The past few years have been an absolute whirlwind for me. For years, I was a struggling writer, dreaming of becoming the next great American author, but I simply couldn't break into the literary industry. I survived for a time on freelance jobs ranging from article writing and blogging to copywriting and editing. They say every dog has his day. Mine arrived nearly two years ago when my debut horror novel, "Fragments of Fear," exceeded my wildest expectations and became an unexpected hit. It landed on The New York Times bestseller list, with reviews describing it as "an atmospheric and chilling journey into the depths of human darkness." I hadn't reached Stephen King levels of name recognition, but copies of my book were front and center in bookstores. I even got to go on a ten-city book signing tour and participate in a few talk show interviews. My brush with fame made me weary of the limelight. So, with the earnings from my book sales, I purchased a two-story house in the suburbs. The house wasn't extravagant, but it was far removed from the bustling city and the demanding publishing industry. It became my sanctuary, a place to find solace, recharge my creative energy, and explore my imagination without distraction. It was an older house and required some work, but I was excited at the prospect of making it my own. At the top of my to-do list was refurbishing the large backyard. I had always envisioned starting a family and imagined barbecues and children playing in the yard. Unfortunately, years of neglect had turned the backyard into a dense jungle of weeds and poison oak. I spent the better part of an afternoon meticulously mowing the lawn and pulling weeds. Afterward, I began planting a new garden. While digging a hole in the soil for some potted flowers next to an old oak tree, my spade hit something solid. The metallic clang reverberated through the air. Fearing that I had struck a water or gas pipe, I put my spade down and carefully brushed away the loose soil with my gloved hands. What I uncovered was a small, weathered metal box buried just below the surface. The box was light but sturdy. A blend of excitement and curiosity took over as I gently pried the box open with the head of my spade. Inside was a collection of old black-and-white family photographs of a couple and their young daughter. There were also trinkets, likely of sentimental value to the box's owner: a tarnished silver locket with a picture of a Labrador retriever, a small vial of sand, and a porcelain figurine of a ballerina. Based on the content, I surmised it was some sort of time capsule. But what made my blood run cold was a sealed envelope bearing my full name and the current date, written in cursive. This was impossible. Judging by the photographs, the box must have been buried sometime in the 1920s. I dropped everything I was doing and brought the box inside. Opening the envelope, I found a letter that read: "Dear Mr. Travers, If you are reading this, just know that in five days, your life will end. We know this because we were the ones who brought about your demise. We apologize for this harsh reality but implore you to understand the desperation that compels us. We seek to bring back our daughter, Lily, from the clutches of death, and your sacrifice is the price demanded. We deeply regret the burden we have placed upon you, extending across time. Please know our intentions are not cruel, but driven by unconditional love. We understand the enormity of this request. May you find some solace in knowing that your sacrifice holds the promise of restoring Lily's future. With heartfelt gratitude,Evelyn and William Hastings. P.S. As a small consolation, we have provided you with a glimpse into the upcoming week. ”A separate sheet listed the dates for the next five days, each with a mysterious prediction: “July 15th: A stranger will cross your path, seeking a favor. July 16th: A creature of the night will find its way into your sanctuary. July 17th: The sky will weep for you, but you will find only darkness in these tears. July 18th: Your most beloved creation will betray you.July 19th: Through flames, a cherished life will be consumed.” After reading this, I was left in a state of confusion and disbelief. There was no way this letter could be real, I thought. I'd had my fair share of obsessive fans sending me ideas for my next novel or their unedited manuscripts. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that a deranged fan or a prankster with a twisted sense of humor had discovered my new address and devised this elaborate hoax. Whoever was behind it, I had to give them credit for their creativity. They had the makings of a great horror writer. I returned the contents to the box, closed the lid, and set it aside. I made a mental note to change all the locks, then returned to my yard work. The next day, I was busy patching a crack in my living room wall when I heard a heavy knock at the door. I wasn't expecting any visitors, so I slowly opened the door a crack, keeping the chain lock still in place. Standing on my porch was a man in his late forties, tall and lean, with disheveled brown hair and a scruffy beard. "Yes, can I help you?" I asked, warily." Hey, I'm sorry to bother you," he began. "But my car broke down in front of your house. I think the carburetor is busted." He pointed at a blue sedan with its hood popped up and smoke billowing from the engine. I sized him up with suspicion. I remembered the prediction about a stranger crossing my path. I hadn't thought the letter had literally predicted a stranger coming to my house and asking for help. Instead, I wondered if this guy was the one who had buried the box in my backyard as a prank. Cautiously, I offered to call a tow truck for him while he waited outside. He happily agreed. I closed the door behind me and called the towing company. The man patiently waited on my front porch until the truck arrived. He thanked me with a smile and left with the truck driver. For the remainder of the day, I peered out my window to see if the stranger returned, but I never saw him again. I convinced myself that it was just a coincidence. And as far as coincidences go, it wasn't the most absurd. Stranger things have happened. The following day, the bizarre time capsule and its unsettling prophecy still occupied the forefront of my mind. However, when my agent called, inquiring as to why I hadn’t replied to his multiple emails, I was thrust back into the reality of my professional obligations. The publisher had been breathing down his neck due to my delay in submitting drafts for my much-anticipated second novel. I was contractually bound to deliver a complete draft by the year's end. "Just one chapter, Alex," he pleaded. "A rough draft, anything. It’ll pacify them for at least a month." "I'll have it ready by the end of the week," I assured him, placating his concerns. Secluding myself in my office, I faced my laptop with grim determination. I vowed not to leave for any reason until I'd accomplished a writing goal of 2,000 words. By 10 PM, I was sitting in the dark with my laptop screen as the only source of light. I had managed to produce only about a thousand words. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic in my small, stuffy office, I opened the window to let the crisp night air sweep in, carrying the scent of wet grass and the faint rustling of leaves. I took a deep breath and leaned back into my chair, closing my eyes for a moment. Suddenly, a loud flapping sound jolted me back to reality. I jumped from my chair, my heart pounding in my chest. From the darkness of the night, a shadowy figure swooped into my office. Panicked, I ducked, my mind rushing back to the note's prophecy about a creature of the night. Was this it? The figure collided with my bookshelf, sending books showering to the floor, and hooted loudly, before landing on my desk. Gathering my courage, I switched on the desk lamp. The room was instantly bathed in a warm glow, revealing my intruder—a barn owl. With an eeriness that sent a chill down my spine, the owl slowly turned its head almost 360 degrees, like a scene out of "The Exorcist," observing its surroundings. I had never been this close to an owl before, and I hadn't realized how large they could get. This particular one was almost the size of a young child. "Hey there, easy now…" I said, grabbing a flashlight from my desk. I slowly approached it, still crouched, with my flashlight arm extended. Before I could get very far, the owl spread its wings wide. With a powerful flap, it took off again, sweeping across my office, flying straight out of my window. My meticulously organized notes fell victim to the gust created by the owl's wings, scattering across the room like confetti. I poked my head out the window and followed the bird with the flashlight beam. I saw it glide into the treeline. It was slightly unnerving how its flapping wings barely made a noise. It perched on a branch, turning its head around to look back at me, its massive eyes reflecting back my light. I jumped back, shutting the window with a bang. As I paced around the room, cleaning the mess that the owl had created, I felt a sense of unease. One prediction coming true, I could pass off as a coincidence. But this one was so oddly specific. I was starting to fear for my life. But what could I do? Go to the police? I would be sent for a psych evaluation before I even finished my story. I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, I stayed up, researching everything I could find about the history of the house and the family in the photograph. The articles I found about the house revealed that it was built in the 1880s and had changed hands several times before being bought by a young couple, William and Evelyn Hastings, in 1921. They had a daughter named Lily Margaret Hastings in 1922. I found a news article from 1927 titled "Miracle Child Thought Dead Wakes Up at Funeral." The article revealed that Lily had fallen into a frozen lake when she was five. She wasn't breathing when her father pulled her out and was declared dead. As embalming wasn't common at the time, her funeral was held the very next day. As they were lowering her casket into the grave, mourners heard faint scratching from within. When they ripped open the lid, they found the child shaken but very much alive. Doctors were baffled as to how she had survived. The theory posed in the article was that the icy water had put her into a deep coma where her breathing and heartbeat were too faint to detect. The only other significant thing I found was an obituary for Lily from 2019. She had lived a long, full life and passed away peacefully in her sleep at age 97. She was survived by two children, six grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. The obituary noted her love for dogs and the beach, and her career as a professional ballerina. "That explains the trinkets," I muttered to myself. The obituary was written by her granddaughter, Hannah Sullivan, who was the local head librarian.I glanced at my watch. It was already 5 AM. Morning brought a dense layer of cloud cover. As predicted, a sudden and violent storm swept over the neighborhood, casting a shadowy gloom that echoed my inner turmoil. My rational side still insisted that this was all an elaborate prank, but the creeping doubt in my mind was growing stronger with each passing hour. I reasoned that if anyone had answers, it would be Hannah Sullivan. I looked up the library where she worked and saw that it was only a 20-minute drive away. I waited for the storm to break before heading out. By 10 AM, the storm showed no signs of letting up, but I was desperate for answers. I tucked the letter and photos into my coat pocket and ran to my car. I drove through the rain-soaked roads, the whippers screeching as they move across the windshield. As I pulled into the library's parking lot, I noticed that it was nearly empty, with only a few other cars present. The library itself was a Victorian building that looked like it had been recently remodeled. Entering the library, I found it almost deserted except for a young woman at the reception desk. She was engrossed in a book, her glasses perched on her nose and her dark hair tied up in a messy ponytail. I glanced at what she was reading and saw that it was a copy of my book. I approached her gingerly. I was soaking wet and still unsure of how to explain my strange predicament without sounding stark mad. As I neared the desk, she looked up, setting her book aside and offering me a warm smile. "Hello," she said, her eyes brightening behind her glasses. "Can I help you find anything?" "I'm actually here to find Hannah Sullivan," I replied, meeting her gaze. "I read that she works here." The woman looked at me with suspicion. "May I ask who is asking for her?" She asked. I knew I couldn’t just tell her my true reason for needing to see her. I had one literal card to play. I pulled out a business card from my pocket and slid it across the desk. She read it, her eyes widening. "The Alex Travers? The author of 'Fragments of Fear'?" she asked excitedly. She checked the photo on the inside of her book’s jacket to confirm. I concocted a convincing lie about wanting to research local lore for my next novel, and after offering to sign her copy of the book, she was more than happy to lead me to a small office tucked away in the corner of the building. She knocked lightly on the door before opening it. "Ms. Sullivan, there's someone here to see you." "It’s Alex Travers," the young librarian added in a giddy tone. Hannah looked up from her computer screen, surprised by the interruption. She was a striking woman in her early thirties, her ginger hair pulled back into a neat bun, freckles scattered across her cheeks. Her eyes, a brilliant emerald green, regarded me with curiosity. She seemed far less impressed with my presence than her colleague. "Thank you, Amber," she said to the young woman. Amber lingered at the door, hoping to be a part of the conversation, but she got the hint to leave when she saw that everyone was just standing awkwardly in silence. "Mr. Travers, please have a seat," Hannah said, her tone cordial but guarded. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" I sat down in the chair across from her. I hesitated, unsure of how to proceed, but decided to get straight to the point. I explained to her that I had recently bought her great-grandparents' house. I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved the weathered photos, laying them on her desk. Hannah's eyes slightly widened as she studied the pictures of her ancestors. "I found these in my backyard a couple of days ago," I said. "They were in a box buried near the old oak tree." There was a flicker of surprise on her face, quickly replaced by a look of concern. There was a moment of silence as she traced her finger over the image of the young girl in the picture. “And the letter…” she started, “Was there a letter in the box?” I was shocked. I hadn’t even mentioned the letter yet. “How did you know there was a letter?” I asked, perplexed, handing her the two handwritten sheets of paper. She examined the letter carefully. “This is my great-grandmother’s handwriting,” she said. "But… How did she know my name? Or the current date?" I stammered, the fear creeping back into my voice. "I just... I just don't understand." “I’d heard the stories, but I didn’t think any of it was true…” She spoke, talking more to herself than to me. “What stories?” I demanded. Hannah looked at me, her eyes filled with empathy. She sighed deeply and began, "Mr. Travers, my family... has a rather complicated history. My great-grandmother Evelyn was a spiritualist. She held séances, believing she could communicate with the dead. You’ve no doubt read about my grandmother Lily’s story?” I nodded in confirmation. "Well, there’s a family legend that when Lily drowned in the lake, her mother made a deal with the spirit world to bring her back,” she continued. “What was the deal?” I probed. “A life for a life,” she answered. “Not the life of anyone she knew, but that of someone who would live in the house in the distant future.” I thought about what she said for a moment, and suddenly it all clicked. “Wait… So you’re saying Evelyn traded my life to save her daughter?” I asked. “In a sense… yes,” she confirmed. “This is my life. Do I not get a say in this?” I argued. Hannah sighed, “You have to see it from her perspective. She was getting her only child back, in exchange for the life of a complete stranger who wouldn’t even be born in her lifetime. What parent wouldn’t make that deal?” “This is insane! Is there any way to reverse this?” I asked, anxiety in my voice. The rain outside echoed my desperation, fiercely hitting the library's windows. Hannah’s face fell. “I don’t know. This isn't something I've ever dealt with. As far as I know, no one's ever tried. You can’t just undo three generations of my family’s existence. I…” Her words were cut off by a sudden crash of thunder. The room darkened as the power went out; only the sporadic flashes of lightning illuminated the space. “Damn it!” I shouted, more from fear than anger. I got up abruptly, knocking my chair to the floor. “Are you messing with me? Is this your idea of a joke?” I accused, fumbling in the darkness towards the door. Hannah gasped, clearly taken aback by my reaction. “No, I swear! I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I…” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I pushed my way out of the office, navigated the dark library, and found my way to the exit. Outside, the storm was raging, but I didn’t care. My mind was spinning, caught in a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. The rain quickly soaked through my clothes, but it did little to dampen the fiery panic consuming me. I sat in my car, staring at the list of prophecies. The next to the last one worried me almost as much as my own impending demise. As I read the phrase "Your most beloved creation will betray you" one more time, a shiver ran down my spine. My first thought was of my book, my characters. But how would fictional characters turn on me? I wondered. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying to piece together the cryptic prophecy. I pored over my manuscripts, searching for any character or plot point that could possibly betray me. I didn't know what I was looking for. I don't even remember falling asleep, but I was awakened by a news alert on my phone. The headline sent a chill through my veins: "Fanatical Reader Commits Heinous Murder, Recreates Scene from 'Fragments of Fear'." It felt as if the floor had given way beneath me. As I read the gruesome facts of the crime, my heart pounded frantically. The fan, a man named Robert Miles, was reportedly obsessed with my work, especially the serial killer character, Orion West, from my book. He had been apprehended after strangling his wife, which he claimed was an homage to one of Orion's most brutal killings. Feeling nauseated, I dropped my phone. My mind was racing. In a state of panic, I contacted every spiritualist, paranormal expert, and occultist I could find. All were either incredulous, dismissive, or too eager to exploit my desperation. None were able to offer anything concrete or even plausible. I contemplated boarding a plane and fleeing to the farthest corner of the world. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how pointless that would be. The prophecy wasn't tied to the house. It was tied to me, and there was no escaping myself. On the morning of July 19th, I woke up with a sense of dread. The final prediction was to be fulfilled that day. Despite the comfort of daylight, the threat felt imminent. The morning passed in a blur, my thoughts consumed by what was to come. The knock on my door in the afternoon startled me. When I opened it, I found Hannah standing there. Her green eyes were filled with a strange mixture of apprehension and hope. She held an old book in one hand and a large bag slung over her shoulder. "Mr. Travers, I’m sorry to show up unannounced," she began. "But I couldn’t stop thinking about our encounter yesterday. I think I might have a solution for you." "Do you?" I asked, trying not to raise my hopes. "Yes, if I may come in…" she said. "Please come in," I responded, leading her inside. Once inside, she laid the book on my dining room table. "I spent all night going through my great-grandmother’s old books of spells and rituals," she explained. "And I found this…" She opened the book, directing my attention to a particular page. "‘Life Transference Spell’?" I read where her finger indicated. "I believe Evelyn used the spell to transfer Lily’s death onto you," she explained. "Is there a ritual or something to reverse the spell?" I asked. "There is, but there's a catch," she replied, looking at me seriously. "What’s the catch?" I asked nervously. "If we do this... it will change everything," she warned, her voice grave. "You'll effectively erase all the events in your life that led you to this house, to this moment.” I looked at her. "What do you mean by 'erase'?" "The spell, as it works, will shift the trajectory of your life away from your current path," Hannah clarified. "Your memories and experiences – they will all remain intact. However, to the world around you, it will be as if 'Fragments of Fear' never happened. You would have taken a different path in life, one that wouldn’t have led to you writing that particular book and the fame it brought you." "But... but this was my life’s work, my dream," I stammered, feeling a lump forming in my throat. "I dedicated years to writing, to getting my work out there. And now, you're telling me I have to give it all up?" Hannah's expression softened, her eyes showing a glimmer of sympathy. “Mr. Travers… Alex… I’m so sorry you had to be put into this position. You did nothing to deserve it. It's an awful decision to make, but there's no alternative.” Hannah's revelation was a punch to the gut. I had been prepared for many things – a bitter battle against unseen forces, a final plea for mercy to the spirits – but not this. I was being asked to forfeit the very foundation of my identity, my successes, my accomplishments. To live on, but as a phantom in a life that could have been. “What’s the point of living if I’m left with nothing?” I wondered aloud. Hannah placed a comforting hand on mine. “I know it’s a lot of pressure to put on one person… But you’ll still have you, with all your hopes, dreams, and passions. You’ll still have the capacity to love, to feel, to experience life... Isn't that worth preserving?” she asked. I kept my head down, considering my options. Finally, I looked up, meeting Hannah's worried gaze with resolve. "All right," I declared, my voice steadier than I felt. "Let's do it. What do we need to do?" Hannah let out a relieved sigh before giving me a weak smile. "I’ve brought most of the items we need for the ritual already. We’ll also need a copy of your book.” “Okay, I’ll get it,” I said. We cleared a spot under the oak tree in my backyard, formed a stone circle, and built a fire in the center. The sun was already setting when we finished. Holding a copy of my book in my trembling hands, I exchanged a glance with Hannah. The enormity of our decision hung heavy between us. “You have to do this. This is your life,” she reiterated, her voice shaking with emotion.I nodded, unable to muster a response. I held my book over the flame, the heat nipping at my fingers. My heart sank as I remembered the countless hours, days, and months I had invested in creating this story. It was more than just a book to me; it was a piece of my soul. And I was about to watch it burn. Before I could second-guess myself, I dropped it into the flames. The book caught fire instantly, the pages curling and blackening in the fire. A sharp pang of loss shot through me, but I pushed it aside. Hannah interlaced her fingers with mine as we watched the fire. The atmosphere grew warmer, the flames reflecting in her emerald eyes. She started to chant in an unfamiliar language, her voice growing louder and more forceful as she went on. I watched in awe as the fire seemed to dance in rhythm with her words. I could hear the echoes of other voices, disembodied and inhuman, chanting along with her. As she continued, I felt her hand growing cold and her grip weakening. Then, her hand seemed to slip through my fingers like a fistful of sand. She raised her hand. I could see her horrified eyes through her translucent palm. "What's happening?" she cried out in terror. I hesitated for a moment, then turned my gaze back to the flames. Her eyes followed mine. The fire had burned through the cover of the hardback, revealing pages crossed out with a marker and her grandmother’s silver locket hidden between them. "I'm sorry, Hannah," I confessed, my voice choked with guilt. "I just couldn’t give it all up." "You... you altered the spell..." she stammered, her form flickering and gradually fading. "You erased my family..." "Yes," I admitted, my heart heavy. "I had to. You said it yourself, a life for a life. "The look of betrayal on her vanishing face was unmistakable. She opened her mouth, perhaps to say something, but before she could, she disappeared completely, leaving me alone in the cool summer night. I stood there staring at the flame until it burned itself out. I felt alone, inside and out. I went back inside and out of morbid curiosity, I looked up the obituary for Lily Hastings. It stated that she had died at the age of five after falling into the frozen lake. There was no miracle. She was simply dead. I did feel remorse for Hannah. She was just trying to help me and didn’t deserve to be wiped from existence. But I hadn’t asked to sacrifice my life for her grandmother. My life had been hijacked, used, and manipulated. All I did was reclaim it. My next novel, 'Echoes of the Past,' was another critical and commercial success. The world saw the triumphant return of a favorite author, not knowing the ghosts that lingered behind my success. Out of a sense of guilt, I dedicated the novel to Hannah Sullivan, Lily Hastings, and all those forgotten. [Original author: PageTurner627](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/15szkax/i_found_a_time_capsule_with_a_letter_inside_that/)

One day there was no street, and the next day there was. Freshly paved, with a sign and a name. A new street isn’t amazing, of course, it’s just something that happens. But when it seems to happen over night? Well, that’s odd, but not the kind of thing people really wonder about. The typical response is, “Huh, when did they put that in?” accompanied by a shrug. Some people, however, are always curious, and other people just need to go in that direction. So, down the street they’ll drive their cars, looking ahead, looking around, not really paying attention to how the curbs begin to rise and move closer, quickly becoming much too cramped to turn around in. Or how the manhole covers grind open, all on their own. Or how the sewer grates widen and leer like hungry old men with cracked yellow teeth. How they hiss. If you happen to look down the street from outside at that moment, you might see those cars stop and begin to back up in alarm. But then, if you blink, the street will be gone. To where? You never know. The next time it appears, in another place, it might look like it’s been there for years. It might be paved, cobbled, or made of dirt. It might even have a different name. Perhaps something other than Swallow Street. Or perhaps not. Streets like that are funny. [Original author: IPostAtMidnight](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1qykik/have_you_seen_that_new_street_between_dove_lane/)

It’s always two in the morning when I would usually wake up because of my blanket shifting beside me. I would open my lamp to check but before I could, her little arms would start to hug me. *”Mommy, I can’t sleep again.”*, her voice was so scared and sleepy at the same time that I hug her back and hum her favorite tune until she would finally fall back to deep slumber. This has been happening for a few weeks and I actually got used to it. I would open the lamp then and check if everything was okay with her, like I did every night. I’d caress her face, kiss her on the forehead and then she’d wake up. *”Something wrong, honey?”* I’d ask her and she would gently shake her head and stand up. She would walk out, stop at my door and wave goodbye with her golden hair, still braided with red ribbons and that pink flowery dress she was buried in, last month. [Original author: None](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1udmv3/my_daughter_cant_sleep/)

What does it take to kill? The thought resounded about my blank mindset almost as loudly as my voice against these concrete walls. What does it take to kill? I thought it over. For some, it only takes a dagger in hand and a chest full of rage. For others, all it takes is a misplaced pill, dropped in a drink. For the professionals, all it takes is a wad of cash. For not so professionals it might only take a gun. Even for the lesser, it might only take one needle too many, or one pill too few. A part of me pondered why I was haggling myself like this. Why ask? But all the same, the question bounced about my mind. What does it take to kill? What does it take to kill? I paused. What did it take for me to kill? I sighed. Such atrocities had been committed. A mother, child, a pensioner and a father. A whole family. My friends. Slaughtered. And all it took, all it took for me to kill, had been three bottles of beer. And some car keys. [Original author: Mr\_Halloween](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1v2xm9/what_does_it_take_to_kill_xpost_from_sss/)

It was a beautiful night for a walk in the small town of Albion. A married couple walked down Main Street, hand in hand. They were so focused on each other they barely noticed the group of strangers standing at the end of the sidewalk. He smelled them before she saw them. A gasp escaped the wife as they stopped abruptly in front of the strangers. They did not move, they only stood there and stared at the couple with lifeless eyes. “Excuse us.” The husband said. “To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” Answered the stranger in the middle. He was holding something, it looked like a lighter. Suddenly, there was a scream from the next street over and a burst of light could be seen through the houses. It was then the husband realized what he had smelled. “To escape the Darkness, we must Spread The Light.” All the strangers chanted in unison. The spark from the lighter set them all ablaze and the couple screamed as the burning group ran towards them. The Preacher watched the town burn, from high up on a hill, with a twisted smile. The screaming was only slightly muted by the crackling of the growing inferno. The smell of gasoline watered his eyes and burned his nostrils. He could taste the ash in the air and he felt the glorious heat even from this distance. All of his senses were ablaze and he could barely contain his excitement. Soon he would be the only one left. Then, he would move on to the next town, where he would share his doctrine. And Spread The Light. [Original author: Sebastian\_Wolf](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1w1mp9/and_so_the_light_spread_xpost_from/)

"Here, have a turn on mine...." sleds flew down the hill, and were dragged back up, in an endlessly moving parade. Cassie had just moved to Pennsylvania from Florida, and was loving winter-time more every day. Sledding, snowball fights, sliding on the frozen pond.... The kids in her neighborhood all seemed pretty nice, happily introducing Cassie to the fun of a cold-weather winter. So Cassie was surprised that none of the kids would play with the small girl who showed up, quietly standing at the edge of the group with her sled. "It's Maria! Don't talk to her, just pretend she's not there...." "She'll go away, as long as nobody talks to her....." They all seemed almost nervous, and shortly after little Maria's arrival, they all left, hurriedly tripping through the snow to get back to their warm houses. Cassie stared indignantly after them. She hated to see anyone being picked on. She tried a smile, and Maria smiled back, pointing to her sled. "Do you want me to sled with you?" Cassie asked. Maria nodded, and they dragged the sled uphill. Cassie squeezed on in front, and away they went. The sled was breathtakingly fast. Cassie squealed in delight.... It was *terrifyingly* fast. Almost unnaturally so....Cassie couldn't get enough breath to squeal, and through streaming eyes, she saw that the sled was heading towards the pond. The ice, which had been so solidly strong all week cracked treacherously as the sled careened onto the pond. It seemed to open like a great mouth, and Cassie felt icy water swallow her.... Maria wasn't in the water. Cassie could see, hazily, a small, lone figure, watching from the pond's bank, but she was too numb to even call or struggle..... ``` ********************************* ``` The neighborhood kids looked solemnly out at the pond the next day. It's surface was clean, unbroken, and fresh snow covered all the previous day's tracks. "Maria got another one", one of them whispered. "We tried to tell her...." "Come on, try to forget about it. Here, you can have a turn on my sled....." [Original author: Queenofscots](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/2tj8b7/here_have_a_turn_on_mine/)

I tried to contain my excitement and stare out the window. I was waiting for my daughter. Every year she had made a card for me on valentine’s day . It had all started with the valentine’s day 17 years ago, when the nursery teacher had asked the class to make cards for people they like. While the rest of the class had made cards for their friends and classmates, my Sona had made one for me. She had run to me that day after school, proudly presented her work and said, “I love you the most, papa”. Ever since then, it had become a tradition of sorts. During the first week of February, she would hide in her bedroom and work on a beautiful card and handcraft a gift for me. At dinner, I would try and guess what she would give me . It was a delight to see her dissolve into giggles and turn red with joy. She would then surprise me on Feb 14 before leaving for school. Things changed last November. She was driving home in the night when she was hit. Died on impact, they said. The other driver was drunk, hadn’t paid any heed to traffic signals and had just rammed into her. He was apprehended, but what was the use of it? A life gone can never return. I was devastated. 20 years is all I had with her. I’ve done everything to stop myself from going mad. I cremated her, put her ashes in an earthen urn and buried it in a rose garden nearby. I regularly visited her there and watered the shrub growing over her ashes. However, today, I’ve had this warm feeling within me. That Sona will come and present me with a card as she always did in the past. I wasn’t wrong. While eating my dinner, I heard a knock at the door. There was noone when I looked through the peephole. I opened the door to find a yellow rose on a mound of dirt. [Original author: He\_Who\_Must\_B\_Named](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/aoso24/my_daughter/)

*...not dead but dying."* "Want me to play it again?" the fat man asked, his hand hesitating above the audio cassette deck. "No," the blonde woman answered, trembling. "The meaning's clear. We need to tell Father— The cop paused the VCR. The faces on the TV monitor froze: distorted, fuzzy. "I'm gonna ask you one more time, Larry," he said. "Do you recognise either of them two?" Larry looked down at the empty cup on the table in front of him. He'd been here for hours. "I swear to God I don't know nothing." The cop sighed and looked at the far wall. On the other side of the two-way mirror, a pair of bored detectives chewed gum. "What if he's right?" one asked. "He ain't. Don't believe a word comes outta that dirty cultist's mouth." "But—but…" Larry said from the other side of the glass. "But what?" asked the cop. The two detectives stopped chewing, leaning in closer. "...is it true? Is it really goddamn true?" There was a pause. Then: "Fuck!—" The lights dimmed. "I fucking forgot my line." "Again?" The actor playing Larry got up and kicked the wall. It wobbled. "Easy there," said the director, entering the set. "My memory…" The director patted him on the back, whispering, "You were golden. You'll be golden again." And, turning to the remaining cast and crew: "Fifteen, everyone. We'll pick up on the suicide scene." —and cut!" yelled the movie director. Everyone relaxed. The PA refilled the cup on the table behind which the actor playing the actor playing Larry had been sitting. A blonde woman ("Excuse me, Mr. Evans—") came up to the movie director; but he ignored her, brushing past to confer with the DP. Or he tried brushing past her: Because they had gotten in each other's paths. Immobilised, with their torsos caught in a jagged, looped motion; jagged, looped motion. "Excuse me, Mr. Evans—" "...use me, Mr. Evans—" "4bu53 m3, mr. 3v4n5—" The programmer punched his keyboard. The screen flickered. The error message mocked him. He'd run it a thousand times. It had to be sabotage. He ripped off his headphones: his head filling with the incessant clicking cacophony of keys depressed on the keyboards in the cubicles beside his, and the ones beside those, and… Imagined that the entire floor was a neighbourhood / A city / A planet / An entire galaxy / Maybe even the universe / *Buzz*. *Buzz*. Someone's cell seen under microscope ("Malignant.") in an operating room by masked figures, standing beside a body on the operating table. "Weak but stable." "He'll exist," one of them says, stretching her glorious wings. [...] In a white room, God lies bound; His bandaged wrists saturated with ichor; His face as smooth and featureless as a lightbulb, save for a sole central eye. Every few moments, the eye blinks: disturbing existence, like the drop of a single tear into a still pond; creating waves: sound waves, which say: *"I am God. I am...* [Original author: normancrane](https://i.redd.it/jayjtsjfe5sa1.jpg)

Leslie Franklin was a stupid, selfish, inconsiderate woman. She was a terrible wife and a worse mother. She had no job, no maternal instinct, and no sense of responsibility. Instead of being a parent, she leaned on her mother, father, and husband to take care of her three year old son Joey. One hot summer day after the temperature had peaked to 102 degrees (Fahrenheit) and while her husband was at work, she decided to rendezvous with her boyfriend on the side. She had been sleeping with this man for six months under her husband’s nose. Leslie strapped young Joey into his car seat in the back of her 2002 Chevy Cavalier and pulled out of the garage. She must have been terribly excited to see her beau because when she arrived in his driveway she ran inside leaving her son in the car with the windows rolled up. Just a few hours was all it took for the heat to bake little Joey and when she returned later that evening she found her son dead, still strapped into his car seat. The paramedics arrived far too late to revive him. She took her own life just a few weeks later. Her friends and family said it was grief, but in reality it was shame and fear of the legal ramifications she was facing that drove her to do it. Her husband sold the vehicle to a used car dealer in Dayton and moved half way across the country to start over, hoping to purge all memories of the nightmare that had become his life. How do I know all this you might ask? The answer is simple. I bought that 2002 Chevy Cavalier from the used car dealer in Dayton and Joey tells me this story every time I drive it. [Original author: Vincent\_VenaCava](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1qy0ka/bad_mother/)

BUTTERLY HOUSE! Beautiful Butterflies From All Over the World! *Exotic, Newly Discovered Species!* "Mommy, can we go in here?" Penni had been dragging her mother around the carnival for nearly two hours. Relieved at the thought of a short break, her mother agreed. "Enjoy, ladies!" the elderly man taking their tickets smiled. Penni burst through the tent flap enthusiastically, running ahead of her weary mother. "Honey, wait--don't touch any of those bugs--", but Penni was already giggling delightedly as a small flock of colorful butterflies fluttered daintily around her. ""Mom, they're just butterflies, sheesh! Butterflies never hurt anybody," at nine, Penni was all fearless curiousity, and she held her hands out to the lovely, bright green greatures that were beginning to swarm towards her. They flew in pretty, circular patterns over her head for a few seconds, then began to land on her hands and arms. She noticed that the other butterflies seemed to flit away, as more of the green ones came toward her. "Hey, don't chase the others away!" she said, laughing.... Her laughter was choked off abruptly, as she felt a hot *sting!* on her shoulder. "Hey! Ouch! Mom! I think a bee must've-- OUCH! Hey, get offa me--OUUUUCH! MOM!" Hot little stings suddenly were injected into her, all over. "Honey, are you all ri--", her mother's concern was cut off as she, too, was suddenly covered by thousands of jewel-bright, fluttering wings. "PENNI!! RUUUUN!" Penni was helpless to answer. Her throat was swelling up, and when she tried to open her mouth, the nasty creatures started crawling in, stinging all the while. Penni's arms and legs began to feel heavy, she was dizzy, and she could see nothing but the flicker and flutter of green wings. As she and her mother collapsed to the ground, the butterflies began to stop stinging, and start inserting their proboscises into the rapidly softening flesh of mother and daughter. Several minutes of slurping later, the only thing that remained was their blood-stained summer sundresses. An hour or so later, the tent flap opened again. The elderly man looked in, nodded, walked calmly over to pick up the rumpled, ruined clothing. The lovely green butterflies hovered amiably around his head, and he whistled cheerfully as he stuffed the dresses into a plastic bag. "All right, you lot, you've eaten for the week, now tomorrow, remember, back to fluttering nicely, all right?" Almost as if they understood every word, the dainty creatures lit sweetly on his arms, then flew gently away, circling in pretty patterns as they went. [Original author: Queenofscots](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1uw16a/flutters/)

\~Beep!\~ You have 7 New Messages. First Message at 10:43 pm “Hi Stacy, its Troy from the 3 Kings Bar. Yeah, so just got those digits from you and I didn’t see you leave, so I’d thought I’d hit you up. Just wanted to apologize again, for spilling that guy’s drink on you, he should have realized that you were taken and that I was busy working my magic, haha. Anyways, I’m just chillin outside the bar right now. They won’t let me back in after pushing that guy away from us. Again, sorry if I lost my cool, I don’t ever yell in people’s faces like that. Well, just hit me up for that coffee later.” \~Beep!\~ Next Message at 11:11 pm “Hey Cutie, it’s Troy again. Didn’t want you forgetting about me…where did you head off too? Maybe we can finish that dance at another place? It’s getting a little boring out here. I hit up another bar to grab a drink and this skank tried to ask me what time it was. I knew what that slut was trying to do; she was trying to get yours truly. Don’t worry baby, I’m all yours. Left that *removed* high and dry. Soooo, where you at? Call me.” \~Beep!\~ Next Message at 12:04 am “Staaaaccccyyyy, it’s your man, Troy. Girl, where you at? I hope you’re not trying to ditch me. Hey, where bout’s do you live again? Maybe we can have us a night time romp, if you know what I’m saying, haha. If not, that’s cool. I’m just playing with you. I am, the truest of gentlemen babe, trust me. Seriously though girl, hit me up. Let’s see where love takes us, haha. Call me. \~Beep!\~ Next Message at at 12:47 am “Stacy! I don’t know if you’re trying to play me but I swear we had some kind of connection back at the bar. I can’t just ignore that. You and me girl, we were meant to be together. I felt it once I saw you and when we started vibeing together on the dance floor. I remember every beautiful detail about you and I can’t get you out of my head. I even remember where bouts you said you lived…412-something Kressner St. right? I hope you call me soon. I’m struggling over here without you. I keep rubbing the spot on my cheek where you kissed me. Damn, you have some soft lips. Just want to kiss up on them…forever. Don’t ignore what we found Stacy. Hit me up!” \~Beep!\~ Next Message at 1:10 am (Heavy breathing…………………………………………) \~Beep!\~ Next Message at 1:52 am “…I thought you were the one Stacy. I thought you were the girl to pull me out of all this bullshit, finally bring some happiness in my life. Not like all those other *removed*. They all just laughed and took advantage of me. They took my shit, my heart, my life…NO MORE! I’m tired of these games. I’m out here to find love and when I do, you spit it back at me. Right in my FUCKING FACE! FUCK YOU STACY! BURN IN HELL *removed*! \~Beep!\~ Last Message at 2:30 am “Hey girl, sorry about all that…must have forgotten to take these pills my doc keeps on prescribing me. It’s nice finally being able to take them by choice, rather than a couple guys holding me down and force feeding me, haha. By the way, I didn’t know you were a dog person. Yours is such a cute little bastard. Well, I hear you fumbling for your keys at your front door. Can’t wait for us to finish that dance…” [Original author: theangrygooch](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1vhblb/the_last_dance/)

"The only way to conquer your fears, Brad, is to face them", Daddy said. He was gathering some things together in a box as he spoke: a couple of clown dolls, a ventriloquist dummy, a stuffed monkey with a horrid, leering grin, three old Halloween monster masks....all things that gave Bradley the shivers. "My father always told me that, Brad, and it's true. And do you know what he did?" Brad, seven, shook his head. He didn't really want to know what Pop-pop had done; he just knew that he was getting worried about what Daddy was planning to do with all those creepy dolls and things. Daddy grinned. "He *made* me face my fears. He locked me in my closet with all the things he could find that I was afraid of, and made me stay there all night, every night, till I could go in there at night without being scared. That's why I'm not scared of anything now." This was true, Brad knew. Daddy wasn't scared of anything at all. He drove recklessly, even around curves, making Mommy scream, and laughing at her. He picked up spiders, even big ones, and dangled them in Brad's and his sister's faces, chasing them around the house. He even would chase them with a red-hot poker from the fireplace, and giggle while they all cringed. "So, Bradley, now it's your turn! We''ll make a man of you yet, son!" Daddy arranged all the horrible props in the closet, and grabbed Brad by the collar when he saw Brad starting to edge away. "Now, don't worry! I survived it, and look at me! This is the only way to conquer your fears, trust me." He pushed a pale, sick-looking Brad into the closet. "Oh, I almost forgot...one more thing." Daddy reached back into the box, and took out a jar with several large spiders in it. "We can't forget the spiders!" He emptied the jar into the far corner of Brad's closet, then backed out. Brad was weeping, nearly paralyzed with fear. "D-Daddy? P-p-please don't..." But it was no use, he knew. He'd tried to escape Daddy's lessons before, and it only made the next lesson that much worse. He curled into a helpless, weeping ball, and Daddy locked the closet door, chuckling. "You'll grow up into a fine, brave man, just like me! Goodnight, Brad." [Original author: Queenofscots](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/1ymhz3/the_only_way_to_conquer_your_fears/)

“Have you seen my son?” asked the frantic woman to the old lady across the street “No, sorry dear” the old woman replied “Have you seen my son?” the woman asked the local police officer, more terrified this time “No, I’m sorry mam, but we’ll search right away” the officer replied “Please…please tell me my son is in there” asked the woman to the mother of her son’s best friend “I’m really sorry Clarice, we haven’t seen him” the mother replied The woman searched everywhere, ran through every part of the street, screaming, “Where is my son”.She was crying, pulling her hair out of despair. Her neighbors, out of pity, helped her in her search “JIMMY, JIMMY! WHERE ARE YOU! PLEASE COME OUT!” Every day, from 10 in the morning till 8 in the evening, the woman would leave her house, looking like trash. She looked like a risen corpse; Pale skin, frizzy hair, and her skinnier body. She screamed at every part of the town, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SON?” Alas at the second week of her search, everyone must have thought that she'd already gone crazy. She went to the local police department again… “Have you seen my son?” The officer in charge left out a deep sigh, “I’m sorry mam” The mother walked home, looking depressed. But as soon as she closed her front door, a smile painted across her face. With a smirk, the woman whispered to herself.“I guess I hid his body that well" [Original author: badfakesmiles](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/20jx38/have_you_seen_my_son/)

David unfolded the letter gingerly, trying not to touch it any more than he had to. God, why couldn't she just leave him alone? But no.... *My Dear Son,* *How are you? I never see you anymore. Are you getting my letters? I never hear from you, and nobody tells me anything here.....* Blah, blah, blah. Fucking old bat. Why couldn't she just die already? *I'm hungry a lot here. I don't think they bring meals as often as they should, but you know how forgetful I am...maybe I just eat and then forget I ate.* "Forgetful? Fucking senile, more like it." But then, she'd never been a great mother-- with her string of ever-changing boyfriends, going out drinking and God knew what else, leaving David locked in the house.... And there was *never* enough to eat--bags of chips, maybe, or a fucking Happy Meal, when she remembered in her alcohol-addled brain that she had a child to feed. But now she was the one locked up, having to wait for someone who might or might not remember to bring her a meal, or clean up after her. Too senile to realize she was in her own bedroom, instead of the senior home. Too senile to realize she was being slowly starved to death.... For Christ's sake. David refolded the letter and stuffed it back into its envelope, re-sealing it carefully. He took out a pen, and wrote "ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN--RETURN TO SENDER" on it, and shoved it back under his mother's locked bedroom door. [Original author: Queenofscots](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/2rzeno/you_never_call_you_never_write/)

Why can't they just provide more lighting? Everyone knows how unsafe parking lots are - there have been enough debates about it. Enough data provided. How many more missing and murder cases until this city decides to make CCTVs in lots mandatory! The sound of my heels hitting against the cemented floor echoed as I walked towards the car. It was so deserted - I could hear the elevator music as it stopped at the floor above me. I must hurry up. God! It's so easy for a person like Dev to overpower me from behind. Or just slide into my car. I had caught him staring at me so many times. Not like my manager cared. Apparently that was no reason to ask for a change of cubicles. As I sat inside, I made sure that everything inside was as it was before I came in. Locked the doors and put my head down. I took deep breaths and tried not to look outside. The lewd comments at the office parties, all passed off as drunken jokes. The persistent proposals. The snide remarks on women. The hints at how my career can really take off if only... Worst was when he tried to pull me away towards his car a week ago as I was walking in the same lot! Not that the management believed it, anyways. There's only so much that I can take. Suddenly, the door opened. As Dev made himself comfortable behind the wheel, I came out from the shadows and placed the cool stainless steel under his chin. Maybe it's a good thing that there are no CCTVs here. [Original author: He\_Who\_Must\_B\_Named](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/9ugr0h/why_is_it_so_dark_here/)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve sat steadfast by my master’s side. I have revered him for his many precious gifts of love and affection. The man has taken me to interesting places and showed me things which I wouldn’t otherwise know. For all of those wonderful traits and others, his benevolence is unquestioned. I always lie at his feet and patiently wait for him to arise. Then I lick his hand when he offers it, in my loyal tribute. In truth, my master always smells like a spring meadow. His familiar soapy scent has washed over my olfactory sense a hundred times as it passed through my nostrils. I’ve sniffed his fragrant skin until it’s permanently etched into my mind. There‘s no question of his identity. It’s definitely him lying motionless on the floor. Unfortunately that ‘spring meadow’ now seems like it has a ‘decaying elk carcass’ lying in it. I’m starting to get very hungry. I’m losing confidence he will feed me anytime soon. I’ve licked him a dozen times to wake him up but he just lies there. Why is he ignoring me? I’ve whimpered and barked with increasing fury but he still hasn’t moved at all. With my stomach rumbling furiously now, I don’t know how much longer I can wait; but what choice do I have? I’m starving and he just lies there like a selfish jerk! I want to paw and bite him in anger for making me suffer like this. The fact is, he doesn’t really smell like himself anymore. I’m starting to forget who he was. All I can think of is the room temperature meat lying on the floor. [Original author: OpinionatedIMO](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/hww4dq/my_master_always_smells_like_a_spring_meadow/)

Yeah, man, so I’m using this telescope I found at a garage sale- Wait. *Wait*. Holy *shit*. Did the Eye of Jupiter just fucking *blink?* [Original author: QuestionerOfTheTower](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/kz86kj/the_worlds_shortest_cosmic_horror_story/)

I've always loved this place. I've lived here for a few months now, I guess, pretty much all by myself. No landlord ever shows up. No new tenants. Just an empty, cheap, apartment building, a little run down, but perfect for me. And my life's work. The walls are thin here, so the isolation is welcome. No nosy neighbors to hear when things get a bit noisy, which they sometimes do, if a gag isn't tight enough, or someone manages to slip a restraint, and go thumping around, trying to get out. I don't blame them for wanting to escape, but they all have done wrong, and need to be punished. That's what I do. I capture the wanton, the greedy, the vain--sinners all--and bring them here, and give them their just punishment. And if they don't survive? Well, no great loss. The world is better off without them. They wait, tidily bound and bagged, in the empty apartment next door, till I have a chance to drag them away. It's very gratifying work, improving the world, and thin walls or no, I've never had a bit of trouble. No-one is close enough to hear or see anything suspicious. Just the last few days, though, I've been hearing some odd sounds myself, coming from over there. Muffled voices, whispers. Thuds. I've gone and checked the whole place, but find nothing. I *know* I've been careful to cover my tracks. No-one could've found me out. I *know* my "storage space" is empty; I dragged the last two girls out last week and buried them. And I refuse to believe in vengeful ghosts, but those whispers--they sound like....scheming. They sound sly. Now it's evening again--I don't have electricity here, and my candles are making odd shadows, and the thumps and whispers are starting up again. Scraping sounds, too. And a knowing little *taptap* on the wall, by my kitchen table. Fear is such a foreign feeling to me, but it comes creeping in from the corners of my room, and I wonder if I really did bury those girls, all of them, or if they are still over there, waiting for me, and wanting revenge. I've never been afraid before. I am *not* losing my mind. *taptaptap* The walls are *so* thin here... [Original author: Queenofscots](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/23i8si/the_walls_are_so_thin_here/)

The children were playing tag nearby. I saw one girl trip, fall one hand on the ground, catch her balance and run on. As she ran, she looked at her hand, looked around to find the adults, and turned; the group moved this way. She broke away, ran up and hit me on the forearm. "Tag", she said, "you're its". I reflexively corrected her, "you're it". Her smile vanished. "No." she said, and looked down at the mark on my arm. "You're its". [Original author: Pohlcat](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/25gxeq/tag_xpost_from_rshortscarystories/)

It started on my 16th birthday. It was my first birthday since mother died, and father and I sat at the kitchen table, picking at the dinner he’d made, and trying to pretend we didn’t miss her smile, and her laughter, her decorations and special chocolate cake. Birthdays were always mom’s favorite, and she never failed to miss one. She always made me feel so special. I wanted her back so badly. But that night, as I lay in bed, drifting off to sleep, a grim vision of my mother appeared to me. She sat in the chair across from my bed, a corpse with her head partially caved in from the car accident and her once beautiful smile transformed into a grimace now that rot had eaten away her soft lips. She watched me silently. I stared back, my body cold, and waited for her to fade away, sure that I was dreaming. But she remained that night, and every night since. Every night, when I turned out the lights to go to sleep, her eyes would glow dimly in the dark of my room. Sometimes I would wake in the night to find her face floating silently just inches above mine, the moldy smell of her hair ripe in my nostrils. It would seem that mother was watching over me as I slept, and while that thought should be comforting, there was nothing in my heart except terror. On those nights, I would silently roll over and bury my face in the pillow, choking back terrified gasps and struggling in vain to slow the beating of my heart. It always took me a long time to get back to sleep. I was relieved to finally go away to college, hoping she wouldn’t be able to follow me, and for a while things went back to normal. But on the night of my next birthday she returned once more, startling me into a scream when I felt her stroke my cheek in the dark. My roommate was oblivious both to her presence and the smell of an open grave that permeated my sheets and clothing, but I could feel and smell her everywhere. No one else seemed to notice. My grades suffered, and my hair began to fall out in clumps from the stress. Eventually I dropped out of school. I’m almost 34 now. It doesn’t matter where I go; she finds me every year on my birthday. I’ve learned to plan well in advance, and if I move within a day or two afterward, I can get a little peace for almost the whole year. I even managed to finish school – online, of course, since I can never stay one place for more than a year. Until my next birthday. Until today. Dear Christ, is it time again so soon? I quietly finish a solitary dinner, and watch some television, but my eyes keep flitting to the clock on the wall. 9:45. 10:08. 10:36: the time I was born. The moment she brought me into the world. The stench of old decay fills my nostrils, and I feel the spongy flesh of her hand fall softly on my shoulder. Hello, mother. [Original author: wetmosaic](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/2gx15g/happy_birthday/)

We're a small family of four: the two of us and two kids -- four and three years old. My daughter is the older one and for the last year has had nightmares off and on. Some mornings I'll wake up with her wedged firmly in between my wife and I, which is fine. We've all been there. I have no problem with it. What I do have a problem with is when she walks in twenty minutes after we've turned the lights off and the house is dark, just to stand next to the bed on my side and stare at me. I get the sensation that I'm not alone and wake up with a dark little silhouette right next to my face. Although at times it sends me into a slight panic or at least, leaves me with slight chills (not very manly or dad-like I'll admit), I'll break the silence. "Yes, sweetie?" She'll usually ask me if I'm awake and tell me she had bad dreams. I'll let her climb into bed with us at that point and that's the end of it. Well, last night, the same thing happened. I got the uneasy feeling I wasn't alone, my eyelids opened and there she was again -- a dark little silhouette mere inches from my face. "What is it, sweetie?" I asked. No response. Just silence. Then it clicked that both my kids were staying with my in-laws for the night. I no longer wonder why my daughter wants to sleep in our bed. I was able to reach up and flip on the light, but of course there was no one there. However, I looked down the hallway and into my daughter's room and the silhouette is standing in the door way and hasn't moved for the last hour. I think it's waiting for my daughter to come home. [Original author: tortuga\_de\_la\_muerte](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/3hxlkp/daddy_are_you_awake_xpost_from_rnosleep/)

My wife has always liked Pixy Stix. It was fine at first. She’d have one every once in a while. Then she’d need one after every meal. I thought she was going through a phase. That was when I started noticing that there were massive wads of crumpled up Pixy Stix wrappers buried in the trash where she thought I wouldn’t notice them. I started looking at the online grocery orders she was placing, and she wasn’t getting packs of Pixy Stix. No. She was getting *cases*. She was going through two packs a day, like a lifetime smoker. And, honestly, if there was a way to smoke Pixy Stix, I wouldn’t put it past her. It was getting out-of-control. I had to do something. Sitting in bed one night, I knew it was time to talk to her about it. “Honey, it seems like maybe you’re having a little bit of trouble with controlling how many Pixy Stix you eat.” “Oh?” she asked sweetly. “And why do you think that?” “Well,” I said, “I did the math, and you averaged over a hundred and fifty Pixy Stix a day last week.” She just laughed. And when she turned to look into my eyes, I knew something was wrong. My wife has beautiful hazel eyes. Rich browns with a hint of green. But when she looked at me, her eyes were the bright powdery blue of Maui Punch-flavored Pixy Stix. When she breathed out, a cloud of mist came out, like it was cold, but our room was a perfectly comfortable temperature. And the cloud of mist was the vibrant chemical purple of Grape-flavored Pixy Stix. “Maybe,” she growled, “you should mind your own business!” “I just worry about you, hun,” I said. “Worry about this,” she roared. She opened her mouth so wide, it seemed like her jaw had unhinged, and brightly colored powder began erupting from her mouth like a Pixy Stix volcano. It pumped out fast as a fire hose, blasting me off the bed. As the powder began to flow off our bed, I started to back away from the bed and towards the door. The air was full of a cloud of flavored dust, and it got into my nose and eyes, causing my face to burn. The flow wouldn’t stop, and as drifts of Pixy Stix dust as deep as my thighs began to form up in our bedroom, I bolted. Running through the living room, I kept on running to my daughter’s bedroom. Yanking the door open, I grabbed my daughter from her bed and began to run again. “What’s going on?” she mumbled, a mix of sleepy and afraid. “Just hang tight, kiddo. I’ll explain when we’re safe.” When I reached the living room again, huge waves of Pixy Stix powder were flowing out of the bedroom, creating a rainbow-colored tide. I waded through the powder, yanked open the front door, and with my daughter in my arms, ran out into the night. [WR](https://www.teddit.net/r/WendigoRoar/comments/knysiu/story_directory/) [Original author: WendigoRoar](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/l1odrr/my_wife_cant_stop_eating_pixy_stix_i_think_shes/)

That's what they told me. An incident. An accident. Like it was some freak of nature thing that no one could have predicted. Prevented. Just destined to be. An incident. That was the same thing they told my sister when Steve finally put me in the hospital. Shattered collarbone, busted lip. Black and blue from tip to tail. It was my fault he'd gotten out of it that time around. I'd taken off in his car and wrapped it around a tree about a block away from our house. No one believed me when I told them the injuries had happened first, all because of the five of glasses of wine he'd pressured me into drinking while he played nice for dinner.  It was when I turned down the sixth that he'd thrown his glass at my face. An incident. Just destined to be. My sister believed me, thankfully, even when the judges didn't and I was granted visitation rather than custody of our eight year old son. He'd always told me he had friends in high places. He'd always said that if I left that he'd destroy me. Say what you want about Steve, but he's not a liar. I existed in my sister's spare bedroom, while living for supervised visits with Bailey. It was impossible to explain to him what was happening, why mom couldn't come home. So I just held him, read to him, fought back the tears that burned my eyes every time I saw his round red cheeks and big blue eyes.  The nights were the worst. I couldn't sleep without seeing Steve's face, his fist, feeling every pinch and shove and blow I'd acquired over the years. During the day I job hunted, kept it together, but as soon as the sun set I started to shake as if something deep inside of me wanted out. One night I grabbed my tennis shoes, and every evening since I did my best to find relief in the worn dirt paths of the park down the street. To outrun the sneered barbs and insults buried deep within my psyche.  My family hated it. They said it was dangerous. There was a small creek in the park leading off into the rain drainage tunnels under the city. Some ten years back a girl, Emma Wilson, had been found dead inside them. Her parents moved away shortly after and the neighborhood never really recovered.  How could I explain to them that that small rush of danger was the closest I felt to home since my face had hit the steering wheel? Besides, I didn't have much of a say in it. My feet moved underneath me and I was helpless to follow. One second the scratchy fabric of my floral comforter was prickling at my arms, the next the wind was rushing past my ears. Trees and playground equipment darted by me in a blur and I didn't come to until I was huffing, hands on my knees, staring into the dry creek bed and the black abyss of a tunnel at its end. Time moved slowly during those long, lonely nights. Sometimes I lost minutes, sometimes hours. Each night drew me closer in. Once I pulled out of my daze while teetering over the jagged rocks, nearly ready to dive in face first to the stones below. It was a night like that when I got the call. My cell phone sprung to life in my pocket and consciousness crashed back into me. Mud squelched beneath my shoes, and the darkness was heavy, suffocating. I blinked and realized the tunnel was right in front of me. Somehow I'd ended up in the creek without realizing it.  Another ring sent me scrambling, raising the phone to my ear with trembling hands. I'm sorry, ma'am. There's been an incident. A new kind of numbness settled over me, into my bones. I was completely aware but frozen in place, gaze pulled into the tunnel as if it were a black hole as the police described what had happened to my son. My Bailey. Eventually the line went dead, the phone dropped from my hand. Eventually I was shaken out of my stupor by a different police officer, one called by a neighbor awoken by the sound of screams echoing off the stone like a ping pong ball. "I can't believe our boy is gone." That's what Steve said to me at the hospital, wrapping his heavy arms around me like a straight-jacket. Tears streaked his face, but his eyes were as empty as ever. I swore I could make out the hint of a smirk on his thin lips. He'd been running around the pool late at night, that's what they told me. What Steve told them. Snuck out and slipped in. He was gone before the ambulance made it on the scene. Steve was a hero, apparently. Performed CPR until they pried him off of our son's cold body. They didn't know that Bailey hated the pool. He was scared to death of the water ever since Steve pushed him in as a joke four years earlier. The only ones that knew that were me and Steve.  Before we left the hospital he leaned down close to my ear and said, "If only his mother had been there to watch over him." Already slow days moved even more sluggishly after that. Each movement was difficult, like crawling through molasses. I was trapped in a viscous grief that was determined to pull me under.  But at night, I still ran. I still ended up at the tunnel. Each day I drew closer to it, until I was at the mouth of the tunnel, and then several feet inside.  Just before the spell wore off and I found myself back inside my body, I swore I could hear the sound of Bailey laughing in the distance. "I'm worried about you, Meg," my sister told me over lunch one day. It was actually breakfast for me, considering I couldn't drag myself out of bed until mid-afternoon, but Rae dutifully whipped up some eggs and sausage anyway. God bless her. "Huh?" I mumbled between small bites, staring off out the window.  "Meg, look at me." I blinked, rolled my head slowly to the side. Just that small movement felt nearly impossible, an uphill battle. I could see my sisters face, but it felt so far away, bathed in a strange sepia hue like I was looking out from an amber cage. "You're streaking mud in every night. Staying out till dawn. I know you have so much on your mind right now. I can't imagine how difficult this must be. Maybe it's time you talk to someone." Her words sounded like static feedback in my ears. I struggled to pull the bits and pieces I caught into something coherent.  "I'll clean up the mud," I said, before dropping my fork and retreating back to my bedroom. I curled up in the rocking chair sitting just in front of the window, wincing against the bright daylight that rested outside of it. I could see the park in the distance, bright green and filled with life, children squealing in the play area. During the day it lost its pull on me. My eyelids grew heavy. Just before they slipped close I caught sight of Steve's red Ford parked on the street a couple houses down. My dreams were filled with Bailey’s laughter and a teenage girl standing at the mouth of a black hole, motioning me forward. By the time my eyes fluttered back open the sun had dipped low in the sky and Steve’s truck was gone. Had I imagined it there in the first place? It was possible. Everything these days seemed to exist somewhere on the cusp of fantasy and reality, sleeping and awake. I’d woken earlier than usual, of that much I was certain. I didn’t notice what had woken me until several seconds later when my ears caught my sister’s hushed whispers down the hall. “It’s time for a restraining order, Dad. This is the third time I’ve caught him.” I let her words fade back into oblivion and slipped on my running shoes. Her back was turned as I snuck past her open bedroom door, cellphone shoved against her ear. I crept down the stairs and out the door without a sound. As soon as my feet hit the cement, my body kicked into action, knowing exactly what to do. Exactly where to take me. The last remaining tendrils of light cast gloomy shadows off the houses and trees and kept me in my body as it pushed forward. I sucked in the hot summer air, grateful to feel sticky droplets of sweat dripping from my forehead.  Even with a vague and unwanted level of consciousness, I was still drawn toward the tunnel, helpless to the gravitational pull that it had over me. I stood on the jagged rocks overlooking it and closed my eyes, taking in the peaceful, distant sound of laughter. And then two strong hands planted themselves against my back, shoving me forward. My heels dug down into the stones below me, but with nothing to find purchase in I jerked over off the side of the wall. A shocked squeal escaped my lips, only to be cut short as I hit the muck-covered cement that lay below. I threw my arms out to cushion the fall, and groaned, low and distant as my elbow took the brunt of the impact and snapped like a twig on the forest floor. "Megan." Steve's voice floated in the air above me like a storm cloud, electric and ready to burst. "I think you and I need to have a conversation." My groaning turned to whimpers in my throat. That sentence, so familiar, was like a blow on it's own. Be quiet, it told me, be small. If you do what you're told, it will be over soon. If not… His loafers crunched against loose gravel as he started down the slope. They'll get dirty, the voice told me, and it's all your fault. I pulled my feet underneath of me and pushed up with all my might. That voice, it wasn't mine. I used to think it was, but through the space, through the grief, I knew better now. It was his. I turned toward the dark of the tunnel, my only way forward. The last remnants of daylight refused to puncture the darkness but for a split second I swore I could see something poking out. A stark white hand gesturing me onward. I stumbled forward, bracing my broken elbow against my body as I went. Steve splashed down in the rancid water behind me just as I slipped through the opening, swallowed whole. Every time I'd ended up in the tunnel beforehand I'd done so in a near dream-state, wandered out with the flashlight on my cell phone and a tingling fear deep in my gut. This time I was running in blind. But so was he. Blinded by the darkness and his own rage, I heard him thrashing behind me, cursing. "Megan, get your ass back here." But my body knew what to do. For real this time, not the false reaction he'd beaten into me. I ran. A blinding light tore through the tunnel from behind me. I ducked around an upcoming turn, sticking close to the wall, fingers brushing against it to keep myself steady. The walls were lined with layered, colorful graffiti.  R.I.P. It all ends here. Emma, can you hear me? Can you hear me now? I kept moving. Steve rushed at me, gaining ground. I had practice and familiarity on my side, but his legs were longer, his rage cleaner. Soon I was farther in the tunnel than I'd ever been before. Up ahead there was a sudden hole in the wall, a small hallway jutting off to the left. I took the turn so fast I bashed my right shoulder into the wall, making my elbow scream in protest. There was no time to slow down. Without the flashlight shining behind me I was blind again, shoving through the inky blackness like a linebacker until the floor gave out from underneath me and I found myself tumbling forward once more into a basin of stale water. I sucked in a breath involuntarily, quickly sputtering and coughing to expel the liquid from my lungs. Light burst into my peripheral as I staggered to my feet. I spun in place, searching for another hallway to duck into. All I saw were grimy stone walls and more graffiti. My eyes caught on a stick figure in a dress, two large X's in place of its eyes. Goodbye, Emma. A splash from behind pulled attention away from the wall. Steve was in the water with me, knee deep and livid. The shadows cast from his flashlight made his eyes seem darker, rabid, like two more little dark tunnels running through the sockets. How had I ever looked at this man and thought he was handsome? Thought he was kind? "I'm sick of this shit, Megan," he huffed, water rippling around his knees as he stepped forward. "You're coming home tonight. That's final." "You killed Bailey!" I sobbed, sloshing backward. "You killed him, Steve!" He scoffed. "I killed him? I killed him?! A boy needs his mother, Megan. You took that away from him." My head bobbed violently back and forth. "No, no…" I hated how small I sounded, how quickly he shook my foundation.  I took another step backward only for my calf to catch on something thick under the murky surface of the water. I began to tilt backward just as he rushed me, burying his hand in the collar of my shirt and yanking me forward.  "You think I wanted this?" he sneered. "You think I like what you make me do?" Whatever was behind my leg shifted, shuddered, rippled against me. The sensation sent a burst of bile rushing up my throat, before a slap across the face brought me back into the moment. The thing jerked back behind me. I started to tumble again. This time my husband followed the movement, letting me collapse to the ground. He fell with me, knees landing on either side of my body until he was straddling me in the water, fists still clenched against the side of my neck. "He needed you, Meg. I needed you. You selfish fucking *removed*." He shoved me down, under the thick dark water. I gasped in a breath just before I went under, and it was as if it brought a small bit of fight back into me. I trashed wildly, kicking, clawing, bucking like a bull.  He stayed firmly planted on top of me, his distorted shouting bubbling just above the surface. Pushing against him was like pushing against a brick wall, and so my hands flailed outward, searching through the muck for anything I could grab ahold of. When one landed in something solid I wrapped my hand around it and pulled with all my might. My chest began to burn, lungs screaming for air. Just when I was sure they were about to explode he released me, falling backward away from my body. I rushed to the surface, gasping desperately. He was gasping too, I realized, sprawled out on his ass in front of me. A dark, mottled figure with blond matted hair and red marks around its neck sat kneeling between us, back turned to me. It, she, was naked, skin bloated and greying, raising one arm in Steve's direction.  The other was still gripped tightly in my hand. I dropped her arm, a deep tremor rumbling through my shoulders. Steve's black-hole eyes were wide as baseballs, fixed on her. There were four long gashes in his cheek, leaking crimson blood into the sludge below. The figure rose to it's feet.  It was just a girl, I realized, thirteen at the oldest. Even with her back turned a wave of recognition washed through me. That blonde hair, those angry ligature marks. I'd seen her face countless times before, staring out from the missing person posters scattered around my sister's neighborhood even long after they'd discovered the body. Emma. I stood as well. All the fear and adrenaline that'd been rushing through me cooled to a distant whisper through my veins. I heard Bailey's laugher echoing off the rounded walls, and I smiled. She'd been trying to bring me here all along. We both stepped forward, Steve scrambling back. I wrapped my hand around hers, squeezing slightly, smiling down at her. Her face was only a shadow of the pretty girl she'd once been, her lips cracked and peeling, busted teeth poking out from behind them. But looking at her I couldn't help but think of my Bailey the first time I held him. "Emma," I said softly. "I'm here now." She let my hand fall, jerking forward in a burst of speed. I barely saw her move until she was on him, thin boney figures wrapping around his neck, broken teeth sinking into his cheek bones. His screams were as sweet as children's laughter, until she dunked him under and those screams became garbled white noise. I knelt down beside the two of them, she pulled him up to look at me. It was like staring into my own eyes for so many years, scared and helpless and oh so confused. It made me smile. I reached out to brush a hand along his bloody cheek, and then leaned in close. "Fuck you, Steve." I jerked my hand back and let it crash back into him, reveling in the crunch I heard as his teeth broke loose and cut his lips. And then I stood and let his whimpers fade into the distance as I made my way back out of the tunnel.  The sun had fully set by the time I made it out. A cool, lovely breeze blew through the trees, rustling my damp hair. Even with my clothes sticking against my skin, I felt lighter than ever before. Free.  I couldn't wait to come back the next day to thank Emma for everything she'd done for me. My sister was waiting at the dining room table when I made my way back into the house. She gasped, taking in the blood and dirt soaking my clothes. "Oh my god, Meg," she said, jumping to her feet. "What happened?" I smiled. "There's been an incident." [Original author: AM\_Hathazard](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/o57j3j/theres_been_an_incident/)

My sister Anna and I were thick as thieves, though she was twelve years older. She was a rebel, in and out of trouble. I wore her hand-me-downs and aspired to be her, someday. When I was twelve, my parents told me Anna's secret. She was my mother, not my sister, and they'd raised me because she'd had me way too young. It explained some of her difficulties, they said, some of her reckless behavior. It was time I knew the truth. "Who's my father?" I asked, but they didn't know. They said she spoke about a demon who came to her room and impregnated her. They assumed she was trying to protect someone, some shitty teenage boyfriend. That night, I gave Anna a hug and told her I knew, that it was okay, that I loved her. "I can't believe we aren't sisters," I said. "It's so weird that you aren't my sister." Anna cried a little, and whispered, "We are sisters." "No," I told her. "They told me the truth. They told me you had me when you were my age. It's okay. I love you. I forgive you." "No," she repeated, and held me tighter. "We are sisters, too." My heart leapt to my throat, knowing Anna had been my age, knowing a demon lay sleeping down the hall. [Original author: zcharlie3](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/3u9inn/my_sister/)

Are you reading this on your phone? Do you have the light turned down as to not disturb the person sleeping next to you? Do you bring the phone closer and closer to your face as your vision blurs when you get sleepier and sleepier? Are you laying on your side? Is the charger plugged in? If you answered any of these questions with "no"; then it’s not you I’m watching. [Original author: EdgarAllan\_Poet](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/bs2ywn/micro_fiction_are_you_reading_this_on_your_phone/)

Times were tough. It was no secret I was miserable. A cloud of gloom followed me everywhere, including my job. A relationship breakup like mine would put anyone to the test and frankly, I was failing it. Still, I had bills to pay and it wasn’t going to help if I gave up and stopped getting out of bed. Each day I’d drag myself to the office and go through the motions like a zombie. I know my performance and attitude suffered but I didn’t care at the time. Much of the occupational grief and aggravation of the nine-to-five grind involved being employed so a person could afford nice things and have a fulfilling relationship with a significant other. Once the relative rewards of that dynamic went out the window, so did my motivation to work. I guess it’s a testament to my ability to do my job well, that I wasn’t fired outright after I went off on a difficult client. Behavior like that was a threat to the corporate ‘bottom line’. Obviously they didn’t want that. Apparently they didn’t want to let me go either. Instead, management tried a very unorthodox tactic which I only found out about much later. They actually hired a temp to ‘romance’ me, and boost my ego. It’s called ‘the girlfriend experience’ because it is supposed to feel ‘real’. It’s far more than paying a person to be intimate with me. That stipulation wasn’t even in the contract. Legally it couldn’t be. They just paid her to pretend to be infatuated and smitten. How she managed to achieve that artificial flattery was her business. I must say, it totally caught me off guard. In all fairness, I might’ve recognized the ‘snow job’ a mile away if I wasn’t deeply sad and emotionally vulnerable. Instead I ate up the attention with a spoon. They were smart enough to not hire a supermodel. They found a lady that was probably in the top register of who I might’ve had a chance with in real life, if I tried really hard to woo her. Not that I had to, mind you. She was the definition of a ringer. I gotta say, it takes a certain skill set to seduce a person with that level of believable sincerity. I totally fell for it. They brought her in to the office and assigned her to assist me on a big account. At first, it pissed me off. I didn’t care that she was attractive and working extremely closely with me. I resented the idea of having to hold anyone’s proverbial hand in training her to be actually helpful. To my relief, she was a quick study and eager to learn. Knowing what I know now, I still marvel at the theatrics and lengths the company went through to insert this woman into my life. It is kind of flattering to know they orchestrated the whole thing. I know it was only about the money I normally brought in, but it makes me feel damn important. ‘Missy’ was coy at first. Respectful and aloof even. She maintaining a polite distance while giving off a slight smitten vibe or schoolgirl crush. Like a big knucklehead, I swallowed the performance hook, line, and sinker. The truth is, I wanted to believe. Honestly, who in their right mind would’ve suspected such an elaborate hoax for my behalf? it wasn’t long before we were sneaking off after hours to see each other socially. The whole time, I was scared to death they would send her back to the temp agency. Inter office romance is strictly forbidden by HR so we kept the relationship a secret as long as we could. Once we had moved past a certain point, I didn’t care if anyone found out. I was finally happy again. By all appearances, she was too. I eventually asked her to marry me, and she accepted. Of course I didn’t know it was originally an arranged fling, so I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was about to lead to an arranged marriage. The thing is, at what point does the facade cease to be worth playing along with for the corporate payout? Even for a person pretending to be interested in me, at some point, you’d think she would call the whole thing off, right? Either that or invent an excuse to break things off and still maintain the original deception. Here was an actress who entered into a contract to perform as ‘my girlfriend’ and then (for whatever reason) kept up the pretense long enough to marry me. At that point I still didn’t know the truth. I would have expected my employers to come clean then but it had went too far. It’s one thing to pay for a brief little office ‘flirtation’, it’s quite another to keep silent while their gullible employee committed to a legally binding contract. I was blissfully happy and absolutely ignorant to the disturbing truth. She was everything (I thought) I ever wanted. Believe it or not, she confessed the whole organized charade on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary! I was gobsmacked. I thought it was part of some prank or practical joke but she was dead serious. My whole world crumbled. Our three children were grown up and already out of the house. I’d made partner with the firm and yet, I found out the last 25 years of my life were based on some bizarre farcical performance script. Missy explained that while she had entered into the contract just trying to be a professional actress, she soon developed sincere feelings for me. On one hand, after admitting it started as an elaborate seduction hoax, it was hard to believe anything she said. On the other however, I’d had a quarter century of marital happiness and fantastic kids. Was she finally telling the truth, or was she still acting as a consummate professional actress dedicated to the role? I thought long and hard about it as she slept peacefully beside me. I loved her and I honestly believe she loves me. Much of life is pretending until it becomes true. In the end, does the duration of the facade matter as long as both parties are committed to it? [Original author: OpinionatedIMO](https://www.teddit.net/r/DarkTales/comments/diorjj/the_girlfriend_experience/)