r/SpinalTapHorror

We boarded the ship at the port in Orlando. My father, turned to face me, and said, “Now Cooper, I want you to be on your best behavior.”
I nodded my head, admiring the size of the ship, how small it made me feel, and the loud sounds of the engine as I watched it hover in the air.
I stared, impressed, as my mother’s abrasive voice snapped at me.
“Cooper Williams, are you listening?”
I looked at her as our eyes locked, then turned to my father and replied, “Uhhh, yeah… best behavior.”
They stared at me, waiting to hear the rest.
“How do they get the ship to fly through the air?” I asked, peering at the giant opening as we entered the ship.
My father sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“Cooper,” he said as he knelt and looked me in the eyes.
He whispered to me, “Just nod your head and say, ‘Yes, sir.’ It’s my vacation too, you know? Can’t have her on both our backs.”
I smiled and nodded at my dad.
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
He stood up, now shooting me a stern look.
“That’s right. We mean business. It is not too late to send you back home with your sister if you’re not going to listen.”
He said it before turning to my mother and nodding his head as she smirked in approval. Then he winked at me.
And we boarded the ship.
As we entered the grand hall of the ship, I was amazed by the impressive, vast wooden beams, the giant staircase leading to the upper decks, and the white tile floor.
It looked like something I would see in my history book back in school. It almost looked like pictures my teacher used to show us of this older ship called the Titanic, down to the lights and colors.
Unfortunately, that ship crashed, and it ended horribly.
Luckily there are no icebergs in space, so we shouldn’t meet the same fate, I thought to myself as we were greeted at the main lobby entrance.
“Hello, and welcome to the Grand Royale Sisyphus. Enjoy your stay, and be sure to ask any nearby staff for an accommodation that may be necessary.”
The robot chimed as he moved slowly.
His arms were rigid and almost plastic-like, like action figures. His posture was hollow and still. His head turned from side to side as his eyes looked painted on.
I grabbed onto my mother’s hand as I quivered and felt as if the robot host’s gaze had fixed right on me.
“It’s okay. I know they’re a little difficult to get used to, but they’re harmless, just like a mannequin,” she said as she looked down at me.
I nodded silently.
It had been the first time I had ever seen a robot that looked like this.
Other robots looked like tin cans or were completely mechanical. This one looked as if it were trying to mimic a person but couldn’t quite get it right.
We continued further inside as my father went to the front desk and got our room key.
I stared around at the rest of the ship. I was amazed by the theme and how retro it all looked. Most of Earth’s stores and attractions today are so bleak and gray and empty of life.
This ship felt alive and warm and colorful.
As I looked around, I saw a girl who looked to be about my age.
I stared at her in disbelief. I thought I was the only kid my age who would be here.
I realized I was staring too long as she shrugged and raised her eyebrows at me with an annoyed look.
I turned away quickly, trying to hide my face and stare at a painting on the wall. I acted as interested as possible in the boring painting of this plant, hoping she’d think I was just looking around and not staring at her.
Thankfully, my dad came back as I turned my head away.
“Okay, we are in room 2012. It’s on the second floor,” my dad said, smiling as he looked at me. Then he asked, “Hey, bud, are you okay? Your face is awfully red.”
I shivered as I said, “I’m fine. Can we just go to the room, please? I need to use the bathroom.”
He looked at me, then up at the girl, who I could feel was still staring at me. He looked back at me and chuckled.
“Yeah, okay. Let’s get you there. Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
We headed to our room and opened the door.
It was a nice, boring room with a big bed for Mom and Dad and a ladder leading to a bed hovering above theirs.
I put my bags down and looked at the clock on the dresser next to their bed.
It was 12:05.
I sat down on their bed and sighed.
I looked at my phone and stared at the date 07/25/2036.
I kept staring at the screen as I opened my text messages and debated to text my sister, would I tell her I missed her? I was mad at her? She probably didn’t care anyways.
I listened as I heard Mom and Dad talking. Mom mentioned how glad she was that Dad had won this trip on the getaway voyage from work.
Dad mentioned that maybe he should convince me to find something to do so they could have some alone time.
I immediately gagged as I stood up and replied, “What is there even to do? I don’t know anything about this cruise ship except that we’re headed to a star cluster about a week away and then should be back home in another week.”
My father grunted, then said, “That’s correct. And if Whitney hadn’t been caught skipping school, she could’ve been here too.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back down.
“I don’t even know what I’d do.”
My father kissed my mom before suggesting, “Well, I did see some kids your age on the ship. Even a girl.”
I stood up quickly.
“No, thank you. I don’t want to meet them.”
My father continued, “I think she was staring at you.”
My mother laughed and turned to me.
“Aww, honey, how cute. You should go say hi and introduce yourself like the tiny gentleman you are.”
I sighed.
“Is this you telling me to go?”
They both replied, “Yes.”
I picked up my phone and headed out the door as they called after me.
“Be back by 1:00.”
I walked through the long corridor with the red carpet and white walls and headed to the lobby.
When I stepped inside, it was now empty.
Where I had just seen crowds of people and families coming aboard, there was now no sign of life.
The only remnants left were the creepy, low jazz music buzzing over the speakers.
It reminded me of when I used to go shopping with my mom later in the day and her looking at one more thing had turned into two more things, and then eventually we were there for hours.
I turned around, admiring the ghostly sight, as I heard a monotone voice behind me.
“Good evening, Cooper Williams,” the robotic voice chimed.
I jumped as I looked behind me and stared at the blank, expressionless, painted-on face of the robot host.
“How did you know my name?” I stammered, backing away.
“I am programmed with all the information on all guests, and upon arrival your ID verification was submitted so I could more accurately accommodate each guest’s needs.”
The robot spoke as he moved his arms stiffly, his head turning in a swift rotation, not quite staring at me but just past me.
I stared at his molded suit and tie plastered to his cold, metallic body as I slowly backed away.
“Would you be needing anything else, Cooper? The time? The weather? Messages back home?”
I backed away even more.
“Uhhh… no, thank you,” I stammered as I bumped into someone behind me.
“How rude.”
I heard a voice behind me.
“First you stare at me, now you bump into me.”
The girl crossed her arms and turned her head away from me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I said, smiling awkwardly.
“I’ll say. If you did, you wouldn’t have bumped into me.”
She turned her head back toward me and grinned.
“It was an accident,” I said, rubbing the back of my head.
“Well then, I guess you can make it up to me by accompanying me around the ship.”
She smiled, and I smiled back.
“Hi, I’m Cooper. I’m sorry I stared at you so long earlier.”
She looked at me and smiled.
“It’s okay. I stared back, didn’t I?”
Then she walked up the wooden staircase to the upper deck of the ship.
“So, Cooper, what are you doing on this ship?”
I sighed as I followed her up the stairs.
“My dad won a family trip here.”
She turned back as we started to walk down a hallway on the upper floor.
“Oh, so is that your family you were with earlier?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, everyone except my sister Whitney. She got grounded, so she had to stay home.”
She looked back at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must suck, not seeing her.”
“It’s fine. I mean, yeah, I miss her, but I probably care more than she does. I’m sure she snuck her boyfriend Brad over by now anyway and is forgetting about us.”
She smiled as we continued walking.
“Well, I’m sure that’s not true. I’m sure she misses you as much as you miss her.”
She stopped in front of a giant metal door in the middle of the hallway.
I looked up at the door and saw, in big bold letters on a cold metallic sign:
Restricted Area
I looked at the girl and asked, “What are we doing here?”
She smirked.
“Well, Cooper, one of the perks of my dad working here is that I can steal his keys to all the areas we’re not supposed to go.”
She held up the jingling keys playfully.
“This is crazy. I don’t even know you,” I answered.
She laughed.
“Sure you do. I’m Sophia and I’m 11, and you’re Cooper and you’re?”
I sighed as I replied, “12…I’m Cooper and I’m 12.”
She continued, “Your dad won this trip, and that’s why you’re here. My dad works on the ship—that’s why I’m here. Now let’s go explore.”
She smiled as she gestured toward the door.
I knew it was a bad idea, but I didn’t know how to tell her no.
“Okay.”
I watched as she unlocked the door, and we entered.
We walked up a set of metal stairs, and she stopped at the top.
Sophia looked back at me as I took the final step and eagerly pointed in front of her.
“Well, what do you think?”
I looked at the giant room with huge windows that peered out into space.
I walked inside, taking in the desk panel against the wall with its many colorful buttons, a joystick, switches, and more.
It looked like an arcade game, but with a screen to reality.
If reality were a giant, vast abyss of space.
It was the most incredible thing I had ever seen.
It was so empty and dark, yet so calm and peaceful.
I stared into the blackness as I felt it stare back.
“Pretty neat, right?”
I sighed.
“Yeah, Sophia, it is. Thanks for showing me, I guess.”
I turned around to leave the room.
“Hey, where are you going?” she asked.
“Away from here, since it’s pretty clear we’re not supposed to be here,” I replied as I headed toward the stairs.
“Well, that’s no fun.”
She ran over to the control panel and looked at the multiple buttons and controls.
I turned around and hurried back to her.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?”
She laughed.
“Relax. I’m not gonna press anything.”
I sighed in relief and sat down in the captain’s chair nearby.
She looked at me and smiled.
“Unless…”
She hovered her hand above a giant handprint on a shiny screen covered by a red scanning grid.
“Sophia, please stop,” I begged.
She laughed as she continued to tease me.
Before either of us could say anything else, a booming voice came from the entrance near the stairwell.
“Sophia Turner, you better stop this instant.”
The voice echoed through the room.
Sophia turned toward it and slipped.
She landed on the control panel as I gripped the arms of the chair.
The man rushed toward her, but it was too late.
She landed on a green button, a red one, and knocked the joystick slightly to the left.
The switches may have even been altered—it was hard to tell as fast as it all happened.
What it really looked and felt like was five minutes of slight left turns and loud alarms before the man adjusted the controls and steadied the ship.
He shut off the alarms, grabbed the radio beside the controls, and announced,
“Good afternoon, everyone. This is Captain Turner speaking. We apologize for the slight turbulence. We have corrected the error and are now back en route. Please enjoy the remainder of your voyage.”
He signed off.
“Sophia Turner, what have I told you about being in here?” the captain said angrily.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. It was an accident.”
“An accident? You stole my keys.”
She hung her head.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I messed up the controls too. I didn’t mean to.”
She sobbed as he knelt down and hugged her.
“It’s alright. I’m just glad it wasn’t much worse. It could’ve been.”
He hugged her tightly before standing and looking at me.
“And who are you?”
Sophia answered for me.
“This is Cooper. His family is staying on the ship.”
The captain looked down at me.
“I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, son, but I think you’d better get back down to the main deck now.”
I nodded and stood up.
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as I answered, a radio transmission came in.
“Terrain to Sisyphus… do you copy? Terrain to Sisyphus, this is emergent.”
The Captain turned from me and grabbed the radio.
“Sisyphus to Terrain, what’s your traffic?” he said.
I stopped and looked at Sophia, willing her to follow me back toward the lobby.
“Sisyphus, what point are you in the voyage?”
The Captain replied quickly, “Sisyphus to Terrain, we haven’t even made it to our first stop. We have just left Earth as of 1200, current time 1315.”
I turned to Sophia. “Oh crap, I was supposed to meet my parents at 1. I’m 15 minutes late.”
Just as I started to head out, the next message came through.
“Sisyphus… they set off the bombs…” followed by radio silence.
I stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look.
Sophia began crying again quietly, and the Captain was frozen in place.
“Dad, what’s happening?”
The Captain ignored Sophia and spoke into the radio again.
“Sisyphus to Terrain, who set off the bombs?”
Silence.
“Terrain, do you copy?”
Nothing.
The room was quiet as I saw tears fall down Sophia’s face, and the Captain faced forward.
“Cooper, I think you better go back to your parents. Hug your mother, and tell your father you love him,” the Captain said as he continued to look out into the vast darkness.
I ran back down the stairs and into the top floor of the lobby.
The dark red carpet and wooden stairs made me feel sick, as well as the smell of the antique light fixtures and piano.
“Cooper… you get your butt down here,” my mother said, calling from the floor of the lobby as I ran down to my parents.
“What did I tell you about meeting us?”
I ran up to my mother and father and cried as I hugged them both.
“Cooper, honey, what’s wrong?” my mother asked as an announcement came over the intercom.
“Good evening, guests. This is Captain Turner speaking. If I could have everyone come to the lobby floor for an important announcement by 1330, that would be much appreciated. Thank you, and I hope you’re enjoying your voyage on the Sisyphus.”
I continued to hug them, because I knew what was coming.
At 1325, everyone started to pile into the lobby.
The room became crowded and loud, and the black-and-white tile floor slowly disappeared under the number of people standing so close together.
At 1328, the Captain walked out on the top floor of the lobby and stood in front of the crowd. He took a moment to prepare before speaking.
Sophia rushed down the stairs, found me, and held my hand. I could tell she was scared, and I whispered in her ear, “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
The truth was, I was scared too.
At 1331, the crowd became restless as the Captain raised his hand and silenced them.
“I have recently received a transmission from Earth. It was alarming and distressing,” he said, stumbling through his words before speaking more slowly.
“I don’t know how else to say this, but I received a transmission that back home bombs have been set off.”
Everyone gasped. Some fainted. Some looked like they would cry.
“What areas have been affected?” someone asked from the crowd.
“We’re unsure,” the Captain responded.
“Did anyone survive?”
“Not much was reported,” he replied, rubbing his temple.
“Well, what was reported on the bombings on Earth?” the man in the crowd asked.
At that moment, the robot greeter from the entrance spoke up.
“Earth bombing reports. Date of bombing: 07/25/2036 at 1105 Central Time.”
The murmuring and gasps grew louder as they waited to hear what the eerie robotic butler had to say.
He turned his rigid head and faced us with his painted-on, expressionless face and continued.
“Bombs set off in North America, Europe, Asia… areas affected… standby.”
A long pause followed.
The silence filled the room as everyone waited.
The time was now 1345 as the robot continued.
“Areas affected… standby… Areas affected… standby…”
The uproar was immediate as everyone panicked, and the Captain tried to settle the room, but his voice was drowned out.
I held Sophia’s hand tightly and tried to wear a brave expression on my face like a mask, hoping if I didn’t show fear, maybe she wouldn’t either.
At 1348, the robot finally responded.
“Incoming updates on Earth bombings on 07/25/2036… areas affected unknown…”
Everyone panicked.
The robot continued, almost casually.
“Is there anything else I can do? The weather? Ship facts? The time?”
The Captain spoke over the chaos and asked the robot, “Teddy, send an emergency transmission to Terrain for immediate updates.”
“Copy that, Captain Turner. Trying for an emergency transmission…”
Teddy, the robot greeter, continued.
“Stand by…”
At 1350, he responded.
“Unable to complete request.”
The Captain asked, “Why not?”
Teddy replied:
“There is no Terrain.”
The adults looked at each other in panic, and my parents turned to me in fear.
My mother was crying. My father was speechless.
We all stood by Teddy in disbelief.
I kept waiting for someone to answer, but no one ever did.
End of part 1

My girlfriend has always been a creative type. When we first started talking, it seemed like the conversation would always shift towards either sketching, drawing, or painting.

I found it admirable. I loved that she had something that meant so much to her. Something she could be passionate about. The more time went on, the more that passion grew.

It wasn’t until we started dating that she felt comfortable enough to show me her work, though. I love her more than anything in the world, but good lord, I hate to say it… she was not good.

Her shades were off. Her lines were crooked. Her portraits bordered on stick figures.

Of course, I didn’t want to let on exactly what I thought of what she was showing me, but I can only pretend so much.

That’s the thing, though, any time I offered her advice, she’d just get so defensive. She was just so convinced that she was gonna be “the next big thing” in the art world.

I wanted her to succeed. Of course I wanted her to succeed. But in order to do that, she just had to listen to me. I’m not an artist myself, but even as just an everyday Joe Shmoe, I could still see where she was falling short.

I’d nudge her. Critique her in the nicest possible way I could muster. And it only led to her becoming more closed off with her work.

Unfortunately, the more closed off she became with her work, the more closed off she became in general. It was like her main talking point. And here I was, feeling like an asshole for taking that away from her.

I tried apologizing to her and explaining that I was just trying to help her, but she’d just keep that same blank expression on her face.

“I’ll try to get better for you.”

That’s all she’d tell me.

I wanted to believe her, but it seemed like she wasn’t even trying anymore. I never saw her sketching. I never saw her drawing. I never saw her painting.

It created this friction in our relationship that made every situation feel tense. We didn’t even argue. We’d just try and converse awkwardly before we both went back to our phones.

At the peak of her withdrawal, that’s when she started taking classes. She didn’t seem excited about it. She didn’t seem eager to be better. She seemed like she was doing it out of spite. Like she was defeated but ready to prove me wrong.

She’d be gone 3 days a week from 5 PM to 10 PM, and after about a month of this, she started bringing home her work.

She never showed it to me.

I’d just find colorful canvases hanging up around the house. In the kitchen. In the living room. Hell, even the bathroom had a few.

She had definitely been improving. Her lines were straighter. Her shades were more on point. Her paintings wowed me rather than making me force out a fake smile or a “that’s so good, honey!”

At first, she was bringing home paintings of landscapes. Mountain ranges. Ocean horizons. Forests.

Then it turned into infrastructure. Castles. Mansions. Shacks and sheds.

Then it was people. The most detailed portraits she had ever produced. Her mom. Her dad. Her teacher from class.

I wish that’s where it would’ve stopped. She had proved me wrong. She had convinced me. She had nothing else to prove. But it didn’t stop there. She couldn’t have just been happy with the progress she had made.

I came home from work one day to find the first painting she had done of me personally. It had been hung up along with the dozens of other random paintings in our living room. I saw it and immediately became sick to my stomach.

It was me just… disassembled. My head was in one part of the canvas. My legs and arms sprawled out across the painting, with the most gruesome depictions of gore I had ever seen her produce.

I heard her humming to herself in our bedroom.
I approached her carefully as she sketched wildly in her sketchbook.

“Honey,” I whispered. “Why did you do that painting of me?”

Continuing to hum without even looking up from her sketchbook, she responded, “Eh, just how I was feeling today,” as she continued scribbling on her page.

In the weeks that followed, more and more pieces began to pop up around the house. Each one depicting different versions of my death.

She never seemed angry or agitated. She just seemed distant. Distant but at peace, and that’s the part that hurts me.

She seemed to have this obsession with dismemberment. In every piece, I was dismembered in some way or another. Held together by wires. Forced to be a scarecrow. One showed me to be ornaments strewn about a Christmas tree.
At this point, there’s at least a dozen of them. But that’s not the part that concerns me.

What concerns me is that I’ve been waking up with outlines drawn around the circumference of my legs and arms. My neck and torso. Like she’s figuring out a design.

She always denies any involvement whenever I question her, but who else could it be? Does she think that I’ll believe I’m just doing this to myself?
I don’t know what to do.

I just wanted her to be the artist I knew she could be.

Me and my boyfriend started dating around 6 months ago. It was the first relationship I’ve ever had. I had never been so happy. It was like we were meant to be.

I met him at a coffee shop I frequent. I started noticing him there any time I went. Sometimes I’d catch him staring, and he’d look around all embarrassed whenever I did. I thought it was the cutest thing.

After a while, I found myself silently hoping that he’d come over and ask to sit with me. We’d been playing eye-tag for a couple of weeks, smirking and laughing at each other, but neither of us had taken the extra step of introducing ourselves.

When he finally did, I felt butterflies start flapping around in my stomach like never before. His smoldering blue eyes, that curly black hair, and his cute little freckles. I’m not afraid to admit that I was smitten.

Our relationship grew from there. We were seeing each other every weekend, catching movies, having dinner, playing some mini golf. I knew it was a honeymoon phase. I just didn’t care. He made me feel wanted, and that was just not something I was entirely used to.

He’d show up with my favorite flowers, favorite candies, always knew the right thing to say. I don’t wanna ramble. I just can’t get over how perfect I thought he was.

Things started to go a bit sideways one night at a sleepover at his house.

I had gotten up to pee late at night, and as I groggily dragged myself to the bathroom, I could’ve swore I heard the vibration of a phone coming from his sock drawer.

I was too tired at the time to really pay it any attention, but it was still fresh in my mind the next day. I asked him about it, and he got defensive enough for me to become suspicious.

He showed me all of his drawers, though, and there was no phone in sight. That kind of subsided my suspicion a bit.

A few weeks went by without issue. We never argued. He made me feel like the only girl in the world. Then we had another sleepover.

Yet again, after he was fast asleep, the vibrations of a cellphone came echoing, this time from his closet.

This time around, I was awake enough to actually investigate, but once I did, I immediately regretted it.

Hidden within an old shoebox that was buried beneath a stack of blankets, I found it. A second cellphone.

The screen was lit up with “storage full” notifications, but what caught my attention was the wallpaper.

It was me, asleep in bed.

I wasn’t even the wallpaper on his actual phone. Seeing myself like this only made my mind race more. I couldn’t help myself.

Luckily, he didn’t have a password to unlock the phone, but what he did have a password for was his photos.

I took a wild guess. That’s why I think it was fate that I made this discovery.

I put in my birthday, and the photos app unlocked.
My jaw dropped, and my heart sank.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures, and they were all of me.

Some were of me at his house. On the toilet, in the shower, sleeping in his bed. But some were from places that didn’t make sense to me.

Me at the coffee shop, reading a book. Me walking home from school. Standing in line at the grocery store. Me outside my apartment, fishing around in my purse for my keys.

More than anything, though, there were pictures of me asleep in my own apartment.

Some were taken from my window. My second-story window. Others were taken from inside the apartment.

I kept scrolling, and the more I did, the more terrified I became. The photos dated back to at least 2 years ago.

Family dinners, early morning jogs, study sessions in the library. I was getting sick to my stomach.

As I scrolled, a noise from behind me snapped me out of my trance.

The sound of my boyfriend’s bed creaking and squeaking from his shifting weight.
He called my name.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I never responded.

I heard his footsteps rush up behind me. They stopped a few inches from my back.

Instead of asking what I was doing, apologizing, or even attempting to grab his phone, he began laughing.

Cackling. Like a mad man.

And as I stood there, too paralyzed to turn around, he finally spoke again.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

My husband has always wanted kids. We’re just, I don’t know… I feel like we’re just not old enough yet. We got married young. Fresh out of high school.

He works with his dad as an electrician, and I’m still in college, studying to become a teacher. Needless to say, it’s not kids that I have a problem with. I just want to make sure we’re both in a position to raise our children the right way.

He knew that when I agreed to marry him. He seemed supportive of it at first. I told him very clearly that I wanted to wait until we were at least 30.

For the first 2 years, it seemed like everything was fine. I didn’t know just how agitated he was getting with my refusal to get off birth control. Every time he asked, it was like a stab to my heart.

We started arguing a bit. We’d bicker about little things like any other couple, but when it came to kids, it turned into full-blown screaming matches.

“I can take care of a baby.”

“You can still do school.”

“We’ll find a good daycare.”

It became clear that he just wasn’t seeing my vision. Part of me regretted getting married so abruptly. So young. Our brains hadn’t even fully developed yet.

But then again, we did get married for a reason.
We loved each other. We’d been friends since middle school. We got married after dating for 2 years. We were each other’s homes.

He just wasn’t so hell-bent on being a father back then. I don’t know what changed, but when it did, it was just downhill from there.

The arguments persisted, but so did I. So did we. I never wanted to turn my back on him. I just wanted us to make it through.

It seemed like all my prayers had been answered when the arguments just… stopped one day. I soon came to realize that that wasn’t exactly the blessing I thought that it was.

I remember he started going out more. Staying at work late. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find that I was alone in our bed.

Of course, my already stressed brain jumped to the worst conclusion.

I didn’t want to distrust him, but he wasn’t making trust easy.

When he saw me, it was just all sunshine and rainbows, but when he was gone, it was like he was dead.

No texts, no calls, nothing. At first, I was happy for the space, but as it went on, I started getting more and more unnerved.

When he wasn’t out or at work, he spent a lot of his time in our shed. He’d spend hours out there. I’d see him carrying food out there.

It became strictly off-limits to me.

Any time he saw me even come close to the building, he’d stop me and guide me back into the house.

This is around the time I became convinced that he had lost his mind. He started talking about a daughter that I know we didn’t have.

“Roxxy is a little fussy today.”

“You keep working on your schoolwork. I’ll take care of our baby.”

“I need to go out and get some food for Roxxy.”

Any time he mentioned it, all I could do was laugh awkwardly and ask him what the hell he was talking about. Every time, his answer was nearly the exact same.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He’d just smile and play it off like he wasn’t acting like a complete lunatic.

What scares me, though, is I’m starting to think maybe he’s not a lunatic.

I swear it’s like sometimes I can hear cries coming from the shed. Soft, weak little cries that are just audible enough for my guard to come up.

I found a pair of little pink socks in our dryer last week.

I always seem to find empty cans of baby formula hidden beneath the trash in our trash can.

When I really started grilling him about his behavior, the arguments came back. He’d scream at me. Call me horrible, awful names that I could’ve never imagined would’ve escaped his lips.

But the part that concerns me the most… is that he’s chained up the door to our shed.

He’s spray-painted over the windows.

He keeps the key with him at all times.

The crying has been getting louder and louder.
I don’t know if I’m too afraid to accept what’s happening, or if this is all just a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

All I know is that now he doesn’t just talk about wanting a kid.

He tells me he wants another.

I got the security cameras for my fortieth birthday. My wife said it was a stupid gift. She said we lived in a safe neighborhood. She said I was being paranoid. She was right. But I installed them anyway.

The cameras cover the front door, the driveway, and the backyard. I check the footage every morning while I drink my coffee. It's become a routine. A habit. I don't even think about it anymore.

I noticed the figure on day twelve. The backyard camera catches the whole yard. Fence on both sides. A small shed in the corner. Woods behind the fence. The footage from 3:11 AM showed something standing near the shed. I paused it. Zoomed in.

It was tall. Thin. Dark. Just standing there. Not moving. I stared at it for a long time. It didn't move in the footage. It didn't move on the live feed when I pulled that up either.

I checked the footage from the night before. Same spot. Same time. Same figure. I checked the night before that. Same thing. I checked the entire week. Every night at 3:11 AM, the figure appeared. It would stand near the shed until 4:03 AM, then it would disappear between frames. One second there. The next second gone.

I didn't tell my wife. I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself it was a trick of the light. A reflection. A tree branch. I told myself a lot of things.

I started staying up. I'd sit in the dark living room with the laptop open, watching the live feed. Every night at 3:11 AM, the figure would appear. Just standing there. Not moving. Not looking at the house. Just... present.

I started noticing things about it. It was always facing the same direction. Not toward the house. Toward the fence. Toward the woods behind the yard. I wondered what it was looking at.

I checked the footage from the other cameras. The front door. The driveway. The figure never appeared on those. Just the backyard. Just near the shed. Just facing the woods.

I asked my neighbor about it. He's lived next door for twenty years. He said he'd never seen anything unusual. He said the woods had always been quiet. He said it with a look on his face that made me think he was lying. I asked my wife if she'd ever noticed anything in the backyard at night. She said I was spending too much time on those cameras. She said I needed to relax. She said it with a tone that made me stop asking.

I didn't stop watching.

I started marking the dates. Every night it appeared. Every night it faced the woods. Then I started noticing the changes. Small at first. Almost unnoticeable.

On night 23, it was a foot closer to the fence.

On night 27, its head was slightly tilted. Like it was listening.

On night 31, its arms were stretched toward the woods. Both of them. Fingers extended. Almost reaching.

On night 39, it was standing at the fence line. Right up against it. Still facing the woods.

I took a walk out there one afternoon. The woods were quiet. Too quiet. No birds. No animals. Just the sound of my own footsteps. I walked for about twenty minutes before I turned back. I didn't go into the woods again.

The figure kept appearing. Every night. Different positions. Different postures. But always facing the same direction. Always facing the trees.

Then last night, I checked the footage. 3:11 AM. The backyard was empty.

I scrolled back. The figure had appeared at 3:11 AM as usual. But at 3:41 AM, it had turned. For the first time in all the footage I'd watched, it had turned. It looked toward the house. Then it disappeared between frames. It never came back.

I stayed up until morning. I watched the live feed. Nothing.

I spent three hours staring at the footage from the night before. Then I noticed something I should have seen weeks ago. The figure never once looked at the house. Not even when the porch light came on. Not even when I walked into the yard one night, stupidly brave, and stood twenty feet from it. Not even when I shouted at it.

Whatever it was watching wasn't here.

I don't know why it left. I don't know what made it turn. I told myself it was a good thing. It was gone. The thing that had been standing in my backyard every night was finally gone. I should be relieved.

I'm not relieved.

I woke up this morning and checked the footage from last night. Something was standing near the shed. Facing the house. Standing exactly where the other one used to stand.

The first creature is gone. Something else took its place. And now it's looking directly at the room I'm sitting in.

I rewound the video to see when it appeared. It was there at 3:11 AM. But it started moving at 3:47 AM. One step toward the house. Then another at 3:48. Another at 3:49. I kept watching. The camera never showed it reach the house. It just disappeared between frames.

I checked the front door camera. Nothing. The driveway camera. Nothing.

Then I checked the backyard feed again. The shed was empty. The yard was empty.

But something was standing directly in front of the camera. Close enough that all I could see was a dark shape. Looking into the lens. Looking past it. Looking at me.

And for the first time since I bought these cameras, the image wasn't recorded footage. It was live.

I live in an apartment building on the edge of town. It's old. The walls are thin. I know my neighbors by sound. The couple above me arguing. The old man next door watching TV at all hours. The woman below me playing piano badly.

I've been here three years now. It's not a great place, but it's cheap and the landlord doesn't bother me. I work nights, so I'm usually asleep during the day and awake when everyone else is quiet. It works out.

Last week, I found a note under my door. A small piece of paper, folded once. I picked it up and opened it.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I read it twice. The handwriting was neat. Cursive. Like someone had taken their time with it.

I don't leave my window open at night. I'm particular about that. My apartment is on the ground floor. The window faces an alley. I always lock it before I go to bed. I checked it that morning. Locked. I checked it again before I left for work. Still locked. Then I checked it one more time because I couldn't remember if I'd actually checked it or just thought about checking it.

I figured it was a mistake. Somebody meant to slip it under another door. I threw it away.

The next morning, another note was there. Same paper. Same handwriting. Same words.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I checked my window. Locked. Checked the front door. Locked. Nobody had been in my apartment. I asked my neighbor next door if he'd seen anyone. He answered wearing the same green bathrobe he always wears. I've lived here three years and I've never seen him in anything else. He said no. Said he hadn't written any note.

I asked the couple above me. They were arguing about something, as usual. I knocked and they both looked annoyed. They said they hadn't written any note. They barely seemed to notice I was there. I don't think they even know my name.

The woman below me said she hadn't written anything either. She said she doesn't go out much. I believed her. She's always playing that piano. Same song. Over and over. She never gets it right.

The notes kept coming. Every morning. Same message. Same handwriting. I started locking my window twice. Put a chair in front of it. Checked the latch. Checked the frame. I even checked the alley outside to make sure nobody was climbing in. I stood out there for twenty minutes once, just staring at the window from the outside. Nothing.

The notes kept coming.

I started to get paranoid. Stopped sleeping. I'd lie in bed and stare at the window. It was always locked. The chair was always in place. But every morning, there was another note.

I started writing down the dates. Day one. Day two. Day three. By day four I'd filled an entire page because I kept writing the wrong date and starting over. I don't know why I did that. I just kept messing it up.

I took photos of the notes. Showed them to my landlord. He said it was probably kids messing around. He said not to worry about it. He said it with that tone people use when they don't want to think about something.

I worried about it anyway.

Last night, I decided to stay up. Sat in my living room with the lights off and watched the front door. Nobody came. Nobody slipped anything under. I fell asleep around 4 AM.

When I woke up, there was a note on the floor.

I picked it up. Same paper. Same handwriting. Same message.

"You need to stop leaving the window open at night."

I walked over to my window. It was locked. The chair was still in front of it. But the window was open. Just a crack. Just enough.

I didn't open it. I just stood there for a long time, staring at the crack. I checked the lock again. It was turned. But the window was open.

I looked at the note again. Then I looked at the handwriting. I'd been staring at it for days. Neat. Cursive. Looping letters. I'd been so focused on who was writing it that I hadn't really looked at it.

I looked closer.

The handwriting was mine. Every letter. Every curve. I recognized it from the notes I left myself at work. The shopping lists. The reminders. That was my handwriting.

I sat there for maybe twenty minutes trying to remember writing them. Maybe longer. I don't know. I kept looking at the note and then at my hand and then back at the note. I don't remember writing them. I don't remember opening the window. I don't remember any of it.

But I must have.

I've been sitting here all morning. The window is closed now. Locked. The chair is back in front of it. I've checked it three times. Maybe four. I lost count.

I just found another note. It's on my nightstand. I don't remember putting it there. I checked the bedroom door. Then I went back to the note because I was suddenly convinced I'd read it wrong.

It says: "Stop fighting it. Just open the window."

I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight.

I don't think I'm going to sleep ever again.

The piano below me had been quiet all morning. I didn't notice it until just now.

I looked at my reflection in the window.

It was smiling.

I wasn't.

Then it lifted its hand.

And started writing something on the glass.

I already knew what it was going to say.

Most people think my job is insane.

Honestly, they're probably right.

When people talk about dangerous professions, they usually mention logging, commercial fishing, or construction. Those jobs earn their reputation. One mistake, one moment of bad luck, and you're fucked.

Or hell, dead.

Me?

I always found myself drawn to danger. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's because some part of me enjoys standing in places most people would never willingly go.

You can learn a lot about a person from the work they choose to do.

For me, that work is commercial diving.

Most folks hear that and assume it's terrifying. Being dropped into cold, dark water hundreds of feet from the surface while surrounded by machinery that could crush you without warning doesn't exactly sound appealing to the average person.

The funny thing is, I find it relaxing.

Down there, the world becomes quiet. The noise of everyday life (the wife complaining) disappears beneath the water. It's just me, my equipment, and whatever job needs doing. I usually have music playing through my helmet while I work on oil rigs, ship hulls, intake structures, and all sorts of underwater machinery.

After years in the profession, I thought I'd seen everything the depths could throw at me.

I was wrong.

Because in all my years of commercial diving, nothing, and I mean nothing, came close to making me soil my dive suit the way I almost did during a contract at the Hoover Dam.

The water was murky that morning. Visibility couldn't have been more than six or seven feet. My helmet lamp carved a narrow path through the darkness, illuminating clouds of suspended sediment drifting lazily through the reservoir.

I remember feeling uneasy almost immediately.

Not fear.

Fear implies you've identified the threat.

What I felt was the discomfort of being observed by something that hadn't revealed itself yet. The sensation settled between my shoulder blades and refused to leave. Something was down there with me. Heavy emphasis on something, because there is nothing in this world that should have been sharing those depths with me.

The feeling was irrational enough that, like an idiot, I ignored it.

Then I saw the marks.

"What the actual hell..."

They scored the concrete face of the dam in long, jagged trails. These weren't little scratches left by debris or equipment. They stretched several feet across the wall and bit deep enough into the surface to expose steel beneath.

I stopped swimming and stared.

What unsettled me most wasn't their size.

It was how familiar they looked.

Almost human.

Or at least made by something trying very hard to be.

Five long gouges ran parallel to one another through decades of algae and sediment, climbing vertically along the dam before disappearing into darkness above.

I keyed my radio.

"Oi, somebody's gonna have to explain how these ended up on a wall."

The response was laughter.

They thought I was joking.

Honestly, so did I.

I snapped a few photographs and continued downward.

That's when I found the first handprint.

Five fingers.

Human proportions.

Pressed against the concrete nearly thirty feet below the surface.

Then another.

And another.

Soon my lamp was finding them everywhere.

Hundreds.

Thousands, maybe.

Handprints layered over one another as if something had spent years climbing the face of the Hoover Dam.

My breathing quickened.

The sound echoed loudly inside my helmet.

There had to be a reasonable explanation.

There always had been before.

Then my lamp caught movement.

A figure.

Standing motionless on the reservoir floor.

I nearly inhaled my own tongue.

At first I assumed it was another diver. The silhouette was roughly human-sized, two arms, two legs, standing upright in the darkness.

But that didn't make sense.

No diver would be down there alone.

Not without communications.

Not without a support crew.

Not without lights.

This thing had none.

It simply stood at the edge of visibility, motionless and watching.

I blinked.

It was gone.

Immediately, I radioed the surface.

"Confirm I'm the only diver in the water."

A moment later the reply came.

"Just you, Maxwell."

No unauthorized personnel, secondary dive teams.

Nobody else in the reservoir.

I should have ascended right then.

Instead, I kept working.

I convinced myself my eyes were playing tricks on me. Fatigue. Bad visibility. Too much coffee before the dive.

Stubbornness is a common flaw in my profession.

God knows I've got plenty of it.

I was raised by a father who thought every problem could be solved by "manning up."

A strange shadow wasn't about to sabotage my paycheck.

A few minutes later, I noticed something that truly frightened me.

The safety line connecting me to the surface had gone slack.

Completely slack.

That should never happen.

There are always currents. Movement. Tension.

The line should constantly carry resistance.

I turned my lamp toward it.

The rope disappeared into darkness behind me.

Then it moved.

Not drifted.

Moved.

Something farther down the line had pulled it.

My stomach tightened.

Slowly, I followed the rope with my eyes until my beam reached its end.

Something was holding it.

A hand.

A pale human hand emerging from the darkness.

Its fingers wrapped around the line.

Then a second hand appeared.

And then a face.

God, I wish I hadn't seen the face.

Its skin was swollen and waterlogged, stretched tight across features that almost resembled a person.

Almost.

The eyes were too large.

Too dark.

Like something hauled up from the deepest part of the ocean.

Then it smiled.

The safety line jerked violently.

I screamed into the radio.

The thing released the rope and vanished downward with impossible speed.

One moment it was there.

The next it had been swallowed by darkness.

Surface control immediately ordered my ascent.

For once in my life, I didn't argue.

Halfway to the surface, I made the mistake that still haunts my dreams.

I looked down.

There wasn't just one.

Dozens of pale figures stood along the face of the dam.

Motionless.

Watching.

Their silhouettes clung to the concrete like barnacles that had learned how to imitate people.

And every single one of them was staring upward.

Toward me.

Toward the surface.

I reached the top in record time.

The crew blamed nitrogen narcosis. Stress. Exhaustion.

The photographs and film were reviewed.

Most showed nothing unusual.

Just dark water and concrete.

Except for one.

The final clip from the helmet's recorder. The engineers never found an explanation for it.

You can clearly see me inspecting the intake structure. You can clearly see the beam from my helmet lamp. And standing directly behind me is another diver.

No safety markings, equipment, or air hose.

Just a pale figure staring directly into the camera.

The worst part?

The timestamp showed the photograph had been taken six minutes before I noticed anything in the water.

Meaning that thing had already been following me for most of the dive.

A few days later, men in black suits came to speak with me.

That's about as much as I'm legally allowed to say.

I retired shortly afterward.

People think I'm crazy.

Walking away from a six-figure career because I saw strange pale figures underwater?

"He must be nuts."

Maybe I am.

But every time I hear reports about water levels dropping at the Hoover Dam, I find myself wondering what happens when the reservoir finally shrinks enough.

Because if those things were standing on the wall sixty feet underwater...

Sooner or later, they won't be underwater anymore.

What the hell were those things?

​

I consider myself to be a average guy. No special job or looks.

The only thing that I'm significantly lucky for is my wife. Veronica.

Her long brown hair, sun kissed skin, and hazel eyes that gain the greatest compliments from sun light.

She's more than just her looks. Her personality is perfect. Sweet, caring, empathetic, naive, and gullible.

She's my greatest companion.

Well, she was.

Things started to go not as I had planned when she started to dig into my past. Her curiosity and long term grief were a fatal mix.

She found out that I had a ex wife. She kept asking questions and was upset that I never informed her about any past marriages.

I eventually snapped on her during a argument and told her the name of my ex wife. Alica.

I felt relieved for a while because she stopped pestering me. I thought she was done with being obsessed with Alica.

My hopes were quickly killed off when I came home one day and saw her staring at a photo of the chick.

Tears were pouring out of her eyes as her face was covered in red. Her body was shaking as her trembling hands held the photo.

She then started whimpering as she told me that Alica was the missing best friend she always talked about.

It immediately made sense to me. Her stories and descriptions always matched her. I still found it weird that they were supposedly so close. Alica never mentioned anything about Veronica to me.

I remember how it started to feel hilarious.

The funniest part is when I took her to the basement and let her see her deceased friend.

She looked stunned at first and then was full of cheer.

She turned to me and kissed me more passionately than I've ever been.

She confessed that she's known for a long time that I was the reason as to why her best friend was missing.

Her tears, fear, all of it was fake. She did it all so I would admit to her what I did.

Somehow it made her love me more.

Nobody really prepares you for parenthood. You can read all the books and take all the classes, then still feel like you’re falling short when you have an actual little girl in front of you.

I was doing it all on my own.

Bath time, bedtime, homeschooling. It takes a toll. Sometimes I wish that it wasn’t like this, but other times I take pride in knowing I’m bringing her up all by myself.

Unfortunately, as she grows older, navigating becomes incredibly difficult. There’s just some things that she needs her mom for.

It’s not like I don’t try. I try and get her things I think she’d enjoy. Baby dolls, stuffed animals, tea sets. That kind of thing.

It’s just not enough. The older she gets, the more she misses her mom. I always found it strange. I mean, there’s no possible way she can remember her.

She always asks when she’s coming back. When she gets to see her again. Why I don’t let her have friends. Why it seems like I don’t let her go outside.

This isn’t something I can say I accounted for.
When I took her, as much as it hurts to admit, it was more impulse than anything. I wanted a little girl of my own.

I always struggled with women. Having children always felt like a fantasy. It just kept building and building until I couldn’t control myself anymore.
When I saw her unattended at the park, it was like my body acted before my mind did.

She was just a baby. No more than a few months old. I wanted to give her the life that I so desperately felt the need to provide.

But now I think I’m realizing what kind of mistake that really was. We don’t even feel close anymore. She’s distant. It’s like she knows. It’s almost like she’s terrified of me.

Part of me wants to give her back. I just don’t think I can.

She’s nearly 8 years old now. At least, somewhere within that range. Her mom wouldn’t even recognize her.

Then again, maybe she would.

So many feelings.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll just keep her for a few more years.

I still have so much to teach her.

I probably use YouTube more than any other streaming service. Really, it’s become kind of a routine.

To reward myself for a hard day at school, when I get home, I’ll just curl up in bed with snacks and a soda, and I’ll just drift into the world of commentary and niche documentaries. I’ll turn off the lights. I’ll lock my door. And I’ll just live in my own universe for a few hours.

That’s what I was doing tonight.

I had my pajamas on, I had my bowl of popcorn, and I was searching for the perfect video.

As I scrolled past video after video, with none really catching my interest, that’s when I came across a thumbnail that put a lump in my throat.

I wasn’t on social media. I didn’t upload videos. Yet, somehow, it was me in the picture. My eyes were bloodshot. My skin was pale. I stared into the camera lifelessly.

Of course, I clicked on the video without hesitation.

The screen buffered for a moment before the video began rolling.

It was just… me… laying in bed. I had a bowl of popcorn at my side, I wore my same red pajamas, and my laptop rested in my lap.

That alone was disturbing enough, but what created this sense of uncanny disturbance in my heart was the look on my face.

I looked terrified. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My mouth hung agape as I screamed like a child at someone off-screen.

As the video went on, I felt more and more sick to my stomach.

The man behind the recording had propped his camera up to face me as he approached me angrily.

He wore one of those weirdly human masks like you’d see in the Purge movies. He was dressed entirely in black. And he gripped a blood-stained kitchen knife so tightly that it shook in his hand.

I watched as he proceeded to beat me.

I heard my own bones breaking. Blood poured from my nose. Teeth began to fly from my mouth.

Once he was satisfied, that’s when he began to put his knife to use.

The me in the video tried to scream, but he just didn’t have the energy. What came out was weak and pitiful.

He started with my toes, tearing through them one by one while I squirmed and kicked faintly.

Then he moved to the fingers, bending and breaking them as he sawed away with his knife.

Then he took my ears, holding them up at the sides of his head like he was trying them on.

I was broken and still. I wanted to look away, but I just couldn’t. The man had his fun, and now it was time to finish what he started.

Pressing a finger hard against my swollen lips, he slowly plunged the knife deeper and deeper into my torso until the blade disappeared.

When he was done, he stared down at me.

He put his fingers together like he was looking through a camera, admiring his work.

His head slowly rolled over his shoulder and back towards the camera.

The video ended with the man placing his hand over the camera before the screen went to black and the replay button popped up in the center.

I thought for sure I was seeing a deepfake. A cruel and disturbing prank created by someone with far too much time on their hands.

However, when I heard the sound of my mom’s screams morph into wet, bubbling gurgles from my living room, my blood turned to ice.

Footsteps began to approach my bedroom slowly.

Step. Step. Step.

They stopped right outside my door.

The sound of a knife scratching against the wood penetrated my heart. And the sound of my rattling door handle left me paralyzed.

I’m writing this now because he’s trying to get in.

He’s throwing himself against the door.

With each blow, the door gives more and more…

And I don’t know how much more the lock can take.

My daughter turned 7 recently. Me and my wife had been trying for months before God finally blessed us with a positive pregnancy test. I think that’s why this hurts so much.

From the moment she was born, that little girl was our angel. I thought I was prepared for the kind of imprint she’d make on me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I held her for the first time, it felt like my life had completely changed. She became my main priority instantly.

My wife and I were obsessed.

Of course, her first word had to be “mama,” but the memory is gold to me nevertheless.

From that moment on, she quickly became a chatterbox. It was like she had a whole world of words in her head waiting to come out. By the age of 3, she was already forming nearly complete sentences.

I’d never felt such pride before. I’m not afraid to say that I cried because of it. My baby was so smart and, my God, I couldn’t have been happier.

Unfortunately, as she started speaking more and more, she started saying things that confused the hell out of my wife and me.

For example, bath time was a big problem for her. She’d pitch fits that superseded what I’d imagine was normal for a kid her age. She’d literally try and fight us. She learned how to claw and scrape, and on more than one occasion she’d end up drawing blood.

Every bath time became a fight. She was just terrified of the water.

This was when she started mentioning this “other family.”

She would look frustrated when she couldn’t get the words out of her head, but her point got across perfectly.

She didn’t think we were her parents.

She’d say, “I want mommy.” Mommy would try and scoop her up, and she’d scream louder. Then she’d give me the same treatment.

It started bleeding into other daily routines.
Bed time would come around, and like clockwork she’d ask for her mommy or daddy. We’d come, and she’d shake her head with teary eyes.

She’d scream for her mom even when she was in her mom’s arms. She’d scream for her dad while I sat on the bed next to her trying to read a bedtime story.

We thought that it was just an age thing. Something that she’d grow out of. But it persisted for years.

Once she was able to articulate her full thoughts, that’s when we began to really worry.

She stopped throwing fits, which, honestly, was more unsettling because now she was as calm as could be.

She’d greet me at the door after a long day at work with a big hug and smile, but then she’d check behind me for “her other daddy.”

She’d spend hours staring out the living room window unflinchingly, and when my wife would question her, she’d say, “I’m waiting for my other mommy to come.”

What were we supposed to do? Who were we even supposed to turn to?

We never enabled her behavior. Hell, we were heartbroken every time she brought up those other parents. But she just wouldn’t stop.

She stopped asking for bed time stories.
It felt like we were losing her. She just wanted nothing to do with us.

It drove me crazy. I swear, some nights I’d hear her laughing to herself. Asking for bedtime stories or to be tucked in, but when I came in her room, she’d already be snuggled up in bed with an open storybook by her pillow.

I just figured she was flipping through them, looking at the pictures.

I wish that’s what happened.

I wish I still had her.

I wish I wasn’t so blind.

Because here we are. Two months after her birthday, and we haven’t seen her since that night.

There was no sign of forced entry. Just a trail of child footprints that led us to the woods behind our house. There was a little pond back there, and the footprints ended right on the edge of the water.

The cops blamed me and my wife initially, but we both passed the polygraph with flying colors.

That didn’t sway public reception, though.

Everyone thinks we killed her. They think that we’re faking our grief. Faking our tears. Faking our searches.

But I don’t care. Neither does my wife.
All we care about is finding her.

Her storybooks have started going missing.
We find opened windows around the house.
Fish bones keep showing up on our doorstep like a taunt.

I swear it’s like I hear her sometimes. Laughing in the woods. Calling out for her mommy and daddy. I know I’m losing my mind, but how could I not?

Especially after what was left on our welcome mat last week.

One of her storybooks.

It was open and completely waterlogged.

Regardless, we could still read the note written in jagged handwriting on the front page. It was a little hard to make out, but when we finally did, our hearts stopped.

“I found mommy and daddy.”

I don’t know what to do.

All I want is my baby back.

Me and my wife were both foster kids. We bounced around a lot, and we both struggled to plant our feet firmly on the ground when adulthood started.

I think that may be the reason we were drawn to each other. We understood each other’s struggle.

I met her at a fast food joint I worked at, and it was honestly like a fairy tale. I noticed that she would only come in when she knew I was working, and eventually I worked up the courage to offer more conversation than, “How may I take your order?”

We began flirting, and over the course of a few weeks, I think we sort of just… fell for each other. I saw something in her that I’m pretty sure she saw in me too. We were like matching puzzle pieces.

Her coming into that restaurant was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me.

She worked at a bowling alley across town, but when we began dating, we both kind of accelerated. It was like the thrill of finding each other drove us to strive to do better, not only for one another, but for ourselves.

I started putting money towards online college classes, and she did the same. We weren’t looking for doctorates or anything like that. Just a degree that could maybe springboard us into the next stage of our lives.

I ended up with an associate’s degree in business administration. She ended up with an associate’s degree in accounting.

It definitely wasn’t easy by any means, but we did it. We could take pride in our accomplishments. We could actually dream together.

She went from the bowling alley to a bookkeeper. I went from the fast food joint to a logistics coordinator at a shipping company.

We were building together. We spent a few years at an apartment, but as we grew and expanded, we were finally able to find a little place to call our own. Nothing too fancy. One story, three bedrooms, two baths. But it was ours. And that’s what mattered.

We got married soon after.

We wanted to have kids so badly. We wanted to provide a life that we never really had growing up. But no matter how hard we tried, we just never seemed to get lucky.

I think that’s what led us to the decision that ultimately collapsed the world around us.

We didn’t plan on anything coming out of what we did. We just thought it would be a fun little experiment.

We both sent in DNA samples to one of those websites you always see being advertised on late-night television. We just wanted to know where we came from.

We waited a few weeks.

Finally, the results came back.

I read them. My wife read them. And I don’t think it’s a wound that’s ever gonna heal.

Because what we found out in those test results… is that my wife is my sister.

We thought it was a mistake. Surely we would’ve known. We sent in test after test after test. Each one came back the same.

I guess my dad or mom, or whoever, couldn’t be bothered to keep us together. She’s a few years younger than me, so I guess we just… missed each other.

We didn’t come up together.

We didn’t even meet until our late teens.

I don’t know how to process this.

I don’t know what to do.

I can never stop loving her, no matter what, but I just… I don’t think we can be together anymore.

My little girl was 6 years old when this happened. It was a non-preventable tragedy, but I can’t help but blame myself. I was her protector. The one person in the world who was supposed to keep her safe.

I’d lost control of the car. I swear it was like the wheel developed a mind of its own, and the next thing I knew, we were barreling towards a tree at 60 miles per hour.

I broke an arm and had to get some spinal surgery, but my daughter… she got the worst of it.

Her head connected with the dashboard, and even through the chaos of the crash, I could still hear the sickening sound of her nose and teeth breaking before things went dark.

I wasn’t even concerned with my own injuries. Physical therapy felt like a burden that took me away from my daughter’s side. She spent weeks in the hospital. Nobody thought she’d survive, but against all odds, my little trooper pulled through.

It was a miracle.

It left the doctors baffled.

She survived with minimal brain damage.
With the impact from the accident, she’d have been lucky to end up in a wheelchair. But she somehow recovered completely.

That’s the thing, though.

I don’t think she’s all here anymore.

Ever since she got discharged, she’s been acting… off.

She doesn’t eat anymore. I have to force her to even take nibbles of her food, and she fights tooth and nail the entire time.

She uses the bathroom on herself. At first, I thought they were accidents, but she just keeps doing it. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.

She can talk and walk just fine, but it’s like there’s a part of her brain that’s just… broken, I guess.

The thing that worries me the most is that she doesn’t seem to sleep much anymore, either.

I’ll try and put her to bed, and she’ll throw the biggest fits I’ve ever seen. It scares me, honestly.

She sounds possessed. Demonic, almost.
I’ll try my best to put my foot down, but she’s relentless. It’s exhausting.

I always end up just letting her have her way. It’s easier to let her tire herself out than it is to argue with her. But she doesn’t tire herself out. She doesn’t even stay in bed.

She just stands in my doorway every night. Staring at me while I lay in bed.

When I ask what she’s doing, she just ignores me.
The only thing she says is:

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

It’s beyond unsettling.

But it never felt unsafe.

That is until last night.

She was back in the doorway. Staring at me with those cold, callous eyes. Performing her chant.

Only now…

She held a kitchen knife tightly at her chest.

She looked like she was contemplating.

Debating on what to do next.

After a few moments of debate, she charged me, screaming at the top of her lungs.

She poked me a few times, but I managed to subdue her. She screeched the entire time. Kicking and flailing while coming too close for comfort with that knife before I could pry it out of her hand.

We’re both back at the hospital right now.

The entire drive here she just kept repeating herself like a broken record.

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

We’ve been here for hours, and the doctors just brought me her scan results.

She’s completely fine. No abnormalities whatsoever.

I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

I finally got a girlfriend around 5 months ago. Not gonna lie, for a while there I was starting to think I was destined to be alone. Being 21 and not even having a first kiss yet has its way of making you feel like a loser.

But when she breezed into my life, it was like the universe erupted with color.

She’s gorgeous, but that’s not what drew me to her. She was just so open. She spoke her mind, and that mind was beautiful. She never hid anything, not even things that were painful.

After a few weeks of dating, we started having deeper and deeper conversations, each one more personal than the last.

She told me about her goals and aspirations. How she wanted to be a nail tech and hair stylist. How she wanted to become her own boss.

She was incredibly ambitious, and that’s another thing that made me fall in love with her.

Over time, she started sharing her darkest memories too. She had it hard growing up. She didn’t have a dad. Her mom was always working. She was really just fending for herself.

One memory in particular seemed to affect her the most, though. It was the one thing that she’d never go into full detail about, and that was the fact that she was assaulted by a grown man when she was only 14.

He didn’t wear a mask. He didn’t try to conceal himself. He just took what he wanted and left her bruised and beaten in an alley late at night.

She was too afraid and humiliated to go to the police, and according to her, that’s the biggest regret of her life.

When she told me about it, my heart literally broke for her. I cried with her for hours. I pet her and held her, and part of me was just completely dumbfounded that she’d ever allow another man to touch her. It made me feel special. Like we were connected.

From that moment on, I made a vow to protect her. So what if it had only been a few months? So what if we weren’t married? I felt a spiritual bond to her. I just couldn’t explain it.

She didn’t want to meet my parents yet, though, which was fine. I understood how crazy it was to full-heartedly believe I was in love this early on. But I wanted to ease her into it.

I started talking about how much they’d love her and how happy they’d be to know that I finally found someone. I’d recommend barbecues, lake days, whatever. Just events where she could introduce herself.

She was starting to crack. I could feel it. She was falling in love with me the same way I was with her.

I finally convinced her to meet up with everybody for dinner, and I was ecstatic when she actually agreed. I started thinking about what clothes to wear, what restaurant to go to, how I’d introduce her to Mom and Dad.

Unfortunately, I highly doubt that’s gonna happen. Hell, I don’t even think we’re gonna be together anymore.

The day before our dinner, my mom sent me a picture from her Facebook.

It was one of those “On This Day” photos, and it was of me, her, my dad, and my brother. We were at the beach. It was a beautiful day, and everyone wore the happiest faces.

I saw the picture, and my heart melted. I remembered the day perfectly. You could feel the memories dripping off of the screen.

Of course, I wanted to show my girlfriend.
I flipped my phone to show her the picture, but instead of lighting up with an “awww” or “that’s so cute,” her face dropped.

She looked like she’d just seen a ghost, and her skin went pale.

I saw tears begin to fill her eyes as she stared at the picture.

Realizing my mistake, I went to pull my phone back, but she grabbed my wrist to stop me.

She took the phone from my hand and analyzed it. After a few seconds, she zoomed in on my dad’s face.

She began sobbing. A mixture of pain, grief, and anger all in one.

It was like she could hardly breathe, and I began to panic. I begged her to tell me what was wrong, but all she could say was, “that’s him,” over and over again in between heaving breaths.

“That’s him.”

“Oh my God, that’s fucking him.”

“How could I be so fucking stupid? You look just like him.”

She threw my phone on the ground and shattered it before basically running to her bedroom and locking the door behind her.

And that’s where she’s been.

I keep knocking, and she keeps demanding I leave.

I don’t know what to do.

I thought I had found the one.

And now it’s like she doesn’t even want to look at me.