I have been banned from calling 911. I don’t k…

I’m really at the end of my rope here. No, check that. I was at the end of my rope weeks ago. Now I’m sort of clinging to the side of the cliff by one bloody fingernail.

I didn’t even know that you could get banned from calling 911. 31 calls over 36 nights later, and now I know the truth. They told me that unless they find an actual emergency situation the next time they respond, they’ll arrest me on the spot and haul me off to jail.

And you know what? Honestly? That doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now. Except for the part where I’d probably lose my children.

Like I said, this started 36 nights ago.

My ex-husband had the kids for the weekend, and I was looking forward to just relaxing by myself with some red wine and something dumb on Netflix. I was in the kitchen pouring out the wine when I looked out the window and thought I saw something there in my yard. A person.

It was dark out, so I rushed over to the light switch and flipped it up. The outside light turned on and flooded the yard. Nothing there.

I shrugged it off and sat down on my couch, scrolling through my Netflix options. Then the front door started rattling. That got my attention.

After a while, the rattling stopped, but I sat there frozen for several minutes. Then the doorbell rang, the sound like a dagger into the silence. I spilled some wine.

It’s probably Alan. Probably just forgot something for the kids and forgot that I changed the lock.

I sighed and got up to check the door through the peephole. Somebody was there alright, but it wasn’t Alan. At least I didn’t think so. It was a man dressed all in black, including a black ski mask.

As I was watching him, he reached down and grabbed the doorknob and started rattling the door again.

That was when I made my first 911 call.

*

I have seen that man every night since. The only reason I’ve made 31 911 calls instead of 36 is that for 4 of those nights, the cops were parked right outside of where I was staying. When I saw him, I only needed to flick the lights four times, and that would signal the cops.

And while I saw that man for 36 nights in a row, the cops saw him zero times.

Not after I installed a camera pointing at my backyard. Not after I installed cameras all around the outside of the house. Not after I installed the cameras inside the house.

They never saw him. But I did. Every night, sometimes hiding in the shadows, sometimes standing inches away from me, breathing heavily.

*

I will tell you about one night, so you can understand how terrified I am.

This was definitely the worst night, in isolation. But the longer this goes on, the more every night becomes worse than the last.

This was a bit over a week into it. Maybe 10 days. I started off feeling some guarded relief. The cameras were all installed around the house, and the cops were parked outside. If and when this creep showed up, they’d get him… or if not, then at least the cameras would prove that he existed, and maybe offer up some clues to his identity.

I put the kids to bed, and let myself have a bit of wine… to help relieve that lingering terror. By the time I was ready for bed, I felt fairly relaxed and confident that I was safe for the first time since this thing started.

I was ready for a good night’s sleep, and I passed out pretty much as soon as I settled into bed.

Sometime in the night, I was awakened by the creak of the floorboards by the foot of my bed. For half a second, I was confused with half a hangover haze. Then I understood. Somebody was in the room with me.

I had a gun in the room, but I kept it in a lock box at the top of my closet where the kids couldn’t reach it. It was useless to me just then.

How the hell did he get past the cops?! I wondered, as another foot landed on the floor with a soft thud.

“Mommy?”

My heart almost exploded with relief. It was my 4-year-old kid, Alex.

“Come on,” I said, sitting up and patting the bed. On most nights, he still ended up in there with me.

“Mommy, there’s a man in my room and he wants to see you.”

I bolted out of bed. “Stay here,” I said, running to the closet for the gun.

“He’s nice,” said Alex. “He gave us candy.”

Oh God… Shane is still in there.

My hand gripped the gun in the box, wavering. Did I want to bring a loaded gun into a room with my 6-year-old kid? I didn’t know the answer, but I pulled the gun out anway and ran down the hall, after closing Alex in my room.

When I got there, the man was sitting on the bed with Shane. Shane was eating a candy bar, smiling.

“Mom!” he said. “Mr. Night is awesome! How come you never told us about him?”

The man was holding a knife up behind Shane’s back. I kept the gun behind my own back.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Then I heard the man speak for the first time. He kept changing his voice, modulating it in an exaggerated way so that it was really high-pitched, then really low, now fast and smooth, now slow and stuttering.

“I want what any man wants,” he said. “I want your devotion. And your gun. Hand it over, or, you know, the boy goes night night for a long long time.”

The hand holding the gun was slick with sweat, and my stomach was in knots as my heart pounded away in primal terror.

“You have a gun, Mom?” asked Shane.

“And if I do give it to you, then what?” I asked the man.

“Then I’ll leave. For now. No sense causing a ruckus with those officers down there if I don’t have to.” He lifted the knife an inch higher. “And no sense you causing a ruckus either, is there?”

I handed him the gun.

“Good call,” he said. He lowered the knife then turned to Shane. “Hey bud, Mr. Night has to get going now. Lots of other kids to give candy to. You be a good boy and we’ll meet again soon, yeah?”

“I’ll be good!” said Shane.

The man stood up and walked over to the open window. I know that I locked that. He stepped out onto the garage roof as I grabbed Shane and yanked him back into my room.

I flicked my lights on and off four times.

By the time the cops got inside and upstairs, the man was long gone.

*

That was the last night that I spent with my kids. I see them during the day, but never at night. The man does not seem interested in them. Only in me.

I can’t for the life of me think of who the man might be. Somebody I know? I’ll admit, I did turn my thoughts towards Alan, my ex-husband. We had had some nasty fights before and after the divorce… but would he really hold a knife above his own child’s back?

I didn’t think so, but I tested it one night. The kids stayed with my mother, and Alan stayed with me, in the kids’ room. I knew it wasn’t him, because at 1 AM, I woke up to the man throwing acorns at my window. He was there in the driveway, somehow always just out of the camera’s view.

Alan was snoring away in Shane’s bed.

I’ve racked my brain trying to think of who it could be. It just doesn’t make sense. None of it does. It’s just a nightmare without reason.

How is he there every night and always gone without a trace by the time the cops get there? How is it possible?

It doesn’t matter where I am. At my house, at my mother’s house… at this hotel. He always finds me, he always lets me see him, and he always disappears back into the night.

Sometimes, I wonder if I really am imagining it. Shane and Alex both say they remember “Mr. Night,” but maybe I put that thought in their head?

That’s what the cops think. That’s why they’ve issued a written warning to me, about calling 911 again.

And it’s what Alan thinks. He’s starting to talk about taking full custody, at least until I “get better.”

Sometimes, the man leaves me notes. But they are always printed out, and the cops think that I’m the one who prints them out. They even found a word doc on my computer with one of the notes.

And now… now I’m holding the latest note, which he slipped under my hotel door as I was writing this. It says:

“Tonight’s the night.”

I don’t know what to do. If I call the cops and he’s not there, I’ll get arrested, and probably lose custody of my kids. And if I don’t call the cops and he is going to do something tonight….

He’s here.

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

I’ve been stuck in school detention for three …

It was stupid and immature. I’ll be the first to admit that. But it’s not like I killed anyone. And if you want to try to understand things from my perspective, there was really no way that I could not do it.

First, because his name was Mr. Hillrow. Second, because he acted like a dick, always calling on you the one day you didn’t do the reading, and then dragging out the torture in front of the whole class. Third, he sort of looked like a dick, with his ring of puffy hair surrounding the bald top of his head.

It was like I had to do it. I got Billy’s older brother (a previous student of Mr. Hillrow) to get me the dildo. Then, before class started, I stood it up on Mr. Hillrow’s desk. I taped a pair of tiny glasses to the head, wrapped a tiny necktie around the shaft, and propped up a little name tag that read “Mr. Dilldow.”

At first, everyone laughed. Then Mr. Hillrow got pissed and started yelling in a scary way, demanding to know who had done it. The class got real quiet. Nobody ratted me out. I gave myself away. I took another look at Mr. Dilldow and started cracking up again.

So that’s how I ended up in detention. But it was only supposed to be for three afternoons. Not three years.

*

The school is different at night. It didn’t take long at all for me to find that out.

The first afternoon of my detention went about like you’d expect. I had to sit there and read Moby Dick. It took everything I had not to make another dick joke, because Mr. Hillrow was sitting at his desk, just angrily glaring at me the whole time.

At 4:00 on the nose, Mr. Hillrow stood up. I grabbed my backpack, ready to get the hell out of there.

“Your actions are unspeakably vulgar,” said Mr. Hillrow.

I thought about Mr. Dilldow again and almost died from the effort of not cracking up.

Mr. Hillrow went on. “You will stay here through the night, and reflect upon the proper manner in which to conduct yourself while enrolled in this educational institution.”

Then he flicked off the light switch and left the room.

That threw me for a loop, but I shrugged it off, stood up, and went to get out of there.

The door was locked.

The fuck?

“Okay Mr. Hillrow!” I shouted through the door. I looked through the little window at the top and saw the back of his half-bald mushroom head as he walked down the hall. “You got me! Gotta hand it to you, that’s a good one! I’ve definitely learned my lesson!”

Mr. Hillrow disappeared around the corner.

I stood staring out of that little window for about fifteen minutes before it started to dawn on me that the bastard really meant to keep me locked in that room all night.

I wasn’t even mad at him. He’d got me. When I pulled out my phone to call my parents, it wasn’t to rat him out, it was because I had no intention of staying in that damn room all night.

No reception.

I hadn’t told my parents about detention, but knowing them, I figured they’d put the pieces together soon enough. They’d start calling my friends, who did know about detention. I just hoped my friends wouldn’t feel like they were ratting me out by telling my parents where I was.

I walked over to the exterior window and held my phone up to it. Still no reception. I tried to open the window, but it was jammed shut. I looked down to the parking lot below. People were leaving for the day. I thought about breaking the window and jumping for it, but I was on the second floor and it was too far down onto the pavement. Plus, I knew I’d get in a bunch of shit for breaking school property.

I tried to flick on the light switch, but the light didn’t come on. Then, for the next hour, I did something that I’ll never forgive myself for. I burned through my phone’s battery playing some dumbass game, I don’t even remember what.

As my phone died, I looked up and noticed that the room was dark. The light coming through the window was getting dimmer and dimmer. It started to feel really eerie.

I banged on the door for a while, trying to get someone’s attention. No one came.

As the last bit of light faded away, I took one last look outside, through the window. The parking lot was now empty.

Now the room was very dark. I started to panic. I did not want to spend the night in that room, but it was looking like I didn’t have a choice.

After a bit of mindless pacing, I heard a click and the door to the classroom slowly swung open to the hallway, seemingly of its own accord.

“Hello?” I asked into the darkness. “Mr. Hillrow? Look, I’ve learned my lesson. Really, I have. I am truly sorry for setting up that dildo on your desk.”

It was dead quiet, and I didn’t see anybody there. That creeped me out, but I was happy to get out of the room at least.

I walked down the hall, which was now lit up by a few dim lights up at the top of the wall. I knew where I was headed first: the bathroom.

I’d had to piss for like an hour, and it was killing me. I had thought about whipping it out and going all over Mr. Hillrow’s desk, but figured that would only get me in more trouble.

I was walking past a long row of lockers when I heard it. It started as a slight rattle, coming from one of lockers. I tried to play it off as just the building settling or something, but then another locker door started to rattle. Then another, and another, and soon the whole row was rattling.

When I heard a scraping sound, like something sharp being dragged against the metal of the locker doors, followed by what sounded like a low growl, that’s when my urge to piss was suddenly relieved, right down my leg. It’s also when I started running like hell.

As I ran down the hall, the rattling turned into banging. Now I could see the locker doors shaking, straining against the hinges and latches. Whatever terrible things were inside were on the verge of breaking free.

All at once, the horrible sounds coming from the lockers stopped, just as I came to the end of the hall. I didn’t slow down though. I booked it down the stairs and only felt the slightest bit of relief when I saw the entrance to (and more importantly, the exit from) the school in front of me.

I ran full speed towards the door, putting my hand in front of me to push it open. Thunk. My wrist twisted painfully as it impacted the unmoving door.

Of course it’s locked you idiot, it’s night.

I tried to find a deadbolt latch or something, but there wasn’t one. Just a keyhole.

Why the hell do all these doors lock from the outside?! I wondered, as I slumped down to the ground in pain, fear, and what was beginning to look like utter defeat.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Now that I was by the front entrance, I might get reception. If I hadn’t been a goddamn idiot and used up the battery.

I held the power button for a full five minutes straight before I gave up and put the useless thing back in my pocket.

I felt like crying. It was bad enough just being locked in there. Being locked in there with a bunch of locker monsters and who knows what else was much, much worse.

*

I decided to stick by the front entrance and wait it out. I sat there in my pissy pants for hours. I would start to get bored and even a little sleepy, and then I’d hear a noise from somewhere in the school and I’d jolt into full alertness. Sometimes it was a soft rustling sound that I wasn’t quite sure I was actually hearing, and sometimes it was a loud, unmistakable bang. Once, I was sure that I heard someone laughing.

Finally, it got to the point where I couldn’t ignore how hungry I was. The cafeteria was right by the entrance, so I figured I could risk it. I didn’t have any money for the vending machine, but I thought I might be able to get into the kitchen and scrounge up some food. I’d always wondered what the hell went on in there anyway.

I turned the corner and was surprised to see that the cafeteria was brightly lit. I could smell something delicious wafting out from there.

I took a cautious step in and was shocked to see Miss Hadley, aka The Lunch Lady, standing there behind the counter in her hairnet.

“Young man!” she said when she saw me. “You’re just in time!”

“Miss Hadley… what are you doing here?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

The Lunch Lady laughed. “Oh, sometimes when I can’t sleep, I come down here and try out a new recipe. And tonight… ho boy! I’ve come up with something out of this world! I think the children will love it!”

Something clicked in my addled mind. “So you have a key?” I asked. “You can let me out of here?”

“Of course I have a key, silly! But before you go, won’t you try my newest dish? You look hungry!”

She was right about that. I mean, I was ready to get the hell out of there, but at least now I knew that I could get out of there. I didn’t see the harm in chowing down first, especially since it smelled so good.

I grabbed a tray and held it out to her. Behind the counter, she scooped some mashed potatoes onto a plate, and then put a cut of juicy steak on there too. She put the plate on my tray.

“Thanks!” I said.

“Let me know what you think!” she said, smiling.

I sat down and dug into the mashed potatoes. Damn, they were good. Just the right balance between fluffy and creamy, and a hint of garlic to top it off. Then I cut off a chunk of steak and put it in my mouth.

It was wonderful, but it didn’t taste like any steak I’d ever had before.

“Mmm,” I said. “This is great. What is it?”

“Meat,” said The Lunch Lady.

“Yeah, I figured. What I meant was… what kind of…”

A scream coming from back in the kitchen cut me off.

“Uh… Miss Hadley, can I go now?”

“You don’t like your meat, young man?” asked Ms. Hadley frowning.

“Oh, no, it’s great. It’s just, my parents are probably worried sick about me. I’ve been stuck here all night. Mr. Hillrow locked me in…”

Another scream.

“What’s that screaming?” I asked.

“Oh, that’ll be Lilly, my assistant,” said Miss Hadley. “She’s forever burning herself, or if not that, it’s a slip of the knife. Clumsy girl, but has a great instinct for cooking.”

“Miss Hadley? Can I please go?”

“Very well, young man. I’ll see you to the door.”

Just what I wanted to hear! A way out of the nightmare. When I got home, I’d hug my parents, then get in bed where it was nice and safe and there were no weird sounds, or locker monsters, or mystery meats.

When we turned the corner and the entrance came into view, my heart first sank and then started beating like crazy.

Standing in front of the door, with his arms crossed, was The Janitor. Except, he didn’t look like he looked during the day. During the day, he didn’t have a bunch of spikes coming out of his head, for starters, and he also didn’t have empty white holes where his eyes should be. He didn’t have long claws during the day, either… at least none that I had ever noticed.

“Let the boy pass, Bob,” said Miss Hadley.

When Bob the Janitor spoke, the sound didn’t come out his mouth. I was standing there facing him, and I heard his voice whispering behind me:

‘Fraid I can’t do that, Miss Hadley. The boy shall not pass! Direct orders from You-Know-Who.”

Everything started to spin, and I felt woozy. “Come on dude,” I groaned. “I gotta get home. I’m sorry about the dildo, if that’s what this is about. I’ll never do anything like that again, I promise.”

I looked past the janitor monster and saw that it was starting to get light out. Even if I didn’t make it out right then, it would only be a few more hours until school opened.

Then I heard a hiss and looked up in horror to see some kind of gas coming out of the air vents in the ceiling. Then I was out cold.

*

So much crazy shit has gone down in this crazy-ass school building over the past three years. If I ever make it out of here, I’ll tell the full story, but dawn is approaching, and I don’t have much time left. I’ll give you the basics.

Every day around dawn, the gas pours in through the vents and knocks me out. There’s no way to stop it… I’ve tried. Next, I wake up in a dark room, which is actually a sort of sub basement dug into the basement floor and covered with a hidden hatch door during the day. At night, the hatch opens, and I am free to wander the halls of the school, if I choose.

I never want to, but I have needs. I need to eat, and use the bathroom. I need to shower in the locker room. I need to wash my clothes. I need to try to find a way out of this nightmare, even as it looks more and more like there is no way out. Plus, as bad as it out in the school, it’s miserable in my dark little hole, too. If I stay there too long, I start to lose it.

I have some theories about what’s going on, but I won’t get into them. A bit of light is coming in through the windows now. It’s almost time for my lights to go out for the day.

I’m at the computer lab now. I have very limited access to the internet, and it seems pretty random what sites I can and can’t visit. I can’t read any news, so I don’t even know if anyone’s out looking for me, or if my entire existence has been forgotten since I got trapped in this hell.

Lately, I’ve come across this forum. This is, for some reason, the only subreddit that I can read. I don’t even know if I can post, but it’s worth a shot. You guys seem like you’ve dealt with a lot of weird shit, so maybe you’ll take this seriously.

Please help me. My name is Emmett Emerson. I am at CAHS in Clairmont, Maine, USA. During the day, I am in the sub basement, if you can find it. During the night, if you can somehow get in and make it past The Janitor, I am usually somewhere running away from monsters.

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

After seven brain transplants, I don’t know wh…

The fingers typing this are not mine. Mine were long and tan and agile. These are stubby and sluggish… sickly white. I know where the letters on the keyboard are, but the fingers are slow to find them, and sometime miss. They keep wanting to dig into the anus that is also not mine, and is stricken with some horrific malady. I have to concentrate to keep them on task.

Soon enough, this body will begin to reject my brain like the six bodies before it, and I will move on.

If I’d had more time, say another year, I believe that I could have perfected the procedure, before undergoing it myself. But I didn’t have more time. The cancer was eating away at my body, killing it from the inside. My best guess was that I had two months at most. Even those two months might have been enough to work out some of the problems that I now face. But when Jasper Gaffney fell into a hopeless coma following a car accident, circumstances seemed to dictate immediate action.

I apologize. My writing has become disordered. It is due to the extra mental exertion required to keep this oafish body on track. I am typing this sentence with one hand; I’m afraid that I must go thoroughly wash the other before I can continue.

*

Melanie Gaffney was, and still is, my professional partner. On the evening her husband lay brain dead on the hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, she approached me with bleary eyes.

“You could die tomorrow, Sal,” she said. “I can’t continue the work alone. And… I don’t want to lose Jasper. I can’t.”

“It won’t be Jasper that comes out of the procedure, Melanie. You know that.”

“It will be enough of Jasper for me,” she said. “The sound of his voice. The shape of his lips when he smiles. The broad shoulders that have carried me through so much. I can’t bear to lose that. I can’t bear to never see him again.”

Frankly, it did not take much consideration on my part. We had been struggling to find an ethical way to perform the procedure, ever since I was diagnosed with cancer. This seemed to be the ideal situation, at least given the circumstances. Jasper had been in the prime of his life, with a very fit and healthy body, when the tragic accident had occurred. And here was Melanie, who knew exactly the implications of the procedure, begging for it to be done on her husband’s body.

Melanie performed the surgery herself.

It took several days of working through the haze of anesthetics and painkillers to fully realize the experience of living inside of a new body. My senses were sharper than ever, with nuances of sound and color that I had never noticed before performing their symphony all around me. As the pain receded, I felt a vigor coursing through my body that I had not felt even when my original body was at its own prime.

It was remarkable, and for a brief time, we thought that it had worked without complication. We had accomplished the first successful brain transplant.

During this period, perhaps predictably, Melanie and I fell in love. It was a strange, but exhilarating, experience to make love in a body that was not my own.

Lying in bed together afterwards, I would often open up and talk about private experiences and opinions in the way that lovers do. Those all came from before, from when I was living in Sal’s body. And at first, I still felt like Sal. The Sal who had been Melanie’s professional colleague for years, and was now becoming intimate with her.

More and more often, however, I noticed that Melanie would call me “Jasper.” She would talk about things that had happened in their past as if I was already aware of them, though of course I couldn’t have been.

These moments only came in the bedroom, and for the most part, Melanie would refer to me as Sal, and would talk to me as such.

Then there were times when I did feel like I was Jasper. It is difficult to describe. My entire thought process altered somewhat, as did my personality. In a way, this was to be expected. A young, fit man living with his love had different things to think about than an old, sick and lonely man.

At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would ask myself: Who am I? What is a person?

*

It began as a slight tremor in my hands. I didn’t even notice it, as I had the same condition when I was in Sal’s body. Melanie pointed it out, but neither of us were particularly concerned.

The next problem manifested itself in the bedroom, when I became unable to perform, even with the aid of medication.

The tremors increased in severity and spread throughout Jasper’s body, as the headaches began. Soon, I was unable to get out of bed. It was too painful.

My flesh began to rot.

“We need to find you a new body,” said Melanie. “And then we need to get back to work. We let ourselves grow lazy.”

It was too much of an effort to talk. My throat was raw and on fire. I tried to nod, but by then, my head was jerking uncontrollably. Finally, I managed to gasp out a “Yes.”

*

I do not know how or from where Melanie procured my third body, and I didn’t ask.

That body had belonged to a young man, perhaps 30 years old, who was even more fit than Jasper had been. He was very athletic, and very attractive.

We still made love, and afterwards, Melanie would still occasionally call me “Jasper”… but this time, we went to work.

We pored over our notes, but by the time the tremors began, we were no closer to a solution than we had been.

I went through my fourth body, then my fifth and sixth, each one younger and more handsome than the last. Each time, the body decayed a little faster, and we made no real progress in determining where the fundamental problem lay.

One night, while I was home alone in my seventh (counting Sal’s) body, the headaches just beginning to take hold of me, the front door crashed open and Melanie stood at the threshold, panting.

“I need a hand with this,” she said, pointing to the body behind her.

“Is that… my new body?” I asked, looking down. I was surprised to see an obese, middle-aged man.

“I thought we would try something different,” said Melanie. “We keep going younger and fitter with them, and they keep decaying faster and faster. Maybe there’s a connection. What if we try going older and… flabbier… this time? Just until we figure out what is going on.”

And here I sit, in my eighth body, trying to fight the urge to dig into my anus.

Melanie’s hypothesis was correct. This body, as unpleasant as it is, has served me well. It has been over a month, and the tremors are just now beginning. It is the first time that I have been able to devote such a long stretch of time to think about my problem. This extra room for contemplation has led me to come up with, if not a solution, then at least the path towards a solution.

Our previous method, of haphazardly trying different bodies, was flawed in several ways. I am quite satisfied with the new method I have devised.

In the basement are some dozen subjects, each of which has undergone a brain transplant. We are now able to study a variety of situations very rapidly. Best of all, we can now surgically study the brains in action, as they interact with their new bodies, without being concerned about damaging the brains, since now we know we can always find a new one.

We are so confident that we will find the solution that we’ve decided to treat ourselves. Melanie is out now collecting my next body. It’s going to be the youngest one yet. She’s told me that it will be a surprise, too. I wonder if she’ll get a female this time? That could be fun. I can’t wait to see what she brings back!

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

After seven brain transplants, I don’t know wh…

The fingers typing this are not mine. Mine were long and tan and agile. These are stubby and sluggish… sickly white. I know where the letters on the keyboard are, but the fingers are slow to find them, and sometime miss. They keep wanting to dig into the anus that is also not mine, and is stricken with some horrific malady. I have to concentrate to keep them on task.

Soon enough, this body will begin to reject my brain like the six bodies before it, and I will move on.

If I’d had more time, say another year, I believe that I could have perfected the procedure, before undergoing it myself. But I didn’t have more time. The cancer was eating away at my body, killing it from the inside. My best guess was that I had two months at most. Even those two months might have been enough to work out some of the problems that I now face. But when Jasper Gaffney fell into a hopeless coma following a car accident, circumstances seemed to dictate immediate action.

I apologize. My writing has become disordered. It is due to the extra mental exertion required to keep this oafish body on track. I am typing this sentence with one hand; I’m afraid that I must go thoroughly wash the other before I can continue.

*

Melanie Gaffney was, and still is, my professional partner. On the evening her husband lay brain dead on the hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, she approached me with bleary eyes.

“You could die tomorrow, Sal,” she said. “I can’t continue the work alone. And… I don’t want to lose Jasper. I can’t.”

“It won’t be Jasper that comes out of the procedure, Melanie. You know that.”

“It will be enough of Jasper for me,” she said. “The sound of his voice. The shape of his lips when he smiles. The broad shoulders that have carried me through so much. I can’t bear to lose that. I can’t bear to never see him again.”

Frankly, it did not take much consideration on my part. We had been struggling to find an ethical way to perform the procedure, ever since I was diagnosed with cancer. This seemed to be the ideal situation, at least given the circumstances. Jasper had been in the prime of his life, with a very fit and healthy body, when the tragic accident had occurred. And here was Melanie, who knew exactly the implications of the procedure, begging for it to be done on her husband’s body.

Melanie performed the surgery herself.

It took several days of working through the haze of anesthetics and painkillers to fully realize the experience of living inside of a new body. My senses were sharper than ever, with nuances of sound and color that I had never noticed before performing their symphony all around me. As the pain receded, I felt a vigor coursing through my body that I had not felt even when my original body was at its own prime.

It was remarkable, and for a brief time, we thought that it had worked without complication. We had accomplished the first successful brain transplant.

During this period, perhaps predictably, Melanie and I fell in love. It was a strange, but exhilarating, experience to make love in a body that was not my own.

Lying in bed together afterwards, I would often open up and talk about private experiences and opinions in the way that lovers do. Those all came from before, from when I was living in Sal’s body. And at first, I still felt like Sal. The Sal who had been Melanie’s professional colleague for years, and was now becoming intimate with her.

More and more often, however, I noticed that Melanie would call me “Jasper.” She would talk about things that had happened in their past as if I was already aware of them, though of course I couldn’t have been.

These moments only came in the bedroom, and for the most part, Melanie would refer to me as Sal, and would talk to me as such.

Then there were times when I did feel like I was Jasper. It is difficult to describe. My entire thought process altered somewhat, as did my personality. In a way, this was to be expected. A young, fit man living with his love had different things to think about than an old, sick and lonely man.

At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would ask myself: Who am I? What is a person?

*

It began as a slight tremor in my hands. I didn’t even notice it, as I had the same condition when I was in Sal’s body. Melanie pointed it out, but neither of us were particularly concerned.

The next problem manifested itself in the bedroom, when I became unable to perform, even with the aid of medication.

The tremors increased in severity and spread throughout Jasper’s body, as the headaches began. Soon, I was unable to get out of bed. It was too painful.

My flesh began to rot.

“We need to find you a new body,” said Melanie. “And then we need to get back to work. We let ourselves grow lazy.”

It was too much of an effort to talk. My throat was raw and on fire. I tried to nod, but by then, my head was jerking uncontrollably. Finally, I managed to gasp out a “Yes.”

*

I do not know how or from where Melanie procured my third body, and I didn’t ask.

That body had belonged to a young man, perhaps 30 years old, who was even more fit than Jasper had been. He was very athletic, and very attractive.

We still made love, and afterwards, Melanie would still occasionally call me “Jasper”… but this time, we went to work.

We pored over our notes, but by the time the tremors began, we were no closer to a solution than we had been.

I went through my fourth body, then my fifth and sixth, each one younger and more handsome than the last. Each time, the body decayed a little faster, and we made no real progress in determining where the fundamental problem lay.

One night, while I was home alone in my seventh (counting Sal’s) body, the headaches just beginning to take hold of me, the front door crashed open and Melanie stood at the threshold, panting.

“I need a hand with this,” she said, pointing to the body behind her.

“Is that… my new body?” I asked, looking down. I was surprised to see an obese, middle-aged man.

“I thought we would try something different,” said Melanie. “We keep going younger and fitter with them, and they keep decaying faster and faster. Maybe there’s a connection. What if we try going older and… flabbier… this time? Just until we figure out what is going on.”

And here I sit, in my eighth body, trying to fight the urge to dig into my anus.

Melanie’s hypothesis was correct. This body, as unpleasant as it is, has served me well. It has been over a month, and the tremors are just now beginning. It is the first time that I have been able to devote such a long stretch of time to think about my problem. This extra room for contemplation has led me to come up with, if not a solution, then at least the path towards a solution.

Our previous method, of haphazardly trying different bodies, was flawed in several ways. I am quite satisfied with the new method I have devised.

In the basement are some dozen subjects, each of which has undergone a brain transplant. We are now able to study a variety of situations very rapidly. Best of all, we can now surgically study the brains in action, as they interact with their new bodies, without being concerned about damaging the brains, since now we know we can always find a new one.

We are so confident that we will find the solution that we’ve decided to treat ourselves. Melanie is out now collecting my next body. It’s going to be the youngest one yet. She’s told me that it will be a surprise, too. I wonder if she’ll get a female this time? That could be fun. I can’t wait to see what she brings back!

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

The garbage war with my neighbor has taken a d…

It wasn’t my fault.

We had a gorgeous spring day last week, so I called up a few buddies to have an impromptu celebration. I fired up the grill for the first time this year, stocked the cooler with beer, and we had a blast. I guess we were a little loud, but nothing too out of control. Just some old friends getting together and shooting the shit, while my wife Haley was out with her friends.

Around the time it started to get dark, I heard my neighbor shout: “HEY!” I whipped around and saw his crew cut head sticking up over the fence. He’d been on a few tours of duty in Afghanistan, and he was still very much a military dude. The last thing I wanted to see was him staring me right down, looking pissed off. “You motherfuckers keep it DOWN!”

“So sorry, Tucker!” I yelled, giving a good-natured wave. “We will!” Then I turned to my friends. “Alright guys,” I said. “Maybe we better go inside.”

We went in and kept drinking. It was a Saturday, and none of us had to work on Sunday. It was the first time we’d all been hanging out in the same place for years, and we wanted to make a night of it. Eventually, we ran out of beer.

There’s a convenience store right across the street from my house. “Gonna make a run,” I said, a little drunk. “Get more beer.”

I did that as my friends hung out and kept bullshitting. When I got back, we drank some more. When the wife came home, we were all plastered, and everyone got cabs home.

*

The next morning, at six o’fucking clock, I was dragged out of slumber by the sound of someone banging at my front door.

If I were 21, I would have been good to go, then and there. But I’m not 21. I’m 36. It felt like somebody had jammed a dagger that had a thousand other tiny daggers growing out of it straight into the center of my brain. My ears felt like they were bleeding. My tongue felt like somebody had cut it out of my mouth, soaked it in harsh chemicals all night, and then sewn it back in, without being very careful about it.

I felt like shit. But the banging persisted. I got out of bed, only half able to feel my body… and the half that I could feel felt like somebody was poking me with electric shockers. Particularly my eyeballs. They felt like they were on fire.

Somehow, I made it to the front door. I peeked out the window and saw my neighbor Tucker there, veins popping out of his neck, looking on the verge of murder.

Oh shit!

“I know you’re in there Crenshaw!” he yelled. “Open the fucking door!”

Without thinking about it too much, I opened the door. He was standing there holding what looked like a condom filled up with urine, tied off at the top like a balloon.

“You think this is funny?” he asked.

My head wasn’t just spinning… it was on the Gravitron. “No,” I said. “But… what is it? Why are you here?”

“Don’t play dumb you motherfucker,” said Tucker. “I know you did this. Threw this in my yard.”

I was actually honestly offended. “It wasn’t me!” I said. “It was probably some asshole from across the street!”

As I mentioned, there is a store across the street. Litter and all sorts of bizarre things are constantly being blown or thrown over from the customers there into my front yard. That’s where, through the hangover haze, I guessed the piss-condom had come from. I certainly hadn’t put it there.

“You know what I did, over in Afghanistan, Crenshaw?” Tucker asked.

I shook my head.

“I specialized in projectile IEDs. Got to know the physics of it all. I know where this disgusting piece of trash came from, and it came from your porch.”

I shook my head again. “No sir,” I said. Then I started to get a little pissed off myself. “It wasn’t me, and you have no right to come here accusing me of doing something so juvenile.”

Tucker made a weird growling noise, clicked his heels together, and then spun around, keeping his back stiff as a board the whole time. Then he walked back to the sidewalk, and around the fence separating his yard from mine.

I went back to bed.

*

By 10AM, I was finally ready to face the world. Haley was already up and about. I still had a bad hangover, but with some Tylenol and coffee, I figured I would live.

The first thing I did was look at my phone. There was a text from my friend Steve there. Here is what it read:

“How did Tucker the Fucker like the old condo-bomb? Launched it while you were at the store. lol”

Oh shit!

I jumped out of bed and threw on a robe. I ran through the living room, past my wife, who was reading a book.

“Rob?!” she asked. I kept running.

I made it to the front door and threw it open… just in time to see Tucker “accidently” back his car into our trash bin. I watched as three bags of trash flew through the air and exploded upon impact with our muddy yard. Overhead, the crows were already circling. Then Tucker tore rubber out of there, and sped off down the road.

Okay, I thought, surveying the mess strewn all over my yard, which included a chicken carcass, used Maxi Pads, and bits of broken glass. Fair enough, Tucker. I guess that’s fair enough.

I wish I had left it at that. I really do. But later, when I was out cleaning up, I really started to feel the rage boil. It wasn’t my fault that Steve had thrown that condom over into Tucker’s yard. I hadn’t known anything about it until after Tucker had come to my door at six o’clock in the fucking morning! And when I had found out about it, I was on my way to apologize in person, first thing! And what was my reward?

I plucked a slimy eggshell off the ground and put it into the new bag.

Then my phone buzzed. I wiped my hand on my pants and checked it. Another text from Steve:

“Look man, really sorry about causing trouble with your neighbor. Hopefully he didn’t get too pissed. Lemme make it up to you by buying a couple rounds. If you’re as hungover as me, you’ll need them.”

It was true. Despite the Tylenol and the extra sleep, I still had a nasty hangover. I’d even puked once, picking up all of that wet stinking trash.

I agreed to have a drink or two out.

*

By midnight, we were wasted.

“Can’t believe that crazy jerkoff knocked all that trash into your yard,” said Steve. “The only reason I did the condom thing in the first place was because he was such a dick about us having a good time. Sergeant Pain or whatever the hell, you know? Who does this asshole think he is anyway?”

If I’d been sober, my answer might have been: “Well, he put his life on the line in the name of our country. I may not agree with the war, but he doesn’t deserve to come back to some drunk idiots being loud and hurling a condom into his backyard.”

But I wasn’t sober. So this is what I said instead: “Yeah, fuck that guy!”

“You got a cat?” asked Steve.

“Sure. Two of them.”

“Good. And here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna take the bag where you put all the catshit and lumps of pissy litter… we’re gonna take that bag, and we’re gonna chuck it at old Fucker’s front door. A little catshit bomb for him to wake up to, you know?”

And that’s exactly what we did.

*

The next day, I laid low. Haley was pissed, but I called in sick to work and went back to sleep.

No more drinking, I told myself, as I was drifting back off. No more drinking.

I woke up at noon, feeling clear-headed for the first time in two days… and the realization of what Steve and I had done hit me like… well, like a bag of catshit to the face.

I threw some pants on, and ran outside. Tucker didn’t have a job, and I was hoping that he was still at home, so that I could apologize, in earnest, for acting so horribly.

Tucker was at home, and answered the door a moment after I rang the bell. He was smiling. I don’t think I’d ever seen Tucker smile before that.

“Have some fun last night, did we, Crenshaw?” he asked in a good-natured tone.

“Yeah… about that… listen, man, I’m really, really sorry. That was over the line. No excuses.”

Tucker went on smiling. “We did let things get a bit out of hand, didn’t we? A SNAFU. But on my list of things getting out of hand, Crenshaw, it doesn’t even rank. So let’s just put it behind us, huh? What do you say?”

He offered his hand and I took it. As we were shaking, it felt like he was crushing me. But, I figured, that’s just how these macho guys are. He kept smiling.

“Let me make it up to you,” I said.

“There’s no need Crenshaw. We’re good.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said, still smiling.

And for about a week, I really did let myself believe that we were good.

But all that time, Tucker was filling my garden shed with every bit of garbage in the entire neighborhood.

*

Today was another fine day. The sun was shining, the birds were pulling worms up out of the ground. The kind of day where you think about things growing and thriving, instead of going cold and dying. Haley and I decided that we would lay the groundwork for our garden.

That’s when I saw it. Rather, that’s when I smelled it. It hit me when I was about ten feet away. The stench of thousands of different things rotting and oozing. I gagged. Then I heard the buzz of the flies. I smelled it, then I heard it, then I saw it through the window… then I puked.

The shed behind our house was packed wall-to-wall with rancid garbage. I saw shadows scampering over it all. I didn’t know if they were rats or raccoons or what. I saw rotting apples and coffee grinds and used tissues and shit-filled diapers and mushy gray material and left-over chili and bones and the offcuts of raw meat and used condoms filled with something other than urine and empty packages of ketchup and ants, crawling all over it and… yes… they were rats… there was a dead one there, on top of it all. Green mold, yellow mold, black mold, brown mold. A rainbow of mold.

I puked once again and thought about what to do next.

Go to the police? It had to be a crime to stuff garbage into your neighbor’s shed. But wasn’t it also a crime to throw a bag of catshit at your neighbor’s door? Did I really want to involve the police?

As I stood there, trying to form a plan, or at least a useful thought, I heard a low growl coming from inside the shed. I took a step back.

There’s probably a rabid raccoon in there, I thought. Then the door started to rattle. I don’t think that’s a raccoon!

I took another step back, and then the shrieking started. It sounded like a pterodactyl. I mean, nobody’s ever actually heard one of those, but we all know what they are supposed to sound like, right? I guess from movies? Just this terrible screeching that makes your eardrums quiver in pain.

The door stopped rattling. It started banging. I took several steps back on legs that were shaking uncontrollably and were now also briefly warm and fully wet with urine as the door splintered apart.

Standing there in front of me was a creature that I could not comprehend. It was green and black and wet, and still screeching horribly, though I could see no mouth. It was all of the bits of garbage, congealed, stewed together, formed into a shape that was roughly human, with two legs, two arms, a head that was jerking uncontrollably, and even, I noted, a garbage penis composed of crumpled newspaper and what I assumed was mustard.

It had a pepperoni slice for one eye, and a bottle cap for the other. Its hair was a mixture of some kind of actual hair, like from people or pet hair picked up by a vacuum, and strands of spaghetti. One of its fingers was an empty toilet paper roll, and another looked like a toothpick.

It lurched towards me, still shrieking.

I turned to run. As I did so, I saw two people looking at me. First was my wife, standing in the open doorway of the side entrance to our house, totally in shock… and second was Tucker, peering out from his second floor, holding back the curtains, frowning. Then the curtain closed and I couldn’t see him.

The creature took a squishy step towards me, reaching out a hand that had a large syringe as one of its fingers. I ran.

I looked behind me to see the monster lurch unsteadily, but definitely, in my direction. I made it to my side door, shoved Haley inside, and slammed the door shut behind me.

What the fuck is that?!” asked Haley.

“I don’t know!” I said. “Some kind of trash monster! I think we should call the police!”

Then we heard a loud bang, rising above and then silencing the shrieking. I looked out the window to see Tucker out there, with a large gun pointed at the trash monster.

The creature had a bullet hole in the middle of its monstrous head. I watched in horrified amazement as it plucked a watermelon rind covered in ants from its elbow and stuck it into the hole, plugging it up. The thing took a step toward Tucker, who fired off another round in response.

The bullet hit its target, but didn’t slow it down. Tucker fired again, and again, before finally retreating a bit. But he wasn’t fast enough. The trash monster was upon him, in a way that is difficult to describe, for several reasons.

The creature’s arm stretched out like bubble gum (and indeed appeared to be at least partially composed of such.) It kept stretching and stretching, looping around Tucker’s neck, choking him. Then the other hand produced a plastic bag, apparently from somewhere inside the creature’s back. It placed the bag over Tucker’s head and tied it off with the arm that was still stretching and wrapping around his neck.

Tucker kicked and struggled, but not for long. He slumped to the ground, obviously dead, as the creature turned its attention towards my house.

I called 911.

As soon as I was off the phone, the monster collapsed into a pile of inanimate garbage.

Now the police are headed here, and I have a dead body and a pile of garbage in my yard.

I don’t know what to do.

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

The garbage war with my neighbor has taken a d…

It wasn’t my fault.

We had a gorgeous spring day last week, so I called up a few buddies to have an impromptu celebration. I fired up the grill for the first time this year, stocked the cooler with beer, and we had a blast. I guess we were a little loud, but nothing too out of control. Just some old friends getting together and shooting the shit, while my wife Haley was out with her friends.

Around the time it started to get dark, I heard my neighbor shout: “HEY!” I whipped around and saw his crew cut head sticking up over the fence. He’d been on a few tours of duty in Afghanistan, and he was still very much a military dude. The last thing I wanted to see was him staring me right down, looking pissed off. “You motherfuckers keep it DOWN!”

“So sorry, Tucker!” I yelled, giving a good-natured wave. “We will!” Then I turned to my friends. “Alright guys,” I said. “Maybe we better go inside.”

We went in and kept drinking. It was a Saturday, and none of us had to work on Sunday. It was the first time we’d all been hanging out in the same place for years, and we wanted to make a night of it. Eventually, we ran out of beer.

There’s a convenience store right across the street from my house. “Gonna make a run,” I said, a little drunk. “Get more beer.”

I did that as my friends hung out and kept bullshitting. When I got back, we drank some more. When the wife came home, we were all plastered, and everyone got cabs home.

*

The next morning, at six o’fucking clock, I was dragged out of slumber by the sound of someone banging at my front door.

If I were 21, I would have been good to go, then and there. But I’m not 21. I’m 36. It felt like somebody had jammed a dagger that had a thousand other tiny daggers growing out of it straight into the center of my brain. My ears felt like they were bleeding. My tongue felt like somebody had cut it out of my mouth, soaked it in harsh chemicals all night, and then sewn it back in, without being very careful about it.

I felt like shit. But the banging persisted. I got out of bed, only half able to feel my body… and the half that I could feel felt like somebody was poking me with electric shockers. Particularly my eyeballs. They felt like they were on fire.

Somehow, I made it to the front door. I peeked out the window and saw my neighbor Tucker there, veins popping out of his neck, looking on the verge of murder.

Oh shit!

“I know you’re in there Crenshaw!” he yelled. “Open the fucking door!”

Without thinking about it too much, I opened the door. He was standing there holding what looked like a condom filled up with urine, tied off at the top like a balloon.

“You think this is funny?” he asked.

My head wasn’t just spinning… it was on the Gravitron. “No,” I said. “But… what is it? Why are you here?”

“Don’t play dumb you motherfucker,” said Tucker. “I know you did this. Threw this in my yard.”

I was actually honestly offended. “It wasn’t me!” I said. “It was probably some asshole from across the street!”

As I mentioned, there is a store across the street. Litter and all sorts of bizarre things are constantly being blown or thrown over from the customers there into my front yard. That’s where, through the hangover haze, I guessed the piss-condom had come from. I certainly hadn’t put it there.

“You know what I did, over in Afghanistan, Crenshaw?” Tucker asked.

I shook my head.

“I specialized in projectile IEDs. Got to know the physics of it all. I know where this disgusting piece of trash came from, and it came from your porch.”

I shook my head again. “No sir,” I said. Then I started to get a little pissed off myself. “It wasn’t me, and you have no right to come here accusing me of doing something so juvenile.”

Tucker made a weird growling noise, clicked his heels together, and then spun around, keeping his back stiff as a board the whole time. Then he walked back to the sidewalk, and around the fence separating his yard from mine.

I went back to bed.

*

By 10AM, I was finally ready to face the world. Haley was already up and about. I still had a bad hangover, but with some Tylenol and coffee, I figured I would live.

The first thing I did was look at my phone. There was a text from my friend Steve there. Here is what it read:

“How did Tucker the Fucker like the old condo-bomb? Launched it while you were at the store. lol”

Oh shit!

I jumped out of bed and threw on a robe. I ran through the living room, past my wife, who was reading a book.

“Rob?!” she asked. I kept running.

I made it to the front door and threw it open… just in time to see Tucker “accidently” back his car into our trash bin. I watched as three bags of trash flew through the air and exploded upon impact with our muddy yard. Overhead, the crows were already circling. Then Tucker tore rubber out of there, and sped off down the road.

Okay, I thought, surveying the mess strewn all over my yard, which included a chicken carcass, used Maxi Pads, and bits of broken glass. Fair enough, Tucker. I guess that’s fair enough.

I wish I had left it at that. I really do. But later, when I was out cleaning up, I really started to feel the rage boil. It wasn’t my fault that Steve had thrown that condom over into Tucker’s yard. I hadn’t known anything about it until after Tucker had come to my door at six o’clock in the fucking morning! And when I had found out about it, I was on my way to apologize in person, first thing! And what was my reward?

I plucked a slimy eggshell off the ground and put it into the new bag.

Then my phone buzzed. I wiped my hand on my pants and checked it. Another text from Steve:

“Look man, really sorry about causing trouble with your neighbor. Hopefully he didn’t get too pissed. Lemme make it up to you by buying a couple rounds. If you’re as hungover as me, you’ll need them.”

It was true. Despite the Tylenol and the extra sleep, I still had a nasty hangover. I’d even puked once, picking up all of that wet stinking trash.

I agreed to have a drink or two out.

*

By midnight, we were wasted.

“Can’t believe that crazy jerkoff knocked all that trash into your yard,” said Steve. “The only reason I did the condom thing in the first place was because he was such a dick about us having a good time. Sergeant Pain or whatever the hell, you know? Who does this asshole think he is anyway?”

If I’d been sober, my answer might have been: “Well, he put his life on the line in the name of our country. I may not agree with the war, but he doesn’t deserve to come back to some drunk idiots being loud and hurling a condom into his backyard.”

But I wasn’t sober. So this is what I said instead: “Yeah, fuck that guy!”

“You got a cat?” asked Steve.

“Sure. Two of them.”

“Good. And here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna take the bag where you put all the catshit and lumps of pissy litter… we’re gonna take that bag, and we’re gonna chuck it at old Fucker’s front door. A little catshit bomb for him to wake up to, you know?”

And that’s exactly what we did.

*

The next day, I laid low. Haley was pissed, but I called in sick to work and went back to sleep.

No more drinking, I told myself, as I was drifting back off. No more drinking.

I woke up at noon, feeling clear-headed for the first time in two days… and the realization of what Steve and I had done hit me like… well, like a bag of catshit to the face.

I threw some pants on, and ran outside. Tucker didn’t have a job, and I was hoping that he was still at home, so that I could apologize, in earnest, for acting so horribly.

Tucker was at home, and answered the door a moment after I rang the bell. He was smiling. I don’t think I’d ever seen Tucker smile before that.

“Have some fun last night, did we, Crenshaw?” he asked in a good-natured tone.

“Yeah… about that… listen, man, I’m really, really sorry. That was over the line. No excuses.”

Tucker went on smiling. “We did let things get a bit out of hand, didn’t we? A SNAFU. But on my list of things getting out of hand, Crenshaw, it doesn’t even rank. So let’s just put it behind us, huh? What do you say?”

He offered his hand and I took it. As we were shaking, it felt like he was crushing me. But, I figured, that’s just how these macho guys are. He kept smiling.

“Let me make it up to you,” I said.

“There’s no need Crenshaw. We’re good.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said, still smiling.

And for about a week, I really did let myself believe that we were good.

But all that time, Tucker was filling my garden shed with every bit of garbage in the entire neighborhood.

*

Today was another fine day. The sun was shining, the birds were pulling worms up out of the ground. The kind of day where you think about things growing and thriving, instead of going cold and dying. Haley and I decided that we would lay the groundwork for our garden.

That’s when I saw it. Rather, that’s when I smelled it. It hit me when I was about ten feet away. The stench of thousands of different things rotting and oozing. I gagged. Then I heard the buzz of the flies. I smelled it, then I heard it, then I saw it through the window… then I puked.

The shed behind our house was packed wall-to-wall with rancid garbage. I saw shadows scampering over it all. I didn’t know if they were rats or raccoons or what. I saw rotting apples and coffee grinds and used tissues and shit-filled diapers and mushy gray material and left-over chili and bones and the offcuts of raw meat and used condoms filled with something other than urine and empty packages of ketchup and ants, crawling all over it and… yes… they were rats… there was a dead one there, on top of it all. Green mold, yellow mold, black mold, brown mold. A rainbow of mold.

I puked once again and thought about what to do next.

Go to the police? It had to be a crime to stuff garbage into your neighbor’s shed. But wasn’t it also a crime to throw a bag of catshit at your neighbor’s door? Did I really want to involve the police?

As I stood there, trying to form a plan, or at least a useful thought, I heard a low growl coming from inside the shed. I took a step back.

There’s probably a rabid raccoon in there, I thought. Then the door started to rattle. I don’t think that’s a raccoon!

I took another step back, and then the shrieking started. It sounded like a pterodactyl. I mean, nobody’s ever actually heard one of those, but we all know what they are supposed to sound like, right? I guess from movies? Just this terrible screeching that makes your eardrums quiver in pain.

The door stopped rattling. It started banging. I took several steps back on legs that were shaking uncontrollably and were now also briefly warm and fully wet with urine as the door splintered apart.

Standing there in front of me was a creature that I could not comprehend. It was green and black and wet, and still screeching horribly, though I could see no mouth. It was all of the bits of garbage, congealed, stewed together, formed into a shape that was roughly human, with two legs, two arms, a head that was jerking uncontrollably, and even, I noted, a garbage penis composed of crumpled newspaper and what I assumed was mustard.

It had a pepperoni slice for one eye, and a bottle cap for the other. Its hair was a mixture of some kind of actual hair, like from people or pet hair picked up by a vacuum, and strands of spaghetti. One of its fingers was an empty toilet paper roll, and another looked like a toothpick.

It lurched towards me, still shrieking.

I turned to run. As I did so, I saw two people looking at me. First was my wife, standing in the open doorway of the side entrance to our house, totally in shock… and second was Tucker, peering out from his second floor, holding back the curtains, frowning. Then the curtain closed and I couldn’t see him.

The creature took a squishy step towards me, reaching out a hand that had a large syringe as one of its fingers. I ran.

I looked behind me to see the monster lurch unsteadily, but definitely, in my direction. I made it to my side door, shoved Haley inside, and slammed the door shut behind me.

What the fuck is that?!” asked Haley.

“I don’t know!” I said. “Some kind of trash monster! I think we should call the police!”

Then we heard a loud bang, rising above and then silencing the shrieking. I looked out the window to see Tucker out there, with a large gun pointed at the trash monster.

The creature had a bullet hole in the middle of its monstrous head. I watched in horrified amazement as it plucked a watermelon rind covered in ants from its elbow and stuck it into the hole, plugging it up. The thing took a step toward Tucker, who fired off another round in response.

The bullet hit its target, but didn’t slow it down. Tucker fired again, and again, before finally retreating a bit. But he wasn’t fast enough. The trash monster was upon him, in a way that is difficult to describe, for several reasons.

The creature’s arm stretched out like bubble gum (and indeed appeared to be at least partially composed of such.) It kept stretching and stretching, looping around Tucker’s neck, choking him. Then the other hand produced a plastic bag, apparently from somewhere inside the creature’s back. It placed the bag over Tucker’s head and tied it off with the arm that was still stretching and wrapping around his neck.

Tucker kicked and struggled, but not for long. He slumped to the ground, obviously dead, as the creature turned its attention towards my house.

I called 911.

As soon as I was off the phone, the monster collapsed into a pile of inanimate garbage.

Now the police are headed here, and I have a dead body and a pile of garbage in my yard.

I don’t know what to do.

(source) story by (/u/nslewis)

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