but you were scared to show that you understood, so you didn’t react when your

therapist said this, but the way your therapist said this scared you.

Your therapist set up the phone call with your parents. Your therapist told you he would

do most of the talking, and what talking you did would be about how you were feeling

much better and that therapy with your therapist was the reason why. Your therapist put

the conversation with your parents on speaker phone, and you cringed as your father

got angrier and angrier at your therapist’s attempts to avoid sharing any details about

your relationship. Your father revealed he knew about you adding your therapist to your

bank account, which flustered your therapist, who motioned for you to say something,

so you said that it was your suggestion, because you were so depressed you werehaving a hard time managing the payments. The conversation ended with your therapist

promising to continue the conversation with your parents, who sounded unconvinced

but placated for now. After the phone call you were scared, and your therapist held you

in his arms for a long time, telling you everything was going to be alright, before he had

sex with you and put you in your cage for the night.

Your therapist lay on your bed, looking at you inside your cage. There was silence as

your therapist stared at you, and you divided your attention between returning his gaze

and trying to get comfortable on the pile of blankets. The only sound was the click of the

thermostat and the hum of the air conditioning every twenty minutes or so. This went on

for a couple of hours, and each time you started to fall asleep, your therapist would say

your name loud enough to wake you up, and you would shake off the sleepiness and

stare back at him until finally your therapist fell asleep.

Your therapist was taken completely by surprise when your parents showed up the next

morning. Your therapist answered the door and tried to keep them outside but your

father pushed his way in, your mother right behind him. Your therapist and your parents

stood in your living room, yelling at each other. You sat on the couch, watching them

fight, but you weren’t sure whether it was really happening or not. At one point your

mother grabbed your arm and pulled you towards her, and your therapist grabbed your

other arm and yanked you back onto the couch.

Your father tackled your therapist, and they fell to the ground together. Your therapist

rolled over on top of your father, slamming his head into the ground over and over until

your father stopped moving. Your mother screamed and pounded her fists on your

therapist’s back. Your therapist grabbed your mother by the throat, squeezing until she

stopped moving. You and your mother locked eyes as she slowly stopped struggling,

and even though you knew something horrible was happening you found yourself

unable to move.

Your therapist let your mother’s body drop to the ground, then turned to you and said

something in a comforting voice before running out to the garage. You felt the enormity

of the situation hitting you but at the same time felt strangely detached from it. Your

therapist returned with a can of gasoline and began pouring it on the bodies of your

parents, then on the rest of the furniture. Your therapist sat down on the couch beside

you and kissed you and told you he loved you, and that this way you’d be together

forever, then picked up a matchbox and struck a match.In the millisecond of time it took the match to ignite you were overtaken with a strong

urge to not die. It was like all the inaction and paralysis you’d been experiencing over

the past few months was suddenly lifted from you, and without consciously deciding to

you shoved your therapist aside and leapt up from the couch. As you reached the front

door your therapist’s scream for you to wait was drowned out by the whooshing sound

of the gasoline igniting.

You ran outside and fell on the lawn outside your apartment. You turned and watched as

the fire roared. After a moment your therapist ran out onto the lawn, his body completely

engulfed in flames, collapsing just feet away from you, his body convulsing. You heard

sirens in the distance as you stared at the twitching body of your therapist, as smoke

and the smell of burning flesh swirled around you.

You don’t remember the fire department showing up, or the ambulance that took you to

the hospital. Or talking to the police, or your parents’ funeral. You don’t remember being

admitted to the psychiatric unit. You don’t remember the doctors and nurses telling you

what you’d been through was traumatic, but that you’d get better eventually, and they

would make sure you got the help you needed. You don’t remember anything.

Your new therapist seemed like a nice guy.

I sit at my office desk and stare blankly at my computer screen. Coworkers idle around the office space, talking and moving in my periphery, but I am unable to focus on them. The hum of the fluorescent lights begins to fade; my ears start to ring softly, the sound growing until it is unbearably loud.

It’s hot. The air is thick with dust, and waves of blistering heat rise from the earth, shimmering to the naked eye. Sand shifts beneath my body as I violently adjust my posture. I’m leaning forward over the hood of a vehicle, firing my weapon into the blinding sun. I hear a scream cut through the noise, but I can’t make out whose voice it is.

Click.

My weapon runs dry. I lower myself behind a heavy rubber tire, pressing my back flat against it for cover. My breathing is ragged as I try to slow it down. I look down toward my chest rig and reach for a fresh magazine, but my fingers slip. My entire arm is coated in dark red; my torn sleeve is draining crimson. The blood pools beneath me, deeply contrasting as it instantly soaks into the hot desert sand.

I hear frantic yelling again—but the tone is different now. It’s directed straight at me. I look up, turning my head from side to side through the thick smoke. I see a man pointing and screaming my name—a man whose face and name I can no longer remember. He’s running toward me from across the convoy, but the gap between our vehicles is too large.

He falls.

I blink. I’m back at my office desk. My brow is drenched in sweat, and my hands are shaking uncontrollably against the plastic keyboard. My coworker is standing right beside me, leaning over the cubicle wall, asking me a casual question.

“Say again,” I whisper.