Speaker 1: Story one. I'm justin. I live in Stockton, California, with
my dad. It's just the two of us in a
two story house on a quiet street that always feels
like it's holding its breath. This happened a year ago,
one incident. One minute, everything made sense, the next I
don't know anymore. It was around twelve thirty am and
I was headed downstairs to grab something sweet before going
to bed. The hallway light was off and the staircase
creaked like it always does when you try to move quiet.
Speaker 2: The house was still.
Speaker 1: I thought my dad had passed out on the couch
like usual after coming home from the late shift. But
when I hit the bottom step, I saw him standing
near the entertainment center, looking kind of irritated. Hey, he said,
without looking up, you seen the remote. I blinked. I
thought you were asleep. He shook his head. Nah, got
up to watch something, and it's gone. I've been looking
for it for like half an hour. I even checked
the kitchen and under the rug. It's not here. That
wasn't strange in itself. The remote disappears all the time.
But what caught me off guard was what he said next.
Can you go get the one from your room, the
universal one just for tonight. I nodded and went to
head upstairs, But then I paused. I felt guilty watching
him move the couch cushions like he was on the
verge of losing it, so I said, hold on, let
me help look a bit more before I go grab mine.
We turned the place inside out, sofa cushions off, pulled
out the TV stand, shook out blankets, even checked the
bathroom for no good reason. We tore that living room
apart nothing whatever, he muttered. Finally, just get yours. So
I grabbed my remote for my nightstand, same place it
always is, came back downstairs, handed it to him and
said this will do right. He nodded, thanks and dropped
onto the couch with that heavy sigh he always makes
after work. I went back upstairs, got in bed, and
set my foe alarm. I remember this part clearly. I
put my remote back on the nightstand right there. I
was just about to plug in my phone when I
heard my dad call me again. Justin, he said from downstairs,
voice normal, not urgent. I groaned, got out of bed
and walked to the top of the stairs. What I
shouted down you left your remote down here, he said.
Speaker 2: I froze.
Speaker 1: No I didn't, I said, I brought it back up.
I'm looking at it. Then, what's this, he asked. I
heard the couch creak and then a beat of silence.
I came down. He was sitting there staring at something
on the cushion next to him. It was my remote,
the exact one, same scratches on the battery cover, same
little white sticker on the back that says Jay. I
stared at it like it might vanish. I thought you
said you brought it upstairs, he said slowly.
Speaker 2: I did.
Speaker 1: I said, I put it on my nightstand. He laughed once,
a short, confused sound, and handed it to me. I
turned it over. It was mine, not just a similar one,
my remote. I walked back upstairs, and there it was,
still sitting on my nightstand. I picked it up. Now
I had two identical remotes in my hands. I stood
there for what had to be a full minute, just
holding them both, blinking like that would explain it. I
went back down. He was still sitting there, staring at
the screen. I held them up. Okay, look, He turned
and looked at me, then looked at my hands. What
the hell he said, I don't know. I told him,
I swear to God, I only have one of these,
always have. I grabbed it, brought it to you, came
back upstairs, put it down, and now there's one up
there and one down here.
Speaker 2: He stood up.
Speaker 1: You're messing with me, he said, I'm not. I snapped.
Are you messing with me? He didn't answer. We both
walked upstairs. I handed him one of them. He followed
me into my room. We looked at the one on
the night stand again, still there. So now we had three, three,
three remotes, all identical, all physically there. He sat down
on my bed. Okay, okay, this is I don't get it.
Are you pranking me? I asked again. This time's sharper,
like some kind of joke. He looked at me and
he was pale. My dad doesn't get rattled easily, but
he wasn't playing. I know what his jokes look like.
This wasn't it. I held both remotes out and told
him look, try both, see which one works.
Speaker 2: He did.
Speaker 1: They both worked, both controlled the TV downstairs. I brought
the third one down. That one worked. Two three identical
universal remotes, all fully functional, all physically real, all here,
I tried to make sense of it, like maybe we
had another backup one we forgot about.
Speaker 2: But I know we didn't. We only he.
Speaker 1: Ever had one universal remote, and I kept it in
my room. He'd always borrow it when the living room
one disappeared. That's what started this whole thing. I stood
there in the middle of the living room holding one remote,
my dad holding another, the third one sitting on the
coffee table between us. You think maybe we just missed
one earlier, I asked, voice tight, No, he said, without
looking up.
Speaker 2: We checked everything. He was right.
Speaker 1: We had flipped that room upside down. The couch cushions
were still tossed on the floor. There was no remote
there before that third one appeared out of nowhere. And
the worst part, the next morning, there were only two.
The one on the coffee table was gone. Dad said
he didn't touch it. I didn't touch it, but it vanished.
I still have mine. He still has his, but I
don't use it much anymore. Just seeing it makes me
uneasy because for one brief moment, the rules of reality
didn't add up. Something doubled, something showed up where it
shouldn't have, and then disappeared again. There's no reasonable explanation.
We both saw it. We both held them. Three real
solid working remotes, then two story two. You ever hear
your dad say something so random and off the wall,
it sticks with you for life. When I was nine,
mine told me, if you're going to sleep outside, don't
ever sleep with your mouth open.
Speaker 2: Spiders will crawl in.
Speaker 1: That was the one rule he had when I started
dragging blankets out onto our trampoline in the backyard. Didn't
care about mountain lions, didn't care about frostbite, just spiders.
I live in a small town outside Durango, Colorado, forests mountains.
Speaker 2: The whole postcard scene.
Speaker 1: Our house backs up to about two hundred yards of
pine before the land starts to rise into rocky slopes.
I was always an outdoor kid. I hated walls, hated
the feeling of air conditioning. Summers, I'd sleep out back
almost every night, flat on my back, staring at the
stars from the middle of our trampoline. My parents gave
up trying to drag me back in after the first
few weeks. That's why I remember the night so clearly,
not because anything strange led up to it. It was
the opposite. Everything was normal, No bad dream, no creepy noise.
I wasn't even cold. I just remember waking up with
this awful pressure on my neck. Not the kind you
get from rolling over onto your pillow weird. This was
pulling me up, not down. My first instinct was that
I'd wrapped myself up in a blanket and twisted it
around my throat. I jerked forward, choking a little, and
my arms went up on instinct. That's when I felt rope,
actual rope, rough, dry hemp, frayed at the ends. And
then this is the part that makes my stomach flip
every time I think about it.
Speaker 2: I felt a knot a noose.
Speaker 1: I shot upright air rushed in, but it burned going down,
started clawing at it, and when I finally got it off,
I fell sideways off the trampoline and hit the grass hard.
I remember spitting in the dirt and trying not to
throw up. My eyes were watering, I could barely breathe.
The rope was still hanging from my neck. It was short,
less than a foot from the loop to the end,
the kind of length you'd get if someone had cut it,
not frayed by age, not snapped, clean cut. I stared
at it, lying in the grass, dumb as a rock.
It didn't make sense. I hadn't tied anything like that.
We didn't have ropes like that around the house. This
thing looked like it came out of a barn from
eighteen oh two. I ran back inside carrying it. I
don't remember what time. It was, probably just before sunrise.
My dad was already up making coffee. I stood in
the doorway of the kitchen and dropped the rope on
the tile. He stared at it, then looked at me,
Where the hell do you get that? I woke up
with it around my neck like I was kidding. Then
he saw the burn. My neck was red, not bruised,
not gashed, but raw and irritated all the way around,
like I'd been yanked up by it like a leash.
His face changed fast. He asked me again, quieter this time,
where'd you get that? I don't know. I started crying.
I didn't even feel scared at first. I felt confused
and embarrassed and cold, like I'd done something wrong and
didn't know what. He touched the rope, turned it over,
then handed it back like it was diseased. We don't
have this kind of rope, He said, I haven't seen
this kind of weave in thirty years. He had that
look like when a parent wants to fix something but
knows they can't. He didn't ask if I made it.
He didn't even accuse me of lying. That said more
than anything. I ended up lying on the couch for
the rest of the day. He didn't make me go
to school. I kept the rope with me, just staring
at it, turning it over and over, trying to see
a trick in the knot or some tag that would
tell me it was from a store, something manufactured. But
it wasn't. This was hand twisted. The noose was old school,
perfect practiced, meant for one purpose. That night, I asked
him if anyone had ever died back in those woods
behind our house. He didn't answer it first, then he said,
I don't know. I don't ask questions like that. I
never slept on the trampoline again. We left it out
there for years, but I wouldn't even step on it. Eventually,
the snow rusted out the springs and we cut it
up for scrap. I kept the rope, though for years
it sat in a shoe box under my bed. I
think part of me hoped I'd figure it out, like
it was some kind of prank I didn't understand yet.
But it never unraveled, never changed. It stayed dry and
stiff and smelled like dirt in old wood, like a
barnbeam or a coffin. I finally threw it into a
fire pit during a camping trip with friends when I
was sixteen. I didn't tell them what it was. I
just watched it burn and felt sick until the last
ember died. Even now, I don't have an explanation. No
one could have gotten back there without making noise. Our
dogs would have heard. There was no ladder, no sign
anyone had been near the trampoline, no tracks. The gate
was locked, and I checked every rope in our garage
and shed nothing matched.
Speaker 2: The only thing I can think, if.
Speaker 1: I let my brain go there, is that I woke
up after it happened, like maybe whatever or whoever put
that noose around my neck had already done what they
meant to do, but something stopped it, or someone or
maybe I did die. Maybe I was dead for a
few seconds. Maybe that short rope meant someone had cut
me down just in time. I don't know, and I'm
not sure I want to Story three. I'm not the
type to believe in signs or spirits or anything you
can't see, touch or prove. I was raised in Anaheim, California,
in a tiny two story house built in the eighties
with paper thin walls and carpet that never quite stopped
smelling like dog. Nothing special about the house, just like
there was nothing special about us. My brother Jason was
the only one who ever seemed like he might get
out and do something different. He was eighteen, healthy, sharp,
bit of a screw up sometimes, but nothing serious. Then
one morning he just didn't wake up. It was two
days before his high school graduation. The coroner's van came
and went. They didn't say much. The cops showed up
because of his age. They kept asking about pills, substances,
things like that my mom was a wreck. My sister
and I had been at a friend's house for the
weekend and we got the call in the middle of
a movie. When we got back home, the place was
swarming with police. They tore through his room for hours
looking for his phone. They said they wanted to check
texts calls, see who he'd been talking to, maybe someone
had sold him something, maybe he'd said something before it happened,
but the phone was gone completely. They flipped the mattress,
empty drawers, even pulled the vent cover off the wall
like they thought he'd hidden it.
Speaker 2: Nothing.
Speaker 1: Eventually they gave up, said they'd check again later. That
night was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that
doesn't feel peaceful, it just makes your ears ring. I
slept on the couch. My sister was upstairs in our
shared room. My mom hadn't gone up there, since she
wouldn't even go near the steps. She just sat at
the kitchen table in the same clothes, nursing a mug
of cold tea and staring out the sliding glass door
like something might show up out there. Three days passed,
the grief wasn't fading, it was just turning heavy and strange,
like the air itself had changed. Then that night, God,
I still don't.
Speaker 2: Know what made her do it. It was around three am.
Speaker 1: I was half asleep on the couch with the TV
on mute when I heard the stairs creak. I sat up, startled,
and saw my mom going up slowly, barefoot, her hand
trailing the wall like she was half blind. She didn't
look at me, just move like she wasn't fully there.
I followed her without saying anything. She reached the landing,
paused outside our room and said, why is the light on?
I frowned. It shouldn't have been. She pushed the door
open and just stood there. I stepped in beside her.
There at the end of my sister's bed was one
of Jason's pillows, folded over it like something someone had
placed neatly. Was his phone and his charger, the cord
wrapped the way he always did it tight and tucked in.
It was just sitting there. Is this some kind of
sick joke? My mom asked, barely above a whisper. She
reached for the phone like she didn't want to touch it,
like she expected it to vanish. But she picked it up,
held it, flipped it around. It was off. He never
turned it off, I said, My voice cracked never. I
turned and looked at my sister's face. She was dead asleep,
mouth open, sprawled sideways like she always slept. She hadn't
put it there, she couldn't have. We were at Jenna's
house when the call came. The police were already in
the house by the time we got back. No one
had been allowed upstairs alone. I turned the pillow over.
It was his navy blue with tiny red checkers. It
matched his sheets, not the bright pink comforter it was
sitting on. My Mom sat on the edge of the bed,
phone in her lap, staring at nothing. Maybe maybe the
cops missed it, I said, even though I didn't believe it.
Maybe it got kicked into the hall. She didn't respond.
Her hand reached out and touched the pillow like she
was checking to see if it was warm. And then
the phone buzzed. It vibrated once, screens still black, no light,
no display, just the buzz, like a dying breath. I
swear to God, we both jumped. My mom stood up
so fast the pillow slid to the floor. The charger
uncoiled and thudded next to it. I picked up the phone,
pressed the power button. Nothing. I tried again and again.
It was off, fully dead, but it had just buzzed.
I know it did. And this is the part I
can't explain, the one thing that has kept me up
for the last two years. The light in the hallway,
the one right outside the door. It flickered right as
I stepped into the hall to get away from the silence.
Just once pop, like it blew out, and then Jason's door,
his room directly across from ours, slowly, slowly creaked open,
just a few inches we had left it shut. I'm
going downstairs, my mom said, suddenly, clutching her arms like
she was freezing.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: I didn't argue. We never found out how the phone
got there. None of the cops had it. They asked
about it when we returned it later said they checked everywhere,
asked if we'd had it all along. They were sure
it hadn't been the room. I asked my sister once
weeks later. She swore up and down she hadn't touched anything.
But she said something that still gives me chills. She said,
I remember having a dream that night. I was asleep
and Jason came in the room, but he didn't look
at me. He walked to the end of the bed
and was just holding his pillow. Then he tucked me in.
She laughed like it was silly. He said, don't lose
this and put something under the pillow. She said it
like it was comforting. I've never told her we found
the phone exactly where she said he put it. Sometimes
I wonder if whatever brought it back didn't want to
scare us, just wanted us to know something that he
wasn't gone all the way, or maybe that we missed
something important. But that phone had been gone. It was
nowhere in that house until it wasn't, and whatever moved it,
whatever opened that door. I don't go upstairs at night anymore.
Story four. I live in Tacoma, WA, Washington, and at
the time this happened, I was renting a studio above
a Vietnamese bakery on thirty eighth. It smelled like sweet
dough and old grease every morning, which I didn't mind.
I was working a temp job at a mid sized
logistics company's regional office. You wouldn't know the name unless
you've shipped refrigerated pharmaceuticals. My job was glorified data entry,
mostly filing scanned contracts and updating spreadsheets. No one checked
unless something went wrong. Eight to five, badge in, badge out.
I liked the rhythm. No one really talked to me,
except for one woman at corporate, Melanie. Melanie worked out
of the East Coast hub. I'd never seen her, never
even heard her voice.
Speaker 2: We just I.
Speaker 1: Amed and emailed constantly. She had a biting sense of
humor and knew the HRIS system better than anyone. We
were constantly fixing garbage data together and joking around to
stay sane. She started calling me her West Coast clone,
and I called her the voice of Compliance. One morning, Tuesday,
late March, I badge in at seven forty two am.
I remember, because the wind nearly tore my id off
its clip. Right after I logged in, a company wide
alert hit everyone's inboxes. A major piece of federal labor
law had just passed overnight, and we had twenty four
hours to submit compliance proof not prepare.
Speaker 2: Submit.
Speaker 1: That meant immediate training modules, rewriting hiring policy, auditing the
employee database for specific criteria, and documenting it all. My
supervisor was out that morning for a medical appointment, and
I knew she'd be blindsided when she got back. So
I did what made sense. I reached out to Melanie.
I I amed her first, guess who gets to panic
on behalf of HR today. A few seconds later, she
popped up, already read the memo call me, we need
to move now. I'd never heard her voice before. It
was calm, a little gravelly, She talked fast but never stumbled.
For the next five hours, we were locked in me
and my tiny office, her on speaker, both of us
drafting and coordinating like maniacs.
Speaker 2: We pulled in two IT guys and someone from legal.
On our end.
Speaker 1: I was typing, tracking tasks, building an audit report, writing
a policy draft, and formatting the new employee training module
all at once. We communicated through IM the whole time,
like a side channel where we could toss snippets and
jokes and short links. She'd write things like good phrasing
or ad to section three while I hammered out paragraphs.
It was one of the most productive sessions I'd ever
had in my life. At around twelve to fifty PM,
I heard the distinctive clack of my supervisor's heels in
the hallway. She walked fast, and when she opened my door,
she looked genuinely freaked out.
Speaker 2: Did you see the.
Speaker 1: Memo about the legislative change, she asked, eyes wide. I
smiled and pointed to my screen. Already taken care of.
We drafted everything. Just need your final approval before we
launched the module and send the documentation package. It's all
in the email I sent around noon. She blinked, what email?
I opened my Outlook, nothing in sent. Confused, I looked
in drafts nothing. I checked the im chat with Melanie
to grab the backup links. The entire conversation was gone,
not archived.
Speaker 2: Gone.
Speaker 1: Worse, my Outlook calendar showed I hadn't attended any meetings
that day. My activity log was empty after seven forty
two am. I hadn't opened the HRIS system, hadn't pulled
any employee data, hadn't sent a single file.
Speaker 2: It looked like I just.
Speaker 1: Logged in and then done absolutely nothing. I started to sweat. No, no,
that's not right. I've been working all morning. We had
five people in here. I was on the phone with
Melanie for hours. We even printed. I reached for the
stack of papers I'd printed and organized during the call.
They weren't there, like they never existed. She looked at
me like I was either lying or about to cry,
maybe both. I couldn't even find you earlier, she said,
I came by like six times before lunch and your
door was closed, lights off. What are you talking about.
I've been in here all morning. You didn't knock. She
didn't argue, just slowly backed out. Saying, okay, just forward
me whatever you've got. I scrambled, I rewrote what I
could from memory, less coherent, more rushed, and I ce
seed Melanie again with an apology in the body, sorry
about the weirdness earlier. Hope the dental appointment wasn't too bad.
That's when I got her reply, a single sentence. I
was out all day, dude, Dennis ran late, no laptop,
didn't talk to anyone, But thanks for naming me on
the draft.
Speaker 2: I owe you. I stared at the screen for a
long time. My heart did that thing.
Speaker 1: Where it feels like it drops three floors and then
starts running in the wrong direction. I looked at my
phone log no outgoing calls, nothing to her number, no
conference software logs either, And yet I could still remember
the rasp in her voice, the way she laughed when
I misspelled mandatory as mandraatory, the exact wording of her
suggested paragraph about termination procedures. I remembered typing fast, furious,
back and forth, laughing, solving, working, I remembered printing it
all out. I remembered the paper cuts. But according to
every system we had, I had been sitting alone in
a dark office doing nothing for five hours, no ims,
no emails, no phone calls, just logged in. I didn't
sleep that night. I just lay in bed thinking where
the hell did those five hours go? Who did I
talk to? Who typed with me? Who knew the new
policy language before it even existed? And most disturbing of all,
why did that version of the day feel more real
than the one I was left with. I never told
Melanie what really happened? What could I say? Hey, I
had a shared hallucination of us fixing everything while you
were under anesthesia. I still see the folder I labeled
Emergency Compliance Update in the share drive. It's empty, created
at seven forty three am and untouched since I didn't
make it, but somehow I remember making it.
Speaker 2: Story five.
Speaker 1: I live in Bakersfield, California, about ten minutes from my
best friend Gabe's house. This happened two years ago, and
I still haven't made sense of it. I've told maybe
three people. The ones who believe me don't talk about
it anymore. It was a Friday night, early October. Gabe
had just gotten the new FIFA and invited me to
crash at his place. No school the next day, so
we figured we'd stay up late. I got there around
six pm. We ate, junk, laughed, and played for hours.
Around nine to fifteen, I started feeling off, not sick exactly,
but dizzy, foggy, like my ears were stuffed with cotton
and the world was two steps behind me. Dude, you good,
Gabe asked, when I stood up to pee and almost
lost my balance.
Speaker 2: Yeah.
Speaker 1: Just tired, I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. Might head home
and just sleep in my own bed. He looked surprised.
I thought you were crashing here. Let's do tomorrow night instead,
I said. He walked me to the door, gave me
crap for being an old man, and I left. It
was cold for October, quiet too. I remember thinking it
felt more like midnight than nine pin forty. No traffic,
no wind, just that eerie, heavy silence that makes you
hyper aware of your own breathing. The walk home is
usually uneventful. Two turns and I'm on my street. I
remember passing the same houses, the same dim porch lights.
I checked my phone once. It was nine forty six
pm and I was walking up my driveway. I didn't
register anything weird. At first. I was still foggy, like
I had a low grade fever. But the porch light
was on, which was weird because we never left it
on unless someone was coming late. And the front door
was wide open. I froze, mom, I called out, stepping inside.
Speaker 2: The living room. Lights were on.
Speaker 1: My mom rushed toward me from the hallway, face pale,
eyes wide, and she just grabbed me, like full body,
grabbed me and started sobbing into my shoulder. Where were you,
she gasped. We thought, Oh my god, what are you
talking about? I asked, confused, I told you I was
at Gabes. She pulled back and stared at me like
I'd just spoken another language. That was yesterday, She said, no,
it wasn't. I laughed nervously. I just left, like ten
minutes ago. She blinked. It's Sunday night. I stood there.
My legs felt wrong. My heart was pounding, but slow,
like underwater thuds. No, it's Friday, I said. My mom
turned to the kitchen clock. Ten oh one pm. I
pulled my phone out of my pocket. Sunday, ten oh
one pm. I couldn't move. My body was there, but
something deeper in me broke. You were missing, she whispered.
We called the police. Gabe's parents said, you left Friday
night and didn't come back. We thought she couldn't finish.
I stumbled backward and collapsed on the couch. My backpack
was still slung over one shoulder. My socks were damp,
like I had just walked through the cold. My phone
still had seventy three percent battery, just like when I
left Gabes. Check the security camera, I mumbled, we have
a motion camera facing the driveway.
Speaker 2: She pulled it up on her phone and scrolled.
Speaker 1: Her hands were shaking there, She said, Finally, Friday, nine
thirty eight pm, you leaving. She scrolled nothing, no clips,
nothing triggered the camera for the next two days. Then Sunday,
nine fifty eight pm, me walking up the driveway, Where
were you? She asked again, not angry, terrified. I don't know,
I said, and I meant it. We went to the
er that night. They ran everything, talk, screens, CT scan,
blood work, psychoval nothing, no signs of drugs, no trauma,
no sleep deprivation, no seizures, no explanation. I saw two
neurologists after that. One of them actually asked if I
was pranking him. The other one asked if I had
any history of dissociation or sleepwalking number nothing. I didn't
sleep the first two nights after it happened. I just
lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, listening
for something, anything. There was nothing. But here's what haunts me.
I didn't pass out. I didn't black out. There was
no gap. One second I was walking home from Gabes
on a Friday night, and the next I was home
on Sunday night.
Speaker 2: It was seamless.
Speaker 1: It was like someone clipped out twenty four hours of
my life and pasted the ends back together. But my body,
my body must have been somewhere right. I keep thinking
about my shoes. They weren't muddy or torn, just cold
and a little damp, like I'd walked on dewy grass.
So where the hell was I walking? For two days?
I asked Gabe if he saw me leave. He said yeah.
I shut the gate behind me and walked down the street.
But I never walked into my house. That was the
part that chilled me the most. How quiet that camera
feed was, like I had blinked out of existence. I
still wonder what would have happened if I looked back
at the street before I opened the door. Sunday night,
if I had turned around and seen something Story six.
I wasn't even supposed to be home that night. My
sister had flown in from Denver for Christmas, and since
her kids needed the warmer guest room downstairs, I offered
to take the couch. Our old bedrooms upstairs were two
cold in winter, and we always just sealed them off
once it dropped below freezing. That second floor hadn't seen
anyone in weeks. It was around one thirty AM, and
I couldn't sleep. Everyone was knocked out, my parents in
their room down the hall, my sister and her kids
across from them. I had the living room to myself,
just me and my phone, flipping through a webcomic with
the TV on mute for light. That's when I heard it.
At first, I thought it was the heater kicking on,
that dull, rattling groan that old pipes make. But then
it changed sharp thuds, like someone sprinting across the floor
above me. Then a second set of steps, faster, like
they were being chased back and forth room to room.
I froze. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't one creek or
some settling wood. These were hard, fast footfalls, small light feet.
They had that distinct weight of children, the way kids
run with everything they've got. I recognized the pattern. It
was the zach sound me and my sister used to
make when we chase each other around up there after school.
Carpeted floor, but still loud through the ceiling. I sat
up slowly and muted the TV. The steps didn't stop.
They looped again, bedroom to hallway, across the other room,
back again, ten maybe fifteen seconds total, but it felt
like forever. Nobody was supposed to be up there. I
didn't move, I just sat there, waiting for it to stop.
When it finally did, the silence was unbearable. I stared
at the ceiling like I could see through it. I
whispered hello, but my voice cracked and it sounded ridiculous.
Then my sister's door creaked open behind me. She stepped out,
wrapped in a blanket.
Speaker 2: Did you hear that?
Speaker 1: Her face told me she'd heard it too, that dead
pale look, no sleep in her eyes. She didn't even
finish stepping out of the room, just hovered by the door,
like she was afraid the sound would start again. I said, upstairs,
it was upstairs right.
Speaker 2: She nodded.
Speaker 1: It sounded like she stopped, like kids. We didn't say
anything else. We just stood there, listening, waiting. My dad
came out a few minutes later, groggy, annoyed, what are
you two doing up? I didn't want to sound crazy.
I just said we heard something upstairs. He blinked like
it hadn't processed. No one's up there, I know. He
stood there staring toward the stairs. You want me to
check it out, but he didn't move. Neither of us answered.
That second floor was empty, completely empty and sealed off.
My mom even packed the vents so we didn't waste
heat on it. The doors were shut, the windows locked.
We were the only ones in the house. I never
went up there to check. I couldn't something about that sound,
the way it echoed, the familiarity of it. It wasn't
just footsteps. It felt like a recording, almost like someone
hit rewind on our childhood and played a loop the
exact way we used to run, the same rooms, the
same rhythm.
Speaker 2: It was us.
Speaker 1: It was me and my sister, only we were both
right there on the ground floor, wide awake and scared
out of our minds. I didn't sleep that night. My
sister didn't either. We just sat in the kitchen drinking
tea until the sun came up. No one brought it
up again. My dad laughed it off the next day,
said the cold probably shifted the boards or something. But
my sister avoids the topic completely. She won't even let
her kids go near the stairs now, told them it's
too cold, too dangerous, which it isn't. I don't believe
in ghosts. I still don't even after that. Nothing ever
felt evil, just wrong, like time bent in the smallest
scariest way.
Speaker 2: That night.
Speaker 1: Didn't feel haunted, it felt broken. Story seven. I wasn't sick,
I didn't feel tired. Some thing about that day hinted
that something was wrong. It was a Wednesday, March seventeenth,
twenty twenty one.
Speaker 2: I remember that.
Speaker 1: Because it was the last normal day I've ever trusted.
I lived at home in Mission Viejo, California. I was nineteen,
taking community college classes and staying out of the way.
Around five point thirty pm, I was in my bedroom,
sitting cross legged on my carpet, trying to finish a
stats assignment on my laptop.
Speaker 2: There was nothing unusual, just a stale.
Speaker 1: Bag of tortilla chips, spotify low in the background, sun
leaking through the blinds, and then everything started bending. At first,
I thought I was just zoning out, you know when
you stare at a screen too long and your eyes
play tricks on you. That but worse. I looked up
from the screen and realized the corners of my room
looked smudged, like someone was rubbing the edges of my
vision with their thumb. I blinked, rubbed my eyes and
tried to focus. Still there, I turned my head slowly.
The left and right edges of everything were disappearing, No,
not disappearing, melting, blurring together like wet paint. My peripheral
vision was being erased, like someone had taken an eraser
to the edges of my reality. Mom I called out,
even though I knew she wasn't home. I stood up.
My legs felt light. I walked into the hallway, then
into the kitchen. Every step I took made things worse.
The walls warped slightly, like they were breathing, expanding, contracting.
The kitchen table wasn't solid anymore. It rippled like a
reflection on water. I looked down at my hands. They
looked distant, like I was seeing them through a warped
glass bottle. I whispered, what the hell is happening to me?
I pressed my palms to my eyes and breathed hard.
I thought, maybe it's a panic attack, Maybe I was dehydrated.
I grabbed a glass from the cabin and it felt
wrong in my hand. The shape was off. I couldn't
explain how. I just knew the glass felt like it
wasn't real, like it was being simulated poorly. That's when
I saw something in the corner of the room, not someone,
something a dark patch in the shape of a person,
but no features, no face, no movement. It stood just
beyond the smudged edges of my vision, not quite inside
the real world, not quite outside of it either.
Speaker 2: I turned to look directly at it. Gone.
Speaker 1: I spun around. No, no, no, I whispered, that didn't
just happen. I stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water
on my face, and looked at myself in the mirror.
Except it wasn't me. My face was there, sure, but
the proportions were off. My right eye was slightly too high,
my mouth didn't match the way I felt it moving
The reflection was delayed by half a se just enough
to register that something was deeply, deeply broken. I backed away,
heart pounding. I wanted to call someone, but I didn't
trust my hands to use the phone. I didn't trust
the phone to be real. I walked back to my room,
stepping carefully around furniture. I suddenly wasn't sure it was
even solid, and my vision was collapsing in. I don't
know how to explain this. It was like a tunnel
was closing in from all directions. My entire field of
view narrowed to a small circular hole, like looking through
the end of a funnel. Everything outside that tiny center
was gray, static, not blackness, static like a broken television feed.
I couldn't see the floor under my feet anymore. I
couldn't see the walls, just that one clear hole of
vision in the center. Everything else corrupted. I dropped to
my knees and closed my eyes.
Speaker 2: I was shaking.
Speaker 1: Something felt fundamentally wrong, not just with my body, but
with the world. Like reality itself had suffered a glitch,
a real one, not a figure of speech. Now I
felt weird. I mean, the actual fabric of my world
had a tear in it, and I was falling through.
I curled up, my head pounding, and I whispered, please stop,
please stop a please stop. Then silence, total terrifying silence.
No sounds from the street, no hum from the fridge,
no birds, no cars, nothing, just a blank, dead silence
that made my skin crawl. I opened my eyes again.
Everything had stopped, literally frozen my room. What I could
still see looked paused. A strand of my hair was
suspended in mid air like a screenshot. The light outside
had halted mid flicker. The dust in the air hung
like glitter, unmoving, And in that moment, I realized I
wasn't breathing. I wasn't even sure I had lungs anymore.
I couldn't feel my chest, rise, couldn't feel my heart.
I set out loud, though I don't know if I
really spoke it am I dead? That's when the headache hit.
It didn't build up. It detonated like a spike through
the base of my skull, a white hot pressure that
felt like my brain was trying to push out through
my eyes. I screamed, or thought I screamed. The sound
didn't happen. I collapsed onto my side. Everything was flashing,
like being inside a strobe light behind my eyes. Then
one more blink and the tunnel vision started to clear.
It pulled back slowly. My peripheral returned in chunks, like
loading a glitchy video game. The static faded colors returned wrong,
at first too bright, then too dull, until they evened out.
I could breathe again. I could hear the clock ticking
in the kitchen. A car drove past. The hum of
life returned slowly, cruelly. I opened my eyes wide. Everything
was back, and I lay there in the middle of
my room with blood crusted under one nostril, shaking like
I'd survived in exorcism. I didn't move for another hour.
I was terrified that moving would break the world again.
Later that night, I got the worst headache I've ever
had in my life, like my skull had been hollowed
out with a spoon.
Speaker 2: I threw up twice.
Speaker 1: The er doctor said it was a severe migraine with aura,
gave me anti nause of pills and sent me home.
But I've had migraines since, and none of them, not
a single one, felt like that. None of them made
the world pixelate. None of them froze time. None of
them felt like the simulation glitched and tried to kick
me out. I still don't know what happened, but I
don't think it was medical. I think just for a second,
something broke and I was awake for it.
Speaker 2: Story eight. I'm Jake.
Speaker 1: I live about an hour outside Helsinki in Finland, in
this dead, silent area where the forest starts right past
the backyard. No neighbors close enough to hear of something happens.
It's quiet out here in a way that messes with
your head. Sometimes you can hear your own thoughts echo,
or things you think are your thoughts. It was January, cold, dry,
dark nights stretch forever that time of year. I'd been
up late texting my ex Ella. We were still talking
most nights, just as friends, even though things had ended
months ago. Nothing heavy, just random memes, occasional dumb arguments
about movies. That night, we were going back and forth
about some horror film she liked that I said was garbage,
pretty normal.
Speaker 2: It was around two thirty am when I heard it.
Speaker 1: Now, I don't know how to describe this in a
way that doesn't sound ridiculous, but it sounded like an
ice cream truck. That weird high pitched music box jingle,
you know, that tiny melody. They all play kind of playful,
but always just slightly off key, like it's trying to
sound cheerful but never quite gets there. Except we don't
have ice cream trucks in Finland, not out here, especially
not in the middle of the goddamn woods in January.
There was snow on the ground. Who the hell would
even be driving one. At first, I thought maybe it
was some weird ring tone on my phone. I paused
and looked at it. No calls, no alerts. I asked
Ella if she heard anything on her end, like if
maybe she accidentally sent a video or audio or something.
She texted back, no, what are you talking about. I
didn't even answer that. I just froze and listened. The
sound was faint at first, like it was far off,
but it was definitely outside, not from a screen, not
from any electronic It was in the air. I moved
toward the window that faces the back of the house.
It's just dense woods out there, trees packed tight together,
no paths, no roads, just forest. But the sound was
louder now, the melody repeating, slowing down a little like
it was dragging, almost struggling to play, and it was
getting closer. I didn't even realize i'd stopped breathing until
I felt my chest ache.
Speaker 2: I texted Ella again, Just one.
Speaker 1: Word, dude, she replied immediately, what there's something outside?
Speaker 2: Like what? I didn't know how to answer that.
Speaker 1: I was still staring out the window, waiting to see
something move, but the sound it wasn't moving left or right.
It was moving forward through the trees, straight toward my house.
That's when the music just cut off, sharp, instant, no
fade out, just gone dead silence. I stepped away from
the window and stood there, not knowing what to do.
I didn't want to open the door. I didn't want
to even look again. I felt like whatever it was
had stopped just at the edge of the trees waiting.
Ella called me, I answered, whispering, don't talk, just listen.
She went quiet Immediately. I moved to the front door
and listened. Still nothing, the sound of my breath and
a faint hum in my ears. Then there was this soft,
metallic chime. Not the music again, just a single ding,
like a tiny bell. It came from the side of
the house. This time like someone walking past my wall,
holding a bell and letting it ring once. Ella, Sushiro,
Jake kiss hiss, so I couldn't answer. I was gripping
the phone so hard it hurt. I moved slowly to
the kitchen window, which faces the sideyard. There's a light there,
one of those motion sensor ones. It was on, but
nothing was there. No wind, no animals, no person, just
snow on the ground, totally untouched. Then something knocked once
from the back of the house. I swear to god,
I jumped and nearly dropped the phone. Ella heard it too.
What the hell was that?
Speaker 2: She said? I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Speaker 1: The knock was slow, deliberate, someone who knew I was listening.
And then this is the part I still can't explain.
My phone glitched, not froze, glitched. Ella's voice warped mid sentence.
It stretched out like a tape being pulled too slow, Jock,
can you hear? Then silence? Phone still on, still connected,
timer still counting, but no sound. Then my lights flickered,
all of them once fast. I bolted. I didn't grab anything,
didn't put on shoes, just ran to the front door,
yanked it open and sprinted outside into the snow.
Speaker 2: I didn't even feel the cold.
Speaker 1: I made it to the edge of the driveway before
I turned around just once. Nothing behind me, nothing in
the windows. House was still. I stood there for what
felt like forever, shaking. The phone call dropped. I called
Ella back when straight to voicemail. Tried again, same thing.
I didn't go back inside for hours. I stayed in
my car with the engine running and every door locked.
Ella finally texted around four am. She said her phone
had shut off by itself and wouldn't turn back on
for nearly thirty minutes. When it did, she had three
missed calls from me, even though I only tried twice.
One of the calls was over an hour long. She
swears she never picked up. I checked my call log.
It was there one hour, twelve minutes, and the time
matched when everything went silent. I've got no explanation. I've
lived here my whole life. Never heard anything like that
before or since. Nothing in the local news, no weird reports,
nothing on the neighborhood Facebook group.
Speaker 2: Just me and that damn music story. Nine.
Speaker 1: I never liked that house, not from the day we
moved in. It was this towering century old brick place
on Maple Street in upstate New York, cold even in
the summer, the kind of house where sound traveled too well.
My name's Evan, and back then I was sixteen, living
with my parents and our golden retriever Max. We just
moved in a few months earlier.
Speaker 2: My parents were.
Speaker 1: Obsessed with the place character they called it. I thought
it felt like a coffin with too many doors. The
layout was weird, three floors, each feeling more isolated than
the last. My room was on the second floor. The
kitchen was below me, and my parents had taken the
converted attic as their room. There was a door in
the kitchen that led directly to the basement, and that
door had a specific awful sound when it shut, not
just the slam, but the creak and heavy latch, no
mistaking it for anything else. It was around midnight when
it happened. I was just getting into bed, scrolling on
my phone like every other night. Max was curled up
on the floor next to my bed, dead asleep. The
house was completely still, no wind, no movement, no noise
from outside. Then I heard that door in the kitchen slam.
Not a creek, not a bump. That door slam shut,
like someone had yanked it from wide open and thrown
their whole body into it. I sat bolt upright. Max
didn't even flinch. That was the first thing that made
my skin crawl. That dog barked at squirrels in the
backyard like they were burglars, but he just stayed there asleep,
like nothing had happened.
Speaker 2: I didn't move, I didn't call out.
Speaker 1: I just stared at my door, trying to listen for
footsteps or anything else.
Speaker 2: Nothing.
Speaker 1: The air felt heavy, like the house was holding its breath.
Now here's the thing. There's no way that door could
have slammed by itself. All the windows were shut, no
fans on, and like I said, it was heavy. You
had to pull hard to close it properly. And I
was the only one on the second floor. My parents
were upstairs in the attic and they wouldn't have heard
it even if they were awake. I sat there frozen
for maybe a full minute before grabbing the pocket knife
from my nightstand. Stupid, I know, but it felt better
than going down empty handed. I slipped out of bed,
careful not to wake Max. He still didn't stir, which
really unnerved me and started down the stairs. The house
was silent, too silent. Every step I took creaked louder
than it should have. I flicked on the hall light,
then the second floor landing, then the stairs. Every light
I could reach I turned on. I didn't care about
waking anyone up. I just wanted that place lit. I
reached the kitchen, heart pounding, and there it was. The
basement door was wide open, like completely open. I just
stood there staring at it. It wasn't creaking, it wasn't swinging,
it was just open. That door had slammed seconds ago,
and now it looked like it hadn't moved in hours.
I don't know what I expected, but that wasn't it.
I just stared into that black rectangle leading down into nothing.
The light switch for the basement was inside the stairwell,
so I wasn't about to go in just to flick
it on. Then something even worse happened. As I stood there, paralyzed,
I heard a sound from the basement. Not footsteps, not
a thud. It was a voice, a whisper coming from
the darkness. Sh okay okay, software fast, like someone trying
to calm someone else down. I couldn't tell if it
was one person or two. It didn't even sound angry.
It sounded deliberate, like they knew I was there. I
didn't even scream. I just backed up slowly until I
hit the hallway wall. Then I turned and ran. I
left all the lights on and sprinted back to my room.
Max was still asleep, still in the exact same position.
I locked my door, not that it would have helped.
I climbed back into bed, knife clutched in my hand,
staring at the door until my eyes felt like sandpaper.
I didn't sleep, but at some point the sun started
coming through the blinds. When I finally worked up the
nerve to go back down, I was the first one awake.
My parents were still out cold upstairs, and Max finally
yawned and stretched like nothing happened. I went down slowly,
this time, hearts still pounding. The lights were off, all
of them. Every light I had turned on was off,
and the basement door shut, not a jar, not slightly cracked,
completely closed, latched. I checked the windows, still shut, no
sign anyone had been up. I asked my parents later
that morning if either of them had come down. They
looked at me like I was insane, said they'd both
slept straight through the night. I even asked if Max
had gone downstairs. They laughed, he didn't move all night.
My dad said, I didn't tell them what I heard.
I didn't want to deal with the whole Maybe you
were dreaming talk, but I wasn't dreaming.
Speaker 2: I was awake. I heard it. I saw it.
Speaker 1: And I never heard that door slam again, not once,
never even creaked after that. But I'll never forget those words,
sh okay, okay, like I had just interrupted something that
wasn't meant to be seen, something that wasn't supposed to
be heard.
Speaker 2: I moved out two years later when I went to college.
Story ten.
Speaker 1: I live alone in a basement apartment in Scarborough, just
east of Toronto. Nothing fancy, bare concrete walls painted white,
one small window above the desk that barely lets in
any light, and my setup a basic PC, second hand chair,
and an old lamp that flickers sometimes when the heat
kicks in. I'm not really a spiritual or superstitious guy.
I work in it. I troubleshoot routers and talk people
through driver updates all day, so I don't jump to
ghosts or anything like that, But I swear to you
what happened one night around two years ago. I don't
know how to explain it, and it's messed with my
head ever since. It was late, around one thirty am.
I had just finished a long discord call with a
friend from the UK. We'd been talking about simulation theory. Yeah,
the irony, I know. We went off on one of
those rabbit hole tangents about how we might be living
in a computer generated reality, typical Internet conspiracy nonsense. I
remember joking and saying, if the world glitches on me tonight,
I'm blaming you. He laughed, logged off, and I got
up to grab some water. Here's where things start to
get weird. I came back, sat down, and I remember
clearly I turned on a video about the Matrix, not
the movie, but one of those deep dive philosophy videos
on YouTube, analyzing simulation theory in the Nature of consciousness.
I watched maybe ten minutes. Then my eyes drifted over
to the little window beside my desk. It was pitch
black outside. I couldn't see anything, not even street lights,
and then it was like something just snapped. I was
suddenly back, same chair, same position, but my monitor was
completely black. The room was dead silent. I didn't remember
the video ending or even feeling tired. I thought maybe
I'd knotted off for a second microsleep or whatever. But
then I moved the mouse, nothing happened. I pressed the keyboard,
still nothing. The tower wasn't making any noise either, dead silent.
That's when I noticed something really off. The led on
the power button wasn't lit. That didn't make sense. I
leaned down under the desk and checked the power strip.
It wasn't plugged in the entire surge bar, power strip, tower, monitor, router, lamp,
all of it. The plug was sitting on the floor,
not loose, unplugged, like completely out of the wall. That
didn't compute. There was no way I could have watched
a video, browse the web, talk to my friend if
the strip was never plugged in. I sat there staring
at the cord for maybe a minute, trying to recall
unplugging it.
Speaker 2: I hadn't. I hadn't even been near that side of
the wall all day.
Speaker 1: I actually laughed out loud, like one of those dry,
confused laughs. Then I thought, okay, maybe the power flicked
and I pulled it out somehow and forgot number. I'm
not that careless to double check. I reached over and
grabbed my phone. It was dead. That made no sense either.
It had been charging during my call at eighty percent.
When I checked LASS, Suddenly I got this weird feeling
in my gut, like when you walk into a room
and forget why you're there. But worse, it was like
I wasn't alone anymore, like someone had just been there
a second ago. Not a presence exactly, but this echo
of movement, like reality had hiccuped. I stood up, and
I swear to God, the hairs on my arms lifted,
my skin went cold. I walked over to the power strip,
plugged it in, hit the switch. The fan in the
PC tower spun up. Monitor flickered back to life. Everything
booted like normal. I checked the history. No record of
the video I was watching, no trace of the discord call,
no Internet tabs open, no log of anything I had done.
Even the system time was off, like the bios had reset.
It was showing three six am. Then something else hit me.
The clock on the wall, a cheap analog one with
a loud tick, was stuck. The second hand had stopped moving.
It was stuck at exactly two seventeen frozen. That's when
the real fear started to set in. I stood in
the center of my room, turning in place, checking everything.
My microwave clock was also blank. My phone wouldn't power
on even after I plugged it in. And the worst
part the window. I looked again outside was still pitch black.
But this time it wasn't just dark. It was nothing like,
no sky, no faint outlines of trees or fences or
street lights, just a flat, absolute void. Imagine a black
sheet of paper two inches from your face. That kind
of black. Like the world stopped rendering outside my apartment.
I stepped back. Something was wrong with the air too.
The room didn't feel still, it felt paused, like the
air wasn't moving. No humming from the fridge upstairs, no
pipes groaning, just this pressure, almost like being underwater. Not
soundless but muted, artificial. Then I heard it a clicking,
A slow, deliberate clicking noise coming from behind me, like
someone tapping plastic. I turned around, fast, heart pounding. Nothing
was there, but the clicking continued. It was coming from
the mouse. The mouse on my desk was clicking by itself. Single,
soft clicks every few seconds, not rapid, not random, patterned,
almost like morse code.
Speaker 2: I backed up. I couldn't move toward it.
Speaker 1: Something in me refused, every instinct screamed not to touch anything,
not to interact with it, like I'd break something if
I did. I picked up my keys, still staring at
the mouse as it clicked, and I bolted. Didn't even
put on shoes, just ran up the stairs, out the
side door, and into the night air. When I got outside,
it was morning. I swear it was middle of the
night seconds ago. Now the sun was rising, birds chirping,
cars moving. I pulled out my phone. It powered on,
battery at seventy six percent. Everything worked again. I went
back inside after an hour of standing in the driveway,
unsure what to do. When I got down to my apartment,
the clock on the wall was ticking again. Power was on,
Internet worked, the mouse wasn't clicking. But nothing in the
browser history had changed. No log of the discord call,
no matrix video in the watch history, no system of
time logs, nothing an event viewer. It's like the entire thing,
everything from the moment I sat down, never happened, but
I remember all of it. Too clearly, and I don't
use that computer anymore. I got a new laptop. I
even moved apartments. I've never told anyone in person about
this because it sounds insane, but I swear it happened.