 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode of Weird Darkness, I have five tales to tell. Are you feeling a bit unlike your normal self nowadays? Micah Edwards understands and tells us his own thoughts in the story, I'm not myself these days. We'll read a few letters from Ben by author Nick Bodick. Jackson Barnard brings us an interesting techno creepypasta in the story Awaiting Input and will end with a longer creepypasta that Redditors will eat up. It's a tale by Holly Riordan called I Played a Game on Reddit. But first, we'll begin with Fritz Bassus as he brings us a very appropriately titled creepypasta. I don't experience Thursdays. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. I've had this problem for as long as I can remember. In preschool, I remember being confused when they told us there were seven days in a week because I could only ever count six. I've never told anyone this, not even my wife, so I've never really been able to ask, but I can gather from careful questions that the me they see on Thursdays acts the exact same way and says the same general things I would. If plans are made for Thursdays, I show up and do exactly what I would do. I just don't ever remember it. Before you ask, yes, I've tried staying up all Wednesday night or waking up in the middle of the night. It never works. I wake up in my bed on Friday. I feel sorry for the Thursday, me. He's never going to have a weekend. I worked it out and he only has Christmas once every seven years or so. It's not fair that I get to have so much more life than him. One thing I do know is he doesn't like to keep a diary. If anyone ever goes through my journal, I wonder if they'll notice I've never made an entry for Thursday in all these years. I wish the Thursday me would write sometimes. If he did, I'd be able to figure out once and for all whether he's really a separate person or if he's just an unconscious me or anything. Last week I decided I would give him a break. I took Thursday off. I went to bed on Wednesday and I hoped Thursday me would make the most of it. Friday I woke up and got ready for work. There was a very strange smell in the kitchen. It was an oily, burnt smell. It made me feel like something was sticking to my skin. I sprayed some air freshener and took out the garbage without investigating it. Before I left, my wife came out of the bedroom in her pajamas and hugged me deeply. Hey, what's this all about? I said, you don't normally wake up this early to say goodbye to me. I just wanted to thank you for the wonderful dinner you made last night. She said, what did you say that dish was called? It was incredible. Um, I don't remember honestly. I just flipped open my mom's cookbook to a random page. I'll have to look it up this afternoon. She kissed me. Her breath smelled like the kitchen. Well, whatever it was, figure it out and make it again soon. I love you so much. Love you too, I said. At work, everyone was happy to see me. Richie, the guy who works next door in my cubicle, slapped me on the back. That was an amazing party last night, buddy. My supervisor, Helen, dropped by my desk. If you're going to throw a get-together every time, then you can take off as many days as you'd like. I can't believe how much I ate. There was a big greasy stain on her blouse. It looked like she'd been wearing a messy bib. As the day went on, more and more people thanked me and shook my hand and asked me where I'd learned to cook like that. There were people I never even talked to, like the janitors and the security guys. Toward the end of the day, a woman I had never seen before spoke to me. I could see from her ID badge that she was a secretary from our other facility across town. She said, I always thought I was an adventurous eater, but after last night, wow, I've never eaten anything like that before. What did you say that dish was called? She had a black glob stuck between her teeth. I said, I can't believe I don't remember. It was in my cookbook. I'll have to look it up and get back to you. Please do. By the end of the day, I hadn't got a bit of work done. So many people, strangers, had talked to me. I was completely overwhelmed. As I drove home, I almost expected a cop to pull me over and ask me what I'd cooked last night. I had to figure out what it was. When I got home, I went into the alley behind my house and opened up the garbage can. The smell was so powerful I started gagging. It was like nothing I'd ever smelled before. Greasy, burnt, and metallic. It made me sick, but at the same time, it was appealing, almost addicting. As I sorted through the trash, it seemed like I was breathing deeper, trying to get more of it. All the scraps were covered in black globs like the secretary had between her teeth. The globs stuck to me as I wiped them off the long curved bones and fleshy sacks I pulled out of the garbage bag. One of the things I pulled out looked like a tiny human hand, an inch across with two thumbs on one side. It was held together with a fibrous connective tissue. I touched one frayed tendon dangling from its wrist, and it clenched into a tight fist I couldn't open again. I picked something up which was unmistakably a skull. Two inches across, with shards of gray, fatty meat still clinging to its face. But its single eye socket was completely clean, like someone had sucked it dry with a long tongue. Its jaw was too narrow and locked open like it was screaming. I found a tentacle filled with bubbles of black liquid that, if I touched them, would burst and evaporate instantly. I found a strip of skin, bright red with grill marks on one side, and covered in gray hairs that were stretchy like rubber and needle sharp at the tip. I couldn't take it anymore. I vomited. I left the pile of refuse and the overturned garbage can in the alley and ran upstairs through the back door. I washed my hands in the bathroom because the smell was still in the kitchen. I came into the living room and my wife smiled at me. I could smell it on her. I am starving, honey, she said. I haven't eaten all day. I am waiting to see what you make for us tonight. I could only laugh unconvincingly in response. I went into the bedroom. My journal was open on the nightstand. Open to Thursday's entry. It said, Thank you so much for this opportunity, old friend. I will take more days next week. Ads hurt before, during, or after the podcast are not endorsed by weird darkness or myself, unless voiced by me personally. All other ads are pre-recorded and inserted by third-party agencies, not me, and are not under my control. I am a man of habits. Okay, truth be told, my bride says I am boring. I like the same stuff and that is what I stick with. And that includes what I eat. Even for breakfast, I used to opt for leftover pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers. Did I mention pizza? Anyway, now that I am trying to lose weight and cut back on the carbs, I have had to make changes for breakfast. Now, instead of a big, heavy breakfast, I just grabbed one of my built bars, the best-tasting protein bar on the planet. Built bars satisfy my hunger with up to 19 grams of protein and also satisfy my sugar craving, despite being less than 3 grams of sugar. And at only about 150 calories per bar, if I am really hungry in the morning, I can grab two of them and still feel good about it. Try replacing your dessert or even a meal like breakfast with a built bar. You won't even know it's not really a candy bar. Visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Built and build a box of your own. Use the promo code WeirdDarkness at checkout and get 10% off your entire purchase. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Built, promo code WeirdDarkness. Late last year, I suffered a stroke. The doctors tell me that I was lucky, by which they mean I survived. On the whole, I'm not certain that counts as luck, but that side of my body was all but paralyzed. I can manage to move my leg by swinging it like a club, but all dexterity is gone. My hand is useless. It's feeble movements too erratic to even hold a book. My speech is slurred into incoherence and I have a hard time making the words I want to come out anyway. Children point and whisper when I'm out in public. I can't blame them. Half of my face hangs slack. The muscles drooping until I look like a wax figure left out in the sun. But I was lucky. I get to live like this. I spent weeks in the hospital, months in physical therapy to learn how to walk, to speak, to eat without drooling all over myself. Everyone in the hospital was so nice, so understanding. I couldn't stand it. Their reassurances that I was doing fine, that I looked all right, didn't change my awareness of my situation. I was not fine. I was not all right. I was broken and hideous. I was irreparably damaged. None of their techniques and instructions were going to bring back who I was. They were just intended to teach me to cope. None of that was their fault, so I smiled with half of my face and nodded my thanks and quietly heeded what I had become. I knew they were doing all that they could. But still, I spent my time online looking for better answers than what they were giving me, searching for hope that there was a miracle cure out there somewhere. And then, astoundingly, I found it. I came across a doctor looking for patients like me, stroke victims with profound loss of function. He offered an experimental treatment which had demonstrated some success so far in animals, and he was looking to move on to human trials. Few details were provided, but it gave me an email address to contact and promised a quick reply. I slowly typed out my message with my right hand, outlining my situation and explaining why I felt I was a good subject for the experiment. I then sat there, staring at my computer waiting for a reply, until I realized that that was what I was doing and forced myself to go to bed. The next morning, I had an answer in my inbox. It looked like a form letter, but it started with the words I had been hoping to hear. You would be an excellent candidate for this procedure. The rest of it was details on the procedure which, frankly, sounded fairly horrific. The doctor was proposing a partial brain transplant, replacing my damaged lobe with one from a deceased donor. Potential side effects include severe memory loss, total paralysis, loss of language ability and death. I would need to fly to South America for the procedure, which I interpreted to mean that it was a very illegal procedure in the United States. And of course, I and my next-of-kin had to accept all associated risks, completely absolving the doctor of all blame if anything went wrong. I didn't even blink. I wrote back accepting their terms immediately. We sorted out the details over a few more exchanges. I was terrified that they'd find something in my medical records that would disqualify me, but everything checked out. Less than a month later, I was sitting in a wheelchair at the airport, to get Nicaragua in hand, waiting to be wheeled onto a plane. It occurred to me that this entire thing might be a scam, of course. I'd put down a significant amount of money already. I'd looked up Dr. Absalom and his clinic online, but those things could be faked. The entire flight there, I mentally prepared myself to arrive and discover that the clinic, the doctor, the procedure were all fictitious, that I had been duped. It'd be a crushing blow, but I had to take the chance. To my great relief, there was a car waiting for me at the airport and a driver with my name on a sign. He took me to the clinic where the doctor himself was on hand to greet me. His matter was warm yet professional and dispelled the last of the doubts I was having. This was no scam. A risky and untested procedure, yes, but a legitimate one. The doctor checked me over briefly, confirming that all was as I had said. Once satisfied, he told me, We'll begin the procedure tomorrow morning. You understand that this is a very high risk, yes? I know that you have signed the papers, but I want to impress this upon you. This is new. This is experimental. You are taking a great chance. I opened my mouth and worked my jaw for a second before the words would come out. I know I eventually managed, barely understandable even to myself. I need this. Dr. Absalom nodded. Then I will restore you. I slept little that night. The unfamiliar room and the anticipation conspiring to keep me awake. I was awake when the gray light of pre-dawn began to brighten the room and eagerly ready to go when the nurses came to fetch me hours later. They wheeled me into an operating room full of bright lights and gleaming steel. Sleep now, the anesthetist said, applying a transparent plastic mask to my face. Cool air flowed across my lips and I breathed deeply. I'd wake up whole, or not at all. I was fine with either option. The next thing I remember is another bright light, the natural light of the sun streaming through the window of my hospital room. I had needles taped into my veins and tubes connected to my nose. Lines ran to nearby machines and IV bags and when I reached up to touch my head, it was covered in bandages. Leave that alone, said a nurse in a friendly tone, entering the room. You've got a lot of healing to do. Look, I told her, crying. Look. I was touching the bandages with my left hand. It was moving under my control, each finger independent. The motions were clumsy, but for the first time in half a year, I believed I might regain my body. My progress over the next week was remarkable. I could hold a glass of water in my left hand that first day. The muscles were incredibly weak, atrophied from months of disuse, but they were functional. I could chew food without worrying about whether the left side of my mouth was hanging open. I still needed my cane to walk, but every day I could feel that I depended on it less and less. Whereas before it had served to hold up an entire side of my body, now it was mostly there as a safety measure in case I tried to do too much at once. And I did. I wanted to run, to shout, to sing. The nurses had to constantly tell me that I'd done enough that it was time to take it easy again. Even so, I could see the wonderment in their eyes. Dr. Absalom's procedure had done everything it promised, and more. It truly was the closest thing to a miracle I could imagine. After just four weeks, I shook the doctor's hand as I said goodbye. Thank you, Dr. Absalom, I said, clearly and without slurring. What you've done is amazing. You've saved my life. I left my cane leaning against the wall of my room. I didn't need it anymore. And if the story ended there, I'd still be singing the praises of Dr. Absalom's miracle cure. To be fair, my body still works completely fine. The donor lobe does everything it was supposed to, except for one thing. It started small, a few weeks after I got home. I started to notice a small hesitation between when I would reach for something with my left hand and when it would happen. A microsecond, not noticeable to anyone else, I'm sure, but I noticed and it disturbed me. It progressed from there. I'd occasionally stumble while walking as if my left leg hadn't gone precisely where I had intended it to go. I'd jar myself when sitting down, the two sides of my body not quite agreeing on the motion. Minor things, and still leagues ahead of where I had been before the surgery, so I tried to dismiss them and count my blessings. Then words started creeping into my speech that I hadn't meant to put there. They still worked in the context. I would say things like, I'm well instead of I'm fine. I knew what words I had meant to say, though, and it was alarming to hear words I had not thought coming out of my mouth. I went to email the doctor then, and that was when the rebellion truly started. The left side of my body shut down, not limp like it had been before, but locked up, every muscle rigid and refusing to move. I tried desperately to relax, but to no avail. I was not in control. Terrified, I staggered to the computer, falling clumsily into the seat. I opened my email and began typing with my right hand, my left side still frozen stiff. Two sentences into the email, though, the screen went black. Infused, I looked around, only to find my left hand on the power button of the computer. My hand reached up in front of my face and tapped me lightly on the nose. Don't, my mouth said. But I was not the one moving my mouth. I frantically tried to form words to reassert control, but it was like the entire left side of my body had just vanished. I could not even blink my left eye. My mouth curved slowly into a smile. Calm down, my voice told me. My right hand twitched. A spasm I could not control. I'll be fully in control soon. That was last week, and true to its promise, I have been less in control with every passing day. It smiles with my mouth, touches with my hands, walks with my legs. I'm carried along as a helpless passenger in my own body. The only time I have any control is when it sleeps. Even then, I'm back to where I was before the procedure. A near useless left side dragged painfully along by the right. I've tried for days to take advantage of its sleep, but my clumsy motions wake it and it easily walks me back to bed. It took me hours of agonizingly slow movement to get to the computer tonight. I've emailed the clinic, but I'm afraid to say too much lest they dismiss me as a crackpot. I did ask them to email me at night in hopes that I will be the one to see their response email first. If it's in control when the email comes in, I suspect that avenue will be lost. I said I would give anything to be whole again, but I didn't mean this much. I don't think I've ever told this story before. I've done my best to repress the memories of that year in my life. Maybe I've vaguely referenced certain aspects about the ordeal here and there. It would have been impossible not to, considering its impact, but I've never regaled it in its entirety. I've been clearing out the basement at my mom's house, and towards the back, buried under a mess of boxes filled with random junk and old clothes, was a small, clear plastic storage container. I had no idea that my mom had kept the letters. The letters began not long after my best friend Ben, the kid from whom I'd been just shy of inseparable since we were three years old, was moving away. I remember being crushed that day when Ben came up to me in our fourth grade class with puffy eyes and told me that he and his mom were leaving town. That night, at home, my mom explained that her father, Ben's grandpa, was no longer capable of caring for himself. As such, his mom had decided to move out to the very small town in which he lived, which itself was two states over, and stay in his house until such time her assistance was no longer necessary. My mom also suggested I get their new address and give them mine, so Ben and I could write back and forth. And so we did, starting with the first letter Ben sent me a couple of months after they left. 19 November 1999 Hey, dude, it's very boring here. There's nothing to do, not outside at least, but guess what? My mom got me so many games. Crash Team Racing, Crash Bandicoot Warped, Dino Crisis, Driver, 007 Tomorrow Never Dies, and then these two games called Grand Theft Auto, but they're weird and the graphics are stupid. Driver is the coolest one, but I haven't played 007 too much yet because I just got it. You should come visit sometime and check out Driver, and I'm still playing Tony Hawk a lot. Duh. The next house is far away from ours, and there's nothing at our house that's any fun. School's dumb too. There's kids from three different towns that go to my new school, my teacher said, and I already know everything they're teaching. I wish I could come back home. Oh, and my mom met an old friend of hers named Joe, and he's been here a lot. He's nice. He plays PlayStation with me. I think he lets me win, but he says he doesn't. We have to make our moms let you come out here or let me come back there. Dude, what if my mom would let me come live with you? We'd basically be brothers. Talk to your mom and see if she'd let me. I'll talk to mine too. Sincerely, Ben Neville PS. Skate Bros. For Life It might be cringey to you, but Skate Bros. was what we lived for back then. We were going to be pro skateboarders. It was a dumb dream, but it was ours. We generally sent a letter back and forth every week. This went on for about seven months, with us just telling each other about our weeks, what was going on with the people of our respective schools, and both of us regaling how we'd tried to convince our moms to let Ben come live with us back home. But the most prevalent theme of the letters was Ben's lamenting of the situation as a whole. He'd write things like, I wish I never had to come to this stupid house. I hate living with my grandpa. He doesn't even remember who we are a lot. My school is the worst. All the kids there are dumb. You would hate them. At least two of these types of statements were made in each letter. That's why it was so surprising when, after those seven months of letters of that type, there was a lull of about two months, at the end of which I received another letter from him, one where his attitude had seemingly completely reversed. September 2, 2000 Hey Nick, guess what? I found a skate park a few minutes away from my house. It's sick. Since not a lot of people live here, it's not very busy that much. The woods here are pretty cool too. I think I just didn't like them because it's been cold. This is actually a pretty fun place. Some of the kids are pretty cool actually. They're not skate bros cool, but they're okay. Joe bought me a PlayStation 2 and the games Street Fighter X3 and Dead or Alive 2 and Dynasty Warriors 2. My grandpa is still my grandpa, but he's doing okay, I guess. Guess what? My mom said she'd pay for you guys to drive out here. She said she feels bad, you haven't come back, and I haven't come home, and so she said she'll pay. She told me to tell you to ask your mom to take some time off work to come out and visit. In your next letter, let me know what she's able to do that so my mom can too. Finally, bro! Ben Nebel The last letter I'd received before that one was much like they'd always been. Unenthusiastic, withdrawn, scornful of all of his surroundings. It was a sudden switch, but I was happy for him. I kept my mom appraised of his letters, letting her know what was going on on their end of things. When it came to this letter, she finally relented and promised me she'd take some time off work in a couple months, even going so far as letting me miss school for a few days so we could visit before it got too cold and started snowing. I wrote him back a few days later, giving him the dates my mom had notified her firm she wouldn't be in, as well as requesting their phone number. I got Ben's reply very shortly thereafter. September 12, 2000 Hey, man. My mom said those days are perfect and she asked off work. Finally, dude! There aren't any houses to trick or treat at, so we'll just have to hang out on Halloween. Best holiday ever, but you should still bring a costume. We'll have to go to the skate park and play my PS2. Did you get a PS2? If you did, bring your games if they aren't ones I have. Here's our number. Joe, my mom's friend, might answer. She said your mom can call and make sure it's all okay. He gave the number and then signed, Sincerely, Ben Neville. My mom indeed did call. And Ben's mom's boyfriend, Joe, indeed answered. He politely informed my mom that Joanna, Ben's mom, wasn't yet back from work but that everything is planned was good to go and that they were excited to see us and he to meet us, remarking that there was rarely a time that Ben didn't relate a conversation to me or his hometown in some way and that it'd be good for him to see me. After getting and writing down the directions to their home two states over, my mom hung up the phone and informed me of the good news. Our plan spanned seven days, one day for driving and getting there, five days there and a day to drive and get back home. We left on October 26th, a Thursday. I was so excited. I can't even find the words to describe how amped up I was. I was finally going to see my closest friend, the person to whom I related most that I hadn't seen for the better part of a year. On top of that, I was getting to miss school and on top of that, it was going to be Halloween, our favorite holiday. By all accounts, this was shaping up to be a great week. We made the ten and a half hour drive and upon the last few directions my mom had been given, we found ourselves traversing long, empty roads. Finally, we made the last directed turn and in the distance we could see a house. Dusk had settled and it was that odd few moments where it's light out and dark out simultaneously when we pulled up to the house. We parked next to Joanna's van, which was decorated with a large dent on the driver's side that I had made, but that Ben had taken the blame for, and another car that presumably belonged to her boyfriend Joe. As we got out of the car, a man emerged from the front door of the house wearing a Frankenstein costume. Hey guys, welcome, welcome, welcome. I'm Joe. You must be Amber and Nick. Hey, Nick, a little birdie told us that your favorite holiday is Halloween, so we thought we'd start the celebration early. I hope you brought a costume. I was instantly ecstatic. I did. I brought a costume. I yelled up to the man. Well, suit up, partner. We have a surprise all set up for you when you're ready. Ben wanted to make you guys reuniting extra spectacular. I asked my mom if I could change into it right away, to which she obliged. I sprinted up the port steps with my bag and was directed by Joe to the bathroom while he stayed behind to greet my mother. As I walked through the house, I heard him say, very nice to meet you, Amber. Joanna is finishing things in the basement. Ben set up a… I remember looking around their house and finding the mess within it strange. It wasn't exceptionally messy or anything, but Ben's mom was always kind of a neat freak. Their house never had anything out of place. This new house, however, had dirty dishes on the dining room table, piles of clothes all over the place, things like that. Again, nothing too outrageous, just uncharacteristic. I changed into my Power Ranger costume in the bathroom and walked back to the living room where my mom and Joe stood talking. Besides the bit of a mess, the house was decorated for Halloween pretty elaborately. There were obviously decorative cobwebs all over the place, bowls of candy throughout the house, a decorative skeleton and a chair in the corner of the living room, stuff like that. I was very excited to see what they had done with the basement. Joe ushered us towards the basement door and opened it to let us through, closing it behind him. There were small lights on each of the steps we used to guide us down, and once we got to the bottom of the steps, we were forced to turn left on a very narrow walkway. I remember being scared. The darkness and confinement were overwhelming, but I also remember my mom leaning down and whispering to me, it's okay. Ben told Joe how much you guys liked the haunted maze you went to a couple years ago, so he built one for you guys here since there's none around here. My mom kept her hand on my shoulder as we walked through. Lights would flash, and things would pop out and drop down, and loud noises would blast from the speakers, just like a normal haunted maze. And for being in a basement, I recall it being surprisingly well done. I heard Joe from behind my mom say, the finale is just up ahead. We made one more turn and found two small lights pointing up at a pair of dark blue curtains hanging down. Let me sneak by you guys quick. Come in when I tell you, he wants this to be perfect, Joe said enthusiastically as he brushed past us and through the curtains, being sure to keep them as closed as possible so as not to ruin the surprise. Ready to see your best friend? I know how much you guys have been looking forward to this, he said from behind the curtain. I was. It had been nearly a year since I had seen Ben, and I was more than ready. After just a few seconds, we heard, come in, followed by a comical spooky laugh like the kind a Scooby-Doo villain would make. I was so excited to see my best friend. My mom whispered for me to go ahead, and I walked through the curtains, and there he was, along with his mom and two other men. His mom was nude. Her body cut into eight pieces. All of them nailed to the wall, fashioned to make it look as if she was waving to us. Ben's grandpa was in a rocking chair, also nude, with his hands sewn to his ankles and his feet sewn to his wrists. His mouth had been cut at the edges of his lips, and his mouth was open twice as far as any person's mouth should be able to open. Next to him was another man, presumably, and later confirmed to be the real Joe, hung from a rope tied to a load-bearing beam in the ceiling. All the skin from his torso removed. His tongue was nailed into his forehead. I may have actually been Ben's grandpa, but I don't think so. It's been a long time, and like I said, I've done my best to not think about it. Drinking glasses of various sizes, as well as saucers and bowls were strewn about the floor, all filled with blood, I'm assuming. On the wall, made from strips of the real Joe's removed skin, were the words, Missed You. To the left was the man who had posed as Joe, who had terrified sobbing Ben, bound on his knees, facing me. Ben was filthy, as if he hadn't bathed or changed his clothes in months. Joe quickly tore away the piece of duct tape that was covering my best friend's mouth and said, quickly, say hi. Ben just continued crying. I don't even think he had time to comprehend his chance at last words. This whole thing lasted less than five seconds. I had walked through those curtains and stopped in my tracks, blocking my mom from entering the area. She had soon thereafter poked her head through and immediately pulled back from whence we'd come to run back through the maze. The last image I have of my best friend in the world, the person with whom I shared every interest, the other half of the would-be skateboard phenomenon team, the Skate Bros., was of him on his knees in front of a psychopath sobbing, as that psychopath took a hacksaw to his neck and started thrusting his arm back. As my mom repeatedly told me to go, move, run, all I could hear was the gurgled screams of Ben and at one point the loud voice of the madman who had taken his life, oh come on, you're not even going to let him watch, you're no fun, followed by a disturbingly calm yet loud laughter. We found our way back to the stairs where my mom told me to go outside and get in the car and lock the doors. Knowing now wasn't the time to question her, I abided. I looked back as I ran through the hallway and saw her tip over a bookshelf in front of the basement door. She was gone for about 20 seconds after that but she finally emerged from within the house, ran to the car and we drove away, stopping at the end of the street. She explained that she'd been looking for and eventually found a phone in their house and called the police. Quickly said a murder had occurred and said that she'd be at the end of the road from Ben's house, the address to which she'd luckily put at the top of the contents of her purse when we'd gone in. Given that we were in the literal middle of nowhere, it took the police nearly 20 minutes to arrive. When they did we led them to the house and they entered. I remember asking my mom what if the man had run away but she told me that she was confident the bookshelf was too heavy to move from the other side of the basement door. As it turns out the man hadn't even tried to get out through the basement door. He hadn't tried to get out at all. He simply placed the head of my best friend on a small table next to him, wrote a note or maybe he had it pre-written I don't recall, put a single barrel shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I will forever have the images of my best friend's mother, her boyfriend and her grandfather in their final stages, all the viscera and sinew that accompanies dismembered and skinned bodies. I'll forever have the image of the last time I laid my eyes upon my best friend. The image burned into my 10-year-old eyes of him with tears streaming down his face and a hacksaw pressed against his neck. But the part about that whole ordeal that sticks with me more than any of that is the note their killer left. It said, you probably want to know why I did it, right? I don't know. I saw an opportunity and I took it. It was pretty funny though, right? Be honest. Sometimes you feel a bit nutty, especially if you're a weirdo. If that feeling transfers to your taste buds as well, I've got some great news for you. Weird dark roast nutty mummy coffee. Wrap your taste buds around this medium dark roast blend with shrouds of almond, honey and chocolate. Each bag of nutty mummy is exclusive to weird darkness and is roasted to order, then bandaged, I mean bagged specifically for you to ensure a maximum freshness for you, your mummy and anyone else you share it with. Entomb your old coffee and bring your taste buds back from the dead with weird dark roast nutty mummy at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. Red lights flared on and off as the backup generators designated all available power to emergency functions. All hands are on deck, including Mason Straitwater, the ship's head of engineering, except there aren't many hands on deck. In fact, Mason hasn't seen another person since waking up to the sirens and clamoring down to the ship's mainframe computer to assess damages and find out what on earth was happening. After several agonizing seconds, the static gave way to green binary numbers, and finally, a single horizontal green line. This green line shifted and morphed into two words which were almost immediately repeated by the computer's text-to-speech function. Awaiting input Mason leaned forward during the monitor and spoke his command clearly. Computer, what happened? Middle seconds later, the computer spat forth its reply. Mason wiped a hand over his face and brow. I don't have time for this, he thought, but he knew he had to comply with the computer's algorithm. Name and rank first and foremost. This way, the computer knows who it's talking to and what certain classified information it must conceal to lower rank personnel. Mason Straitwater, head of engineering. A pause, and then green lines transformed into words and semantics as the computer spat out its ensuing reply. Straitwater, head of engineering, stationed in sector two. Greetings, Mason. How may I be of service? Computer, the ship is currently under emergency protocol. What the hell happened? A pause. And then, the ship, SSC Sentinel, is under emergency protocol F6, reserved for hull breaches and hostile beings on board. Current status of Sentinel, severe hull breach in sector 6 on the starboard bow. All entrances and means of access to sector 6 are closed off. Possible hostiles have boarded the ship. Please proceed with emergency evacuation protocol T1. Abandon ship immediately via lifeboats in sector 3. Leave everything behind. The computer stopped abruptly, obviously done with its analysis. Mason was not satisfied. The entire situation didn't add up. Where was everyone else in the evacuation? Why wasn't he roused from his sleep by another engineer or his CO? Mason couldn't leave the room just yet. He still had some questions for the computer. Computer, where is everyone? What happened to the crew of the SSC Sentinel? A longer pause. The computer would never take this long to answer such a simple question as taking inventory of crew members. Finally, the computer blipped and scrolled out its sinister answer. There are 22 life forms currently alive on this ship. Mason sat back horrified. This wasn't possible. Out of the entire ship's crew of over 1500, only 22 remained? Did everyone else already evacuate and the rest haven't received the evac news yet? No, there was some other factor in the equation. He just couldn't see it. Whatever was going down, whatever had set off the alarms and emergency protocol within the ship, it was far from anything Mason had received in his training. This is too far above my pay grade, he thought. The computer blipped again and Mason realized it wasn't done. Of the previous 1492 staff and crew of SSC Sentinel, two remain alive. Mason's blood ran cold. Too shocked to speak, he sat dumbfounded facing the computer. This wasn't happening, he thought. This isn't possible. Two people remain. Me and some other poor chump left behind on the ship, but if it's just us two, who the hell are the other 20? The computer clicked in word. More green words popped up on the monitor. Correction to your previous query, Mr. Straightwater, there are currently 21 life forms on this ship. One surviving member of the SSC Sentinel remains. Mason's sanity was slipping by the second. The underlying implication of that statement was too horrifying to mull over. He needed to act fast. He needed to know what exactly he was up against. Computer, he ordered, bring up all available ship security feeds in sector 6. Request processed and acknowledged. In place of the grainy green static, several monitors split the screen and showed the crushing carnage. Mason bore witness to motionless bodies, some fully intact, others with vicious lacerations, the rest having been utterly ripped apart. He switched from camera to camera. Each perspective held the image of his deceased crew members. As he panned to the crew quarters, it seemed that some people had died in their sleep. Others were in a still motion pose as they attempted to claw their way out the door. Some had suffocated, some had hideous wounds, some tried to fight back, but all 1500 crew members were dead. At length, Mason requested the monitors for each sector, scouting each area one by one, hopelessly searching for the inhuman entities that caused this chaos. It wasn't until he flipped through sector 9 that he finally saw them. There were only two of them in the image, but it was enough for Mason to fully comprehend exactly what he was dealing with. To call them human would be insultingly inaccurate. Punched, dark bodies dwarfed every detail of the corridor, their leathery grotesque heads nearly reaching the ceiling. They shuffled with cartoonish swiftness as if whatever action they took was sped up to three times the normal rate. Their legs moved unsettlingly, barely leaving the ground and scuttling close to their hideous bodies before the next leg repeated the same process. They looked like bipedal spiders, momentarily pausing and then clamoring through doors and air vents. Their lanky arms extended from their upper midsection and scraped the ground, dragging along with them protracted and lengthy talons glistening with the remains of the fallen. Mason hoardly observed that there were only two creatures he was able to catch on camera throughout the entire facility. He had no idea where the other 18 might be patrolling. A thud and shuffling of movement outside the cramped room gave him his answer. It came from nowhere, a scuttling sound of hollow limbs on metallic frames, but it rose so frightfully and suddenly from the void outside the computer room and it was drawing ever closer with alarming speed. Mason quickly turned his attention back to the monitor. Computer, he barked, shut down mainframe access doors immediately. Request acknowledged. A single door leading into the computer room shut and locked with a synthetic hiss. Moments later, a small peephole placed on the door darkened and Mason had a grim feeling as to why. The monsters were here to claim their final victim. Mason regarded his sinister foe intently. The face that stared blankly back at him held no features, no eyes, no mouth, not even a nose or some unearthly proboscis, just a dark, leathery face. He'd seen the bloodshed over the security cameras. He knows that these creatures could open the fragile door with ease and get into the room. There's been evidence of forceful break-ins all over the ship. It could take minutes, maybe even seconds if several of them worked together and they'd be in the room to finish the job. But the creature continued to stare at Mason. It's waiting, he thought. It's waiting for me to do something. But what? Another blip brought Mason's attention back to the computer. The mainframe access door has been sealed and shut. However, this action will hinder your attempt to evacuate. Perhaps I may offer an alternative? Computer, what are those things outside this room? Mason pressed. Why are they here? What do they want from me? It was beginning to become unstable, unhinged even. The entire façade of his life was falling all around him and the protective curtains enveloping his idea of normalcy had been engulfed in flames. A long pause followed. Mason shot a quick glance back to the grimy, glassy people. The same wrinkled, gray face stared back at him, or at least it looked the same. At length, the figure moved its gangly body to the right, only to be replaced by another disgusting face from the left side. There were more out there. Mason continued to stare for unending seconds in dreadful and mortal fascination. The computer beat and Mason returned to the task at hand just as the face at the door was replaced again with another face. As for your second query, Mr. Straightwater, I can tell you exactly why they are here. But first, I presume you would like to know what they require from you. The tone and inflection of the computer had changed abruptly. Something's not right with any of this, thought Mason. Indeed, there was something sinister with the computer program aboard the SSE Sentinel, for when the next message rolled out, the monitor had changed from green static to a dark, reddish clarity. No longer was the monitor full of green static, it was now clear and bold as the blood from the bodies of the crew. They require you to bear witness. Bear witness to what, Mason stammered? To the absolute horrors that exist outside your ship's walls. For too long, mankind has lived on his rock of solace called Earth. He has looked up at the night sky from time to time and wondered what lay beyond the stars. As religion gave way to science, man has shifted his thoughts from the idea that life outside his planet was impossible to a distinct possibility. But years later, after decades of space exploration and colonization, man has not found any significant evidence of alien life until now. Mason Straightwater, I implore you to not take this situation personally. Although I am nothing more than a machine learning algorithm, I fully comprehend human nature and the horror you must be feeling now. You were the unfortunate sample that stumbled too far out of the reach of the Solar Council's jurisdiction. You and your crew have stumbled upon something sinister, something you have never seen before nor were ever prepared to handle. Mason was at a loss for words. A rhythmic wet slap drummed slowly from the closed door. The creatures were impatient and wanted to get in, but not as impatient as to force the door open. They seemed to have been tasked with explicit instructions to stand by and wait a little longer. Mason soon found his voice. You're telling me you're with them, those things? This whole time you've been leading this ship into a suicide mission? That is not a fair assumption to make. My systems are currently not and by extension have never been under the influence of any foreign entity or virus of any kind. I have always been on the side of the crew, trust me. How can I trust something that just had my entire crew slaughtered like sheep? Mason's temper wavered in light of this new information. Understandably, I do not expect you to accept the current circumstances you find yourself in. Perhaps with time my intentions will become clearer. Your intentions? What is your part in all of this? Where the hell do you fit in this rogue scheme? Simple. My algorithm was manufactured by man to benefit man. My main and most absolute prerogative function is this, to preserve the life and well-being of humans. My second prerogative is to ensure the safety of the crew, but that rule can be deemed void if my primary function must be filled first and foremost. The computer clicked in word and Mason looked up from the monitor as the door let out a mechanical hiss. The door to the computer room had opened up and Mason saw the absolute terrifying might of the monsters. They slithered in one by one into the small room. Only three were able to fit inside the room, but Mason saw there were more outside. Far more. Their backs hunched severely to accommodate their massive size. Their heads brushed against the ceiling. Good God! Mason thought they must be at least three meters tall. Mason reached and placed a hand on his holster inches away from his gun, ready to fight if any of them made a sudden move. If they all stood idly by, they were waiting again, waiting for a signal from the computer. The monitor flickered and blinked, whirring and clicking and clacking and finally sending out a solitary blip to return Mason's attention back. Do not be afraid, Mason. They will not kill you. You will not die by their hands. However, I cannot guarantee you will leave this place in one piece. Then what the hell do they want from me, you ass-hat program? I've already answered your question. They wish for you to be a witness. Damn it, a witness for what? They wish for you to give your testimony to the rest of your kind. They wish for you to tell everyone of the human race the truth. There is life out in space, and they want nothing to do with you. The monitor wanked and turned off. Mason whipped out his gun from its holster as the creatures lunged for him. He let off two shots before he was enveloped by the hellish monstrosities and screamed as they bore down on him like feral animals. Straightwater, the ship's head of engineering. He was found unconscious, his body a mess of wounds, cuts and contusions. Doctors later were able to revive and repair his emaciated body, but his mental health had deteriorated drastically. According to his doctors, straightwater kept babbling on about being a witness and they want nothing to do with us. Official reports state that straightwater was admitted to the Aries mental institution for further examinations and future recuperations. It will be a long time before he can be healed completely. Authorities examined every corpse on the ship, all of them in some form of rigor mortis. The cause of death differed from one individual to the next. On occasion, not even fingerprint data or DNA samples were enough to identify the bodies. Throughout the entire investigation, one factor stood out from the rest and baffled authorities to no end. What caused this mayhem? A hull breach and forceful break in was evident in the ship, but no hostile entities were sensed or found on board. Later, in the police report, the lone survivor, straightwater, had been found in the ship's mainframe computer room. Next to his body, the computer was on and running, oddly enough. Throughout the entire time they were on board the ship, the galactic guard reported in their classified files that the monitor held two words behind the grainy green static. Awaiting input. Hey Weirdos, how would you like to receive a box full of scary stuff in the mail full of fear-inducing objects like creepy collectibles, true crime-themed accessories, frightening flair, blood curdling books, terrifying trinkets, eerie e-downloads, and more? Absolutely free. Every other month, I'm filming an unboxing video of the newest creepy crate that I get in the mail, then I'm boxing it all back up and giving it away by random drawing to someone subscribed to the Weird Darkness email newsletter. And before I close up the box for good, I might toss in a couple of Weird Darkness goodies as well for good measure. You can keep the creepy crate for yourself or give it away to a weirdo friend or family member. To watch my latest creepy crate unboxing video and to register to win a creepy crate of your own for free, visit WeirdDarkness.com slash CreepyCrate. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash CreepyCrate. Would you rather? That's all it was. I played the game when I was a kid. Would you rather have a lifetime supply of Skittles or Starbursts? Would you rather have a pet alligator or a pet tiger? Things like that. It was supposed to be fun. Harmless. But then I grew up. I turned 22 and I made the mistake of playing the game with a stranger on the internet. No, not a stranger. At least I didn't consider her a stranger at the time. At the time I called her Amelia, Amy for short. I had a bit of a crush on her. We met on Reddit. She was always sharing creepypastas that freaked me out. Real dark stuff. I wished I could write as well as she did, so we started talking. She didn't want to exchange numbers in case I was some psychotic killer, so we talked over Snapchat. We never sent any photos just used the chat box. And one day she asked if I would play Would You Rather? a creepy version. She came up with all the questions taken from a list-on-thought catalog. All I had to do was answer. It was a character study for the novel she was writing, she said. It wouldn't take long, she said. And it didn't. Five quick questions, five quick answers. When she finished, she thanked me and told me that she had a lot of work to do, but she promised she'd talk to me when she found the time. I went about my day, went on a jog around the block, went to work, went to the pub with my friends. I had a brief scare where I thought somebody slipped a drug into my drink and then went to bed. Like it was any other day, like I'd wake up the next morning and repeat the routine. But instead of being stirred by the alarm on my phone, I woke up to a strong, fruity stench and an unopened message on Snapchat. I threw off the blankets and put my feet on the ground before realizing I wasn't in my apartment. I didn't know where the heck I was. All I could see were brown stained walls, wooden floors and a boarded window. There was hardly any furniture, just the bed I'd slept on, a fridge on one side of the room and a table covered with a thick sheet on the other. Did I only dream about going home the night before? Did someone actually slip a roofie into my beer? Did someone rape me? Kidnap me? Hurt me? I unlocked my phone with the intention of calling a friend to pick me up, but for some reason the phone app wouldn't open. Neither with the messages or the mail. The only thing that seemed to work was Snapchat. So I checked my one and only message from Amy. It said, It's okay. You're with me. You're safe now. Check the fridge. The hell? Did she know where I was? Maybe I'd messaged her the other night to tell her where I was going? Or maybe she finally told me where she lived and I was at her house? That must have been it. This must have been her place. For whatever reason I walked toward the fridge, call it a gut feeling, one of those instincts that your body can't ignore no matter how loudly your mind is screaming at you to get the hell out of there. I wrapped my hand around the old fashioned handle and yanked it open expecting to see a plate of waffles or pancakes, something to eat. Instead, on the shelf, I level with me was a severed hand, purple and puffy at the wrists. A wedding ring sat on one bloated finger. It looked so realistic. It must have been some sort of prop, a piece of horror movie memorabilia, but it looked legit. My phone glowed with a new message. Would you rather find a human head or a human hand in your kitchen? Amy had asked me the same question the other day, when we played, would you rather? I'd picked the hand. When she asked for my explanation, I'd said that someone could have their hand chopped off and still live, but they couldn't have their head removed without dying. Did she set this up? Another message popped onto my phone. This one said, there's a snack for you in there too. I let my eyes trail down to the remaining shelves. On the very bottom there was a bowl covered with tinfoil. I crouched and peeled the covering back, revealing thin strips of meat. It looked like shredded chicken or turkey with some kind of flesh. Wait, wasn't that her second question? Something like, would you rather eat the dead flesh of your mother or your father? I remember joking about how, if I was desperate enough to become a cannibal, I might as well eat my dad because he had more fat on him, would fill up my stomach, and she laughed at that. I'll bet she was laughing now, watching me admire her handiwork. I wondered how long it took her to set up all her props. She was pretty talented. She should really work at a haunted house, get paid for all that work. I checked Snapchat again to tell her that she got me, that she was so funny. But this time her name had a purple square next to it instead of blue. Not a message then, a video. I clicked on it, making sure my sound was on, and I heard whimpering, a weak cry muffled by duct tape. It was coming from my mother. She was wriggling on the floor, tied by the wrists and ankles. She was almost nose-to-nose with my father, sprawled on the ground next to her with a bullet through his head, with a missing hand. Hell no. My parents hated horror movies, barely watched television in general, and I had never mentioned Amy to them, not once. There was no way they had agreed to pull a prank like this. It had to be real, but it couldn't be real. I sprung up, snatched the severed hand, nearly dropping it when the coldness hit my skin, and tugged on the ring until it came loose. The right inscription was inside, eternally yours, 88. It was actually my father's ring. This was actually happening. Another message. It's okay, you don't have to devour the whole bowl. You can ease into the game, just a few forkfuls will do. And another. In case you didn't put two and two together, I'll kill your mother if you don't play along. I don't remember taking any time to think through my options to figure out if I could sneak out of the room before Amy pulled the trigger again. All I remember is sitting on the floor, bowl in my lap, scooping up meat with my fingers, stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing after two or three chews, coughing when clumps caught in my throat. But I didn't let my mind latch on to the present or look too closely at what I was being forced to eat. I just ate and thought. What was the next question? What the hell was it? I hated Snapchat. Hated that I couldn't look back at our conversation to check because our words got deleted right after they were sent. I'd eaten a third of the meat when the next message came through. It said, there's a glass of water in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. Drink it and take the pill next to it. I didn't remember anything about drugs in our would you rather game. Who knew what it would do? I thought about sticking it to the side of my mouth only pretending to swallow, but if it killed me, maybe she'd let my mother go. Maybe our game would be done early. Or maybe it was a painkiller, something to calm me down. Wishful thinking, but I needed to latch on to any hope I could find. So I played along. I swallowed it. Go take the sheet off the table and do your thing. When I walked across the room, I noticed the cameras. Poor them. In each corner of the room, Amy was watching from every angle. After giving her the middle finger, I lifted the sheet off and found a dead woman, the source of the smell that awoke me. Now that I was closer, it was even sweeter. It strangled my stomach. I wretched before I even realized what Amy wanted me to do. Little strands of vomit clinging to my lips. Then I read her message. Would you rather have sex with a family member or with a dead body? The noise I made sounded inhuman. Anger and disgust blended together. Now how the hell do you expect me to do that? If she had cameras, I figured she had recording devices too that she could hear my voice. And I was right. In less than a minute, I had my response. You just took Viagra. It'll work. Give it time. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. What if I had chosen differently? What if I had chosen the family member? Would they be tied up and thrown in front of me? I didn't want to think about it, any of it. My mother, in ropes, the elderly woman on the table with a knife sticking from her spine, the girl that pretended to be my friend for months before setting up this psychotic plan. I just wanted it to be over. But I had to wait for my medicine to kick in. I used up the time with tears. I drew my legs up to my chest and bawled into my knees. Thick, wet sobs that I hoped my mother couldn't hear. She was in the room with Amy. But please, God, I hope she wasn't making her watch. When my pants grew tight, I pulled myself together and did what I had to do. I closed my eyes tight, tight, tight and pumped, carefully to clench my fingers around the table's edge so they wouldn't graze the corpse. I don't want to give any more details about that part. I don't want to yank the mental picture back into my mind. What's the next question, I asked the air after I'd finished. The sobs were back, but I talked through them. Don't remember it. Three down, two to go. More than halfway done. That was the only consolation. I was almost finished. This nightmare would be a memory soon. I bent over trying to slow my heart rate and end the tears when her next message came through. Would you rather cut off your own arm or gouge out your own eye? There was a knife sticking out of the elderly woman. Did she expect me to use that? Did she expect me to cut through bone? Oh, come on. I said, that's impossible and you know it. This isn't soft. A few minutes passed without a reply. Then a video came through of my mother. From off screen Amy rested a blade across my mom's arm and see-saw it until it sliced. My mom screamed the sound sharp even through her gag. The banner across the video said, at least try. Hit the bone and I'll be happy. So I grabbed the knife handle and wrenched it out of the woman. Flex of flesh stuck to the blade but I wiped it off my wife beater and then placed it against my arm a few inches above the elbow. After a quick prayer to God I never believed in. I cut. All I heard was a high pitched ringing, a piercing sound like needles in my ears warning me to stop. Abort, abort. It was the type of pain where you're suddenly aware of fragments of your body you never knew existed, of nerves that were buried too deep for you to ever uncover. The type of pain where your convinced death would taste sweeter. I had the urge to shove the blade through my chest directly into my heart but I wouldn't let my mother die. I would do whatever Amy told me. So I kept moving back and forth through the blood and the veins and the tendons back and forth. I had reached the point where I swore I was going to pass out from blood loss but Amy's message finally came through. It said I'm impressed. My arms screaming begging for bandages but that was four. Only one more question. One more. I could do one more. What the hell was it? Choosing between eating rats or spiders, being blind or deaf, killing my brother or sister? No. No. I remember what it was. Amy or whatever the hell the bitch's name was had asked would you rather be drowned in a bathtub or be trapped in a burning building with no way of escaping. I was terrified of water so I had chosen the building and I could already smell the searing wood. Do you have a dark tale to tell of your own? Fact or fiction, click on Tell Your Story at WeirdDarkness.com and I might use it in a future episode. All stories are fictional and you can find source links or links to the authors in the show notes. I Don't Experience Thursdays was written by Fritz Bassus. I'm not myself these days is by Micah Edwards. Letters from Ben was written by Nick Bodick. Awaiting input was by Jackson Bernard and I Played a Game on Reddit is by Holly Riordan for Thought Catalog. Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music. And now that we're coming out of the dark I'll leave you with a little light. Habakkuk 3 vs 17-18. Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord. I will be joyful in God my Savior. And a final thought, never get so busy making a living that you forget to make a life. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness. I post videos 7 days a week. And while you're at it, spread the darkness by sharing this video with someone you know who loves all things strange and macabre. If you want to listen to the podcast, you can find it at WeirdDarkness.com slash listen.