That wasn't my husband who slept next to me last night. - (r/nosleep)
My name is Peter Tillman, and I’m terrified. I am a physicist here in Toronto and teach at one of the best Universities in Canada. I’ve had a very successful career and have been offered tenure, which I’m still debating. I was very luck to be born into a very wealthy family and met the man of my dreams about 8 years ago in my early 20s. We’ve been married for approximately 5 years, and he’s my everything.
He makes me laugh, he makes me smile, he sometimes makes me cry (who doesn’t have that story to tell about their partner), and he’s my partner in crime. The man that came home to me yesterday is not my husband, and I have no idea what’s going on.
Christopher (my husband), left for a business trip five days ago. He’s a patent lawyer and occasionally has to travel for work. He left Pearson international airport and called me when he landed at Wein-Flughafen (Vienna’s main airport). I have a bit of separation anxiety when it comes to being away from him, and he has no problem catering to this. He called me after he got through customs, and when he got to the hotel. Nothing long, just a “hey honey, I’m here” kinda call. We always preferred phone calls since we text with everyone else and decided that calling would be our thing.
I went about the last four days as I usually would: doing chores, teaching the couple summer courses that I’ve been unfortunately assigned, and picking out new colours for the kitchen. His mum is footing the bill for the renovations, so why not. It’s her anniversary present to us.
Yesterday Christopher was scheduled to fly back to Toronto. He called me from Vienna after he got into the lounge at the airport and told me that he was super tired and was going to pass out on the plane. I was happy that he was finally going to get some rest after what sounded like an atrociously busy trip. Poor guy, he works so hard.
His flight was scheduled to arrive at 11pm, and I had an early class to teach today, so I decided to make dinner and leave it in the fridge for him, and then curl up with the poorly written physics textbook that I was editing for a friend. I realized that 11pm had come and gone and I didn’t get word from Christopher, but I just assumed that his flight was delayed. He had a layover in London at Heathrow Airport, and I know that they have some pretty brilliant thunderstorms this time of year, so I just figured that his flight was delayed. When 12pm rolled around, I started to get a bit more worried, but then all of my feelings were allayed. I got a text. I know that Christopher was tired, and that he usually doesn’t sleep well on flights, so I assumed that he just wanted to reassure me, that’s why he texted, instead of calling.
He said: Jweust Landod, will be hom sune.
Poor guy was so tired, he couldn’t even type straight. I even got him a new iPhone for his birthday and assumed that he was still having trouble adapting to the touchscreen having been a loyal blackberry fan for so many years.
I went to the bathroom, took out my contacts and fell asleep. I don’t know how long after receiving that text I fell asleep, but I was out cold. A few hours later I heard the latch turn, and I heard Chris’s usually heavy footsteps climb up the stairs. He went to the bathroom, and did his usual routine, except he left the water running. I thought that was a bit strange. He’s usually VERY particular about turning off the taps so as to not waste water, not because of the bills, but because of the whole environmentalism kick that he’d been on for the past couple of years.
I was drifting in and out of sleep, but I wanted to see him before I fully passed out. He came into the room, and something seemed different. Nothing that scared me, but just seemed off.
I have terrible vision and my glasses were not near the bed since I normally wore contacts. I looked over and his upper lip looked swollen, like if he had been stung by a bee, and I could see a lot more gum and teeth than normal and had a very broad smile…like he missed me and was glad to see me. I asked him, “babe, are you ok, what’s up with your lip?” He quickly told me not to worry, and it was just chapped from being on the plane. I agreed and still half asleep drifted off again.
About 2 hours later I rolled over and noticed that Chris’ back was towards me, whatever. Nothing strange. That’s when I put my arm around him. He felt….thicker. That’s the only way to describe it. I know what my man feels like, and he just felt like a thicker/broader version of him. My general level of unease was starting to get stronger at this point but still not being fully awake, I just chalked it up to nothing.
This morning I woke up and Christopher was gone. His suitcase was still there, he had changed his clothes, but he was gone. I called him, no answer. He however quickly texted me back the following
Et thhe Gym, Loft irly, wull be hume ofter ue leave.
Good I thought, maybe he could work off some of that extra weight I felt on him last night, and chuckled to myself.
I went about my regular routine, and was just about to step out the door when I saw his suitcase again. He had left it on the landing by the door and I guess he just wanted it there, so he could sort it in the living room. As I was leaving a faint musty smell hit me.
It was like if someone had left steak out in the sun for a couple hours. I was already half way out the door, so I felt like it was coming from outside, but when I turned my face towards his suitcase it got so much worse. The smell wasn’t a steak being left out for a couple hours, but a couple days. It reeked. I picked up the suitcase only to realize that he had left his lock on it, and I didn’t have the keys, so I moved it into the Garage, just so it was out of the house.
As I was about to get into the car, I got another text from Christopher:
i Loweve Yu, Sii you Sune.
I texted back: When you get home, check your suitcase, it stinks and the handle has some kind of residue on it.
I still found it strange that he would text.
About 10 minutes after I got into the car, my phone rang. Chris was calling me.
Chris: Hey Babe, so sorry that I didn’t get a chance to call you, you must be crazy worried?
Me: Why? Are you ok?
Chris: Yeah, I’ve been stuck here in London, just getting onto my plane to come home, can you come meet me at the airport?
I froze, I nearly dropped the phone and almost ran my car off the road.
Me: WHAT? What do you mean you’re still in London, is this a joke. That’s not funny Christopher. You came home last night, I saw you, I spoke to you. Yes I’m a heavy sleeper, but don’t shit around. What’s going on.
Chris: Um, listen. He put his phone on speaker, and I could hear a woman in a thick english accent announcing “and Gentleman this is the final boarding call for Flight BA203 to Toronto, Could Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Colridge please come to the British Airways desk on the main concourse.”
I stopped the car. I was dead silent. What’s going on, who did I sleep next to.
Me: Christopher, get home, I’m scared, I need to see you. Call me when you’re at the airport, every thing is ok, I just need to see you.
Chris: chuckle Ok babe, calm down, I’ll be home soon. I should be there by 9pm.
He chuckled because he figured my anxiety was getting the better of me. I didn’t want to freak him out about what happened last night and the texts and who I had spoken to earlier on the phone.
I’m going to work now, I’m not going back to that house. I’m going to the airport as soon as I can to meet Christopher, if it really is Christopher. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I’m a physicist, a man of science, and none of this makes sense to me.
I haven’t been genuinely scared like this since I was a child. What’s going on?
UPDATE: Final text from “Chris”
I’m aAAt home, witing for yo1u. Won will u b bock?
UPDATE 1730 EST: I just got back from the lab. Two of my colleagues want a chance to inspect the suitcase, but I’ll hold out on that for now. They’ve done two cultures with what they were able to get from under my nails and from the palm of my left hand. They doubt they’ll be able to find anything, because of how long it’s been since I touched the suitcase but they’ll let me know as soon as they see anything.
UPDATE 1745: Christopher messed up his arrival time, he just landed. Heading to the airport now. Told him not to leave without me.
I’m serious. You guys have stuck with my blog even though I have been so inconsistent with my updates. I’ve been dealing with a lot of irl health issues that have made it hard to keep up with this blog, and despite that I’m still getting new followers every day. All of you are amazing and I couldn’t ask for a better community to unleash all this creepy shit on.
And now for some good news - My favorite month is almost here! Expect more awesomely creepy updates throughout October as well as daily updates about my annual horror movie challenge. I’ll be attempting to watch 2 horror movies a day every day in October - each HMC post will list the movies I’ve watched that day as well as a short review of both movies from yours truly.
Expect more consistent updates as my health improves and as we move towards the best month of the year.
You might already have heard of the TV broadcast hijacking in Seneca, South Carolina; the story’s gained pretty wide currency on the Internet, and part of the broadcast is available on YouTube, assuming it hasn’t been taken down for whatever reason.
For the uninitiated, the Seneca hijacking is one of the lesser-known broadcast signal intrusions. It was big news here, but the nation news media barely touched on it. Anyway, I’ve decided to jot down my impressions of the whole thing, even though other eyewitnesses have already described it more eloquently than I could.
I was home on winter break when it happened, making chemistry flashcards in front of the TV. No one else was around. After watching the umpteenth Law and Order rerun, I got bored and started channel surfing. A couple minutes later, I stumbled onto this shitty public access channel where, bizarrely enough, my old high school Latin teacher was reciting a poem while wearing this dorky three-cornered hat.
I watched for a few minutes and had a good laugh—I remembered him as a pretty serious guy, not the sort of person who’d embarrass himself in public like this—when suddenly there was this static-y crackle and the screen cut to this multi-colored test pattern.
Before I had time to change the channel, there’s another crackle and this weird cartoon shows up on screen. The animation style was detailed, but kind of jiggly and rough—it reminded me of those old anti-drug PSAs. Anyway, it seemed “normal” enough at first—an ordinary-looking middle-class family eating breakfast together at a round kitchen table.
There was a mom with an old-fashioned hairdo, a dad, two cherub-faced kids, a boy and a girl—all very Norman Rockwell. The family is making banal small talk: the dad complains about his day at the office, the kids prattle on about soccer practice, and so on.
Gradually, though, the scene starts to get slightly sinister—a green light is seeping through the open window, and the family starts to acquire a jaundiced, unhealthy look: their skin changes color and their eyes become sunken. In the background, a droning radio broadcast slowly becomes perceptible: the announcer gives the date as November 15, 2017, and starts to go on and on about some strange crisis—you can barely hear what he’s saying.
He says something about a green light, melting flesh, mutations, strange shapes emerging from the sea; again and again, the phrase “Report to the nearest shelter immediately” is audible. Still, the family keeps eating breakfast as if nothing was happening.
And here’s where it gets really macabre. The family finishes eating breakfast and the mom loads the kids into a minivan. By now they look *really* unhealthy: their bodies are skeletally thin, the whites of their eyes are a sickly yellowish color, and their hair is disheveled.
The car drives through a landscape bathed in the green glow from before. Strange shapes bob in and out of the screen, but you can’t quite tell what they are, and all the buildings the car passes look weathered and deserted. Finally, the car stops at a playground and the mom drops off the kids before driving away.
There are large, odd-colored rocks all over the ground and moaning can be heard in the distance. The kids hang mirthlessly on the monkey bars for a while. Eventually, the camera pans over the playground, and you see that the rocks littering the ground aren’t rocks at all but naked human forms, horribly disfigured.
They seemed to be either growing into or from the ground. I can’t say which. And they are very much alive. Behind the monkey bars, a tree can be seen with a human face growing from the trunk—its features are writhing and contorted in agony.
The scene suddenly shifts to a white collar office where the children’s father is stooped over a desktop, typing away. His features are as sunken and diseased as that of the other family members, and the office is covered in a green glow. In the other cubicles, fleshless corpses sit upright at their desks, frozen in death.
Finally, we see the family return home for the evening, walking through the front door together. Their skin is no longer simply jaundiced but actually melting off—dripping from their outstretched arms and running down their faces in drops.
As they are literally falling to pieces, the family sits down in the dining room and begins wordlessly to eat dinner. Their flesh becomes more and more amorphous, ribbons of skin dangling from their bodies like the tendrils of an octopus. I can barely describe it, but they somehow begin to…merge with the chairs they are seated on—or rather, their skin grows over them.
By now, their skin has the consistency of melted ice cream, and they are barely recognizable as human—except for their eyes, which somehow remain intact. The camera zooms closer and closer to the table, and finally their eyes all move directly towards the camera, conveying a feeling of unfathomable sadness.
The screen goes black and large white letters appear on the screen: “Report to the nearest shelter immediately. Remaining at private residences is strictly prohibited.” And with that, the screen turned to static. I stared in stunned silence for a few minutes before the banal local channel switched back on.
And that’s all I know, really. I almost thought I was dreaming until the paper reported the story the next day. God knows what really happened: a ridiculously elaborate prank? An ill-advised viral marketing campaign? The crazier parts of the Internet have their own theories.
It’s July 1954; a hot day. A man arrives at Tokyo airport in Japan. He’s of Caucasian appearance and conventional-looking. But the officials are suspicious.
On checking his passport, they see that he hails from a country called Taured. The passport looked genuine, except for the fact that there is no such country as Taured – well, at least in our dimension.
The man is interrogated, and asked to point out where his country supposedly exists on a map.
He immediately points his finger towards the Principality of Andorra, but becomes angry and confused. He’s never heard of Andorra, and can’t understand why his homeland of Taured isn’t there.
According to him it should have been, for it had existed for more than 1,000 years!
Customs officials found him in possession of money from several different European currencies.
His passport had been stamped by many airports around the globe, including previous visits to Tokyo.
Baffled, they took him to a local hotel and placed him in a room with two guards outside until they could get to the bottom of the mystery.
The company he claimed to work for had no knowledge of him, although he had copious amounts of documentation to prove his point.
The hotel he claimed to have a reservation for had never heard of him either.
The company officials in Tokyo he was there to do business with? Yup, you’ve guessed it – they just shook their heads too.
Later, when the hotel room he was held in was opened, the man had disappeared.
The police established that he could not have escaped out of the window – the room was several floors up, and there was no balcony. ?
He was never seen again, and the mystery was never solved.
When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn’t go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a bad dream or a trick of the light, but in my young mind I was positive that the second I fell asleep, the bad things would get me. Most of the time I would just hide under the blankets until I became tired enough to stop worrying, but every now and then I would become so panicked that I would run screaming into my parents room, waking up my brother and sister in the process. After an ordeal like that, there would be no way anyone would be getting a full nights rest. Eventually, after one particularly traumatizing night, my parents had had enough. Unfortunately for them, they understood the futility in arguing with a six year old and knew that they would be unable to convince me to rid myself of childish fears through reason and logic. They had to be clever.
It was my mother’s idea to stitch together my little bedtime friend.
She collected a large assortment of random pieces of fabric and her sewing machine and created what I would later refer to as Mr. Ickbarr Bigelsteine, or Ick for short. Ick was a sock monster, as my mother called him. He was made to keep me safe while I slept at night by scarring away all the other monsters. He was pretty damn creepy, I had to admit. Honestly, looking back on it all now, I’m still impressed that my mom could think of something so strange and disturbing looking. Ickbarr had the stitched together look of a Frankenstein gremlin, with big white button eyes and floppy cat ears. His little arms and legs were made from a pair of my sister’s black and white striped socks, and the half of his face that was green was made from one of my brother’s tall football socks. His head could have been described as bulbous, and for his mouth my mom attached a piece of white fabric and sewed in a zigzag pattern to shape a wide grin of sharp teeth. I loved him at once.
From then on, Ick never left my side. So long as it was after dusk, of course. Ick didn’t like the sun, and would get upset if I tried to bring him to school with me. But that was okay, I only needed him at night to keep away the boogeymen, which was what he was good at. So every night at bedtime, Ick would tell me where the monsters were hiding, and I would place him near the section of my room closest to the spookiness. If there was something in the closet, Ick would block the door. If there was a dark creature scratching at my window, Ick would be pressed up against the glass. If there was a big hairy beast under my bed, then under the bed he went. Sometimes the monsters weren’t even in my room. Sometimes, they would hide in my dreams, and Ickbarr would have to come with me into my nightmares. It was fun bringing Ick into my dream world, as he and I would spend hours fighting off ghouls and demons. The best part was, in my dreams, Ick could talk to me for real. “How much do you love me?” He would ask. “More than anything.” I would always tell him. One night in a dream, after I had lost my first tooth, Ick asked me for a favor.
“Can I have your tooth?” I asked him why. “To help me kill the bad things.” He said.
The next morning at breakfast, my mom asked me where my tooth went. From what she told me, the “tooth fairy” didn’t find it under my pillow. When I told her that I gave it to Ickbarr, she just shrugged and went back to feeding my little sister. From then on, every time I lost a tooth, I would give it to Ick. He would always thank me, of course, and tell me that he loved me. Eventually though, I ran out of baby teeth, and I was beginning to get a little too old to still be playing with dolls. So Ick just sat there on my bookshelf collecting dust, slowly fading away from my attention.
Over time the nightmares, however, became worse than ever. So bad that they even began to follow me to the waking world, terrorizing every dark corner or rustle in the bushes. After one particularly bad night biking home from a friend’s house where I swore a pack of rabid dogs were chasing me, I got home to find something strange waiting for me in my room. There, on my bed, standing fully upright in the soft glow of the moon light from my window, was Ickbarr. At first I just thought my eyes were playing tricks on me again, they had been all evening, so I tried to flick on the lights. Another flick of the light switch. Then another, and another, with no change to the darkness. It was then that I started to get nervous.
I backed away slowly towards the door behind me, my eyes never leaving the shape of Ick’s silhouette, my hand awkwardly outstretched behind reaching for the doorknob. I was just about to get my ass out of there when I heard the door slam itself shut, locking me into blackness. In nothing but shadows and silence, I stood frozen in place, not even breathing. For how long I can’t say, but after what felt like a lifetime of cold fear, I heard the shrill, familiar voice.
“You stopped feeding me, so why should I protect you?” “Protect me from what?” “Let me show you.”
I blinked once, and everything changed. I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore, I was somewhere… else. It wasn’t Hell, but the comparison wasn’t far off. It was some sort of forest, a horrible, nightmarish place where partial embryonic abortions hung from the canopy, and the ground swarmed with carnivorous insects. A thick fog wafted through the air and with it the stench of rotting meat, while chartreuse lightening flashed across the night sky. In the distance, I could hear the agonizing screams of something not quite human. My head throbbed like it was about to explode, the pain forcing out a river of tears. In my mind, I heard his voice again.
“This is what your reality would become without me.” I felt earth shaking footsteps approaching fast. “I’m the only one who can stop it.” It was behind me now, huge and angry, hot breath across my back. “Bring me what I need, and I will.” I woke up before I could turn around.
The following day I raided my parent’s closet for my brother’s baby teeth, giving them all to Ickbarr. Almost immediately the night terrors ceased, and I was more or less able to go on about my life as normal. From time to time, I would have to sneak into my little sister’s room and snatch what was meant for the tooth fairy, or strangle one of the neighborhood cats and pry out its sharp little incisors. Anything to ward off the visions, anything from a shark tooth necklace to a cavity ridden bicuspid. I also began to notice that Ick would move about my room whenever I left for any length of time, rearranging my stuff and hanging additional curtains. He was even beginning to look more lifelike, somehow. In the right light his teeth would glisten, and he was warm to the touch. As much as he creeped me out, I couldn’t work up the courage to just destroy him, knowing perfectly well where that would leave me. So I went on collecting teeth for Ick throughout all of high school and college. The older I got, the more things I would learn to fear, the more teeth Ick would need to keep me safe.
I’m 22 years old now, with a decent job, my own apartment, and a set of dentures. It’s been almost a month since Ick’s last meal, and the horrors are starting to crowd around me once more. I took a detour through a parking garage after work tonight. Found a man fumbling with his car keys. His teeth were stained yellow from a lifetime of cigarettes and coffee. Even still, I had to use a hammer to get out the molars. When I got back to my apartment, he was waiting for me. On the ceiling, in the corner. Two white eyes and mouth of razors.
“How much do you love me?” He asks. “More than anything,” I reply, taking off my coat. “More than anything in the world.”
I’m not normally scared by works of fiction, but I simply couldn’t sleep after reading this tale of childhood innocence slowly corrupted by years of perplexing, terrifying events. Great writing—I highly recommend it.
I must have been six or seven when I lived in Lebanon. The country was ravaged by war at the time, and murders were common and frequent. I remember during a particularly vicious era, when the bombings rarely stopped, I would stay at home sitting in front of my television watching a very, very strange show.
It was a kids’ show that lasted about 30 minutes and contained strange and sinister images. To this day I believe it was a thinly veiled attempt on the part of the media to use scare tactics to keep kids in place, because the moral of every episode revolved around very uptight ideologies: stuff like, “bad kids stay up late,” “bad kids have their hands under the covers when they sleep,” and “bad kids steal food from the fridge at night.”
It was very weird, and in Arabic to top it off. I didn’t understand much of it, but for the most part the images were very graphic and comprehensive. The thing that stuck with me the most, however, was the closing scene. It remained much the same in every episode. The camera would zoom in on an old, rusted, closed door. As it got closer to the door, strange and sometimes even agonizing screams would become more audible. It was extremely frightening, especially for children’s programming. Then a text would appear on the screen in Arabic reading: “That’s where bad kids go.” Eventually both the image and the sound would fade out, and that would be the end of the episode.
About 15 or 16 years later I became a journalistic photographer. That show had been in my mind all my life, popping up in my thoughts sporadically. Eventually I’d had enough, and decided to do some research. I finally managed to uncover the location of the studio where much of that channel’s programming had been recorded. Upon further research and eventually traveling on site, I found out it was now desolate and had been abandoned after the big war ended.
I entered the building with my camera. It was burnt out from the inside. Either a fire had broken out or someone had wanted to incinerate all of the wooden furniture. After few hours of cautiously making my way into the studio and snapping pictures, I found an isolated out-of-the-way room. After having to break through a few old locks and managing to break the heavy door open, I remained frozen in the doorway for several long minutes. Traces of blood, feces, and tiny bone fragments lay scattered across the floor. It was a small room, and an extremely morbid scene.
What truly frightened me, though, what made me turn away and never want to come back, was the bolted, caged microphone hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room…
3 Terrifying Serial Killers from the 1800′s - (creepylittlestories.com)
When we hear about serial killers we often think about the infamous Ted Bundy or about the movie characters such as Hannibal Lecter. However, the truth is that serial killers have been around around for hundreds of years. The lack of organized law enforcement during the 1800′s often allowed serial killers to go undetected for years before getting caught, if they were caught at all. This list of serial killers from the 1800′s details some of the creepiest and most grotesque crimes of the 19th century.
H.H. Holmes has regained notoriety in modern times as one of the most terrifying serial killers in American history with the recent release of the best selling novel, Devil in the White City. Holmes first foray into the macabre began while he was in medical school. He stole bodies from the school’s morgue and bought insurance policies under fake identities. He then disfigured the bodies and reported that these fake persons has accidentally died, thus collecting the life insurance. What Holmes did next, however, is truly horrific. On moving to Chicago, Holmes built a three story hotel which many in the neighborhood referred to as a castle. The top two floors of the building was a maze of sealed rooms, doors to nowhere, dead end staircases and countless other features designed to confuse the unlucky “guests”. Holmes routinely changed building contractors during the hotel’s construction so that only he would know the layout of the hotel.
Holmes, who primarily killed women, targeted his hotel staff, those he was romantically involved with as well as hotel guests. He often required his hotel staff to take out life insurance policies which had him as the main benefactor. Holmes would kill his victims by pumping gas into their sealed rooms or by cutting off airflow to the room. He would then drop the bodies through a chute into the basement where he either cremated the bodies or stripped the bodies of skin and organs so that he could sell the skeletons to medical schools. Holmes was eventually caught in 1894 and charged with the murder of three children. He was hung in 1896. Authorities stated that his killing spree lasted from 1893-1894 and that he killed anywhere from 20 to 200 people during that time.
Manuel Blanco Romasanta
Born in Spain, the family of Manuel Romansanta originally throught that he was a girl, and raised him as one until a doctor performing an exam informed them that he was in fact a male. Records state that Romanasanta reached no more 4 feet 11 inches in height as an adult and may have been even shorter. His first murder occured when a local official attempted to collect an unpaid debt. Romanasanta fled to a rural village where he acted as a mountain guide for travelling women and children. He attempted to allay suspicion by forging fake letters stating that the travelers had reached their destination. This did not last very long, as villagers soon noticed that Romanasanta was selling the women’s clothing within the village as well as soap which appeared to be made from human fat. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to death by garotte. He was active from 1844 to 1852 and killed between 9 and 14 people.
Boone Helm: The Kentucky Cannibal
The American Wild West was the playground of many criminals and psychopaths during the 1800′s. The wide expanses of wilderness and lack of organized local law enforcement meant that lunatics were often able to terrorize settlers for years. Helm was known for killing and cannibalizing traveling companions and those he met along the way when food was running low or they did something to anger him. He would also kill men and save their meat in case food ran low on long journeys. Groups seeking vigilante justice pursued Helm across the West, however, Helm was able to keep one step ahead for a time. In one instance he was submitted to a mental asylum after capture, but soon escaped after tricking the guards into thinking he was harmless. He was finally captured by a vigilante gang and hung in front of a crowd of 6,000. He jumped off the stool moements before the hangman could kick it out. Boone Helm was active from 1850 to 1864 and killed at least 11 people though the final tally is likely much higher.
My wife and I have been playfully betting on what she’ll say first - ‘Mama’ or ‘Daddy.’ I can hear my wife crooning over and over while she feeds her ‘Mama’s little girl! Mama loves you so much!’ Sometimes, she’s not even subtle about it - ‘Say ‘mama!’ Come on! ‘Mama!”
I don’t mind it though. I still believe I’ll win. When we first brought her home, she would scream and cry and nothing my wife would say could calm her down, but I knew just how to hold her to help her fall asleep. Our daughter was a daddy’s girl - my wife needed all the handicaps she could get.
I sit our daughter in her chair and my wife and I begin babbling like chickens - ‘Mama!’ ‘Daddy!’ ‘Say Mama!’ ‘Who’s daddy’s baby?’
I pull the gag from our little girl’s mouth.
“P-please… what do you want from me? Please let me go…”
My wife’s smile falls from her face. With a heavy heart, I put the gag back in as the girl starts to scream. I take her back to the room, locking her in and shutting the lights out. When I return, I find my wife crying.
“It’s ok, honey,” I tell her, “The next one will be better. I promise.”
Last night a friend rushed me out of the house to catch the opening act at a local bar’s music night. After a few drinks I realized my phone wasn’t in my pocket. I checked the table we were sitting at, the bar, the bathrooms, and after no luck I used my friend’s phone to call mine.
After two rings someone answered, gave out a low raspy giggle, and hung up. They didn’t answer again. I eventually gave it up as a lost cause and headed home.
I found my phone laying on my night stand, right where I left it.