Reddit Collection (Fresh-Short #10) - DeYtH Banger (best way to read an ebook TXT) 📗

saying that this worried me greatly, so I immediately replied, “Are you okay?” Just as instantly, I got another text which read, “Oops. Pocket text!” I sighed with all the relief I had and continued to prepare myself.

 

A few minutes later, I received yet another message, this time from my dad. I checked the text, and once again it was a massive mixture of letters and numbers, with the phrase “Please help me” concealed within. Creepy though this was, my dad was always a joker, so I presumed he was just joking around, until I was sent another text saying, “Oops. Pocket text!” Now this sparked panic. Pure, unmistakable panic. Exactly half a minute passed when I received the exact same two messages from my sister. This could not be coincidental. It just couldn’t.

 

In a state of sheer anxiety, I started to run to the restaurant. I made it about a quarter of the way before I was stopped by a police officer. “Main road’s closed,” he said, “Huge car crash.” This was the exact moment I realised just what had happened. I demanded to see the wreckage, a request which I was surprised was allowed. When I got there, it wasn’t the remnants of the car that caught my eye, nor the flames billowing from the destroyed vehicle. No. I was horrified to see the lifeless corpses of my mother, father and sister. I asked for the estimated time of their deaths – all three of them were killed instantly by the collision, at 5:32.

A minute before the very first text.

Regret

 by Viidith22

 

 

From the depths of Hell
Never seen by the penitent men
To the darkest crevices
We all escape from each day
Moments to never been reminisced
Or a time to never exist in our world
Yet it remains
Burned into our corrupted and vulnerable minds
We still feel regret
Regret to not have been fast enough
To not have been strong enough
To not have the will
Or the motivation

To perform such simple tasks
As a smile a day

Or a hand to reach out to
You may feel the regret
But those casted away will not
They will feel alone
Forever entombed in darkened crevices
Tucked away, only seen when reminisced
To see the light never seen
In fault of those not fast enough
Not strong enough

Not willing enough
Lacking motivation
No matter how hard the blind scream

It Started as a Leak

 

The rainy season began in early summer, and June had been no exception. It did not surprise the man when he discovered rainwater dripping from his dining room ceiling. Shrugging it off, he placed a tall pot beneath the leak and expected it to stop on its own. However, it continued to rain, and before he knew it, the pot would threaten to overflow. He had to dump the water out first thing in the morning and straight after he returned home from work.

 

Eventually, he began to notice water damage at the source of the leak. The white ceiling had discolored, turning a dull shade of brown. He checked the weather and realized that it would continue to rain sporadically over the next ten days. The man was worried about the ceiling mildewing and becoming an expensive repair, so he called a local handyman.

 

Unfortunately, the man could not sign to have the repairs done - only his landlord could. It was a frustrating policy. The man called his landlord but could not reach him. He left him a few voicemails, detailing how the damage was becoming progressively worse. The man was clueless as to why his landlord would not return his calls; they usually kept in touch, speaking at least twice a month. Finally, he reasoned that he would not be held accountable for any damages sustained.

 

One night, the man was startled awake by a massive thump. He quickly turned on his bedside lamp, and just vaguely, he could see an overturned table and a large shape laying across it. He sprinted out of his apartment and called the police, gagging at the smell.

 

The man sat in the police station with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a coffee mug resting in his hands. He did know one thing. There had been a dead body in his ceiling, and the water had saturated it so badly that it caved under the weight. So far, the body was unidentifiable due to the rainwater and was being autopsied. While the man waited, he called his landlord and finally reached him, panicking as he explained the situation. His landlord was just as alarmed, and the man pleaded for him to come to the station while he made his statement. The man paused as a detective crossed over to him, and he lowered his phone, wondering if the body had been identified. His blood ran immediately cold, and he shook his head with terror. The body belonged to Richard Thompson, his landlord, and he had died over a year ago. That's not what disturbed him the most. If his landlord was dead, then who was pretending to be him?

 

I don't let my son inside the house

 by murder_1

 

 

I haven’t let my six-year-old son into the house in over a year. He’s actually been driving me crazy. I’ve tried lots of things. Earmuffs, headphones with loud music. I’ve tried blindfolds, reading, and Netflix on high-volume. But I’m not sure how long I can do this. I feel like I’m going to slip soon.

Tonight, I’ll try writing.

 

The first time he tried to get back in, I was laying in bed. There was a noise. I stared at the ceiling for a while, waiting and listening. Silence. Then there it was again.

Noise. Quiet noise, but incessant. Ticking.

Then that ticking eventually became scratching. Then back to tapping. Then scratching again. Back and forth.

Maddening.

 

So I turned over and looked through the window. There was my son staring in at me through the glass. He wouldn’t stop scraping the pane with his fingernails, which were all black underneath from dirt. I could see his skin had gotten very pale. He was grotesquely skinny now. His eyes were all red-rimmed.

 

“... Let me in, Mommy ...” He whispered it right through the glass, although I was honestly not sure if I only heard it in my head. “... Let me in, Mommy, let me in ... I’m hungry ...”

I said, “No, no, no.” I was very upset and very scared. There was no way he could have climbed up the flat brick wall of the apartment, fourteen stories, up to that window. But somehow he was there clinging there like some kind of lizard.

If I’d just let him in, though, everything would be okay. I wouldn’t be upset or scared anymore. I’d be in fact very happy because we’d be together again. All I had to do was open the window.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, stayed in the bed.

“... Mommy … please … let me in ... why won’t you look at me? ...”

“No, baby. No, no.”

 

“... Look at me Mommy ... look at me ...”

“I won’t, baby. I can’t. Don’t do this to me. I can’t —”

“... Look at me! ...”

And for a moment — just a moment — I opened my eyes once more to look at my son for what I believed would be the last time. His face on the other side of the glass starts twitching into an eager grin and he starts pawing the windowpane like a dog. His eyes were huge; black as a squid’s ink. It would be easy, so very easy, to get lost in those eyes. So easy to just get sucked up into them.

“... Open up, Mommy ... I’m hungry ...”

“No!” I scream. “NO!!”

 

His face twisted into a rictus of animalistic rage. Then he hissed at me, revealing teeth that had grown hideously long and sharp. “... Mommy! Open up! Open up, open up, open up! ...”

 

At that moment, perhaps if I was someone else, I absolutely would have. I would have, if I hadn’t known the truth. And I thank Christ every day that I knew, because that truth planted itself firmly into the reality of what was happening. But I could not look at my son ever again. If I looked again, if I even only glanced again, even that steel-cold dagger of truth wouldn’t matter. I’d get sucked right into those dark eyes.

 

I squeezed my eyelids shut again and turned my back.

“... MOMMY!! LOOK AT ME!! ...”

His shrieking was horrible and hellish. But now I was sure: its voice echoed only in the warrens of my mind and heart.

I got up and ran into the bathroom, locked the door. And for the rest of the evening all I could do was sit on the floor, in the corner, with my palms pressed over my ears against the distant tapping and scraping at the window in my bedroom across the hall.

This has gone on for a year. Not every night, but still far too frequently. Sometimes he shows up with a dark substance smeared around his lips and his cheeks. So far, I haven’t opened the window. I’ve been able to distract myself, as I’ve mentioned.

But I think I’m getting weaker.

 

My sanity can only be stretched so far. It feels like it’s fraying like a rope being pulled too hard in opposite directions. I miss him so much. I love him, of course. It’s why I can’t bear to tell anyone our names. A part of me is glad he’s still alive. Yes, I’ll readily admit that. It’s so much better to know that than the truth — the terrible, terrible impossible truth: that a year ago I found him in bed, cold as ice, without a pulse.

 

Yet at the same time, I know it’s not any kind of way to exist. And he doesn’t want my love. No, I don’t think he wants love