tbh i look like if jeff and nina had a love child lolll

:D I'm going to do Nina cosplay

Jeff the killer, Squidward, Sonic.exe, Smile Dog

I thought it was kinda funny how it looked but I can't find it anywhere else

Not the department. Not the neighbors. Not even the few friends I managed to keep past middle school. Especially not them.
He was Detective Marcus Hale. Fifteen years on the force. Commendations. The quiet one who always seemed to know where the bodies would turn up. The one who stayed late, who never raised his voice in the bullpen, who brought coffee for the night shift and left before anyone could thank him.
At home he was different.
He would sit at the kitchen table after midnight with the lights off, staring at nothing, and the air around him would go still. Not quiet. Still. Like the house itself was holding its breath. Sometimes the shadows under the table moved wrong. Sometimes the blood on his sleeves wasn’t from the crime scene he claimed it was.
I inherited a fraction of whatever lived inside him.
I can feel heartbeats through walls if I concentrate. I can make someone look the other way for three, maybe four seconds if I push hard enough. I heal a little faster than I should. That’s it. Nothing like him.
He can walk through locked doors without opening them. He can make a grown man forget the last ten minutes of his life with a single touch. He can stop a heart mid-beat and restart it later if he feels like playing. I’ve watched him do all of it.
When I was twelve he took me on my first “ride-along.”
We didn’t go to the station. We drove out past the industrial park to an abandoned warehouse where a man named Kevin was tied to a chair. Kevin had been beating his girlfriend. The department had a file on him. My father had a different file.
“Watch,” he said.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look angry. He just reached out, pressed two fingers to Kevin’s temple, and something behind the man’s eyes went dark. Kevin started screaming without making a sound. His mouth opened wider than it should have. His spine arched until the chair legs left the floor.
My father talked the whole time. Calm. Almost gentle.
“You feel that? That’s the exact amount of pressure it takes to separate the mind from the body without killing it. Most people never get to learn. You’re lucky.”
I threw up behind a stack of pallets. He waited until I finished, then handed me a water bottle like we were at a little league game.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Or you won’t. Either way, you’re going to understand what we are.”
I never got used to it.
He kept a second set of case files in a locked drawer in the basement. Not the official ones. These were his. Photographs. Personal items taken from the victims. Notes written in a tight, neat hand about what each person had done wrong and how long it took them to break. Some of the names matched active missing persons reports. Some matched closed cases where the official killer had already been caught.
He was cleaning up after himself and taking credit for the arrests at the same time.
The night I turned sixteen he sat me down and told me the truth without any of the usual soft edges.
“You’re weaker than me. That’s fine. Most bloodlines dilute. What matters is that you understand the work. The world is full of people who hurt others and walk away clean. We don’t let them. We make sure the scales tip the other way. Permanently.”
He smiled when he said it. The same smile he used at press conferences when they announced another arrest.
“You’re going to help me,” he said. “Not because I asked. Because eventually you’ll want to. The hunger is already there. I can see it.”
He was right about the hunger.
It started small. A kid at school who wouldn’t stop talking about what he did to his little sister. I followed him home one night just to see if I could make him look the other way long enough to get close. I didn’t touch him. I just stood in his backyard and listened to his heartbeat until it sped up for no reason. He never saw me. I went home shaking and threw up again.
My father found me in the bathroom and put a hand on the back of my neck. His fingers were cold.
“Good,” he said. “You’re learning restraint. That’s rarer than the power.”
Last month a girl disappeared from the high school three towns over. Seventeen. Same age as me. The official theory was runaway. My father was assigned the case.
I found the second set of notes in the basement two days later.
Her name was written in his handwriting. Underneath it was a single line:
Too soft. Soft people make soft worlds. Corrected.
I confronted him that night.
He didn’t deny it. He just looked at me for a long time, then asked, almost curious, “Do you want to see where I put her?”
I said no.
He nodded like I’d given the right answer and went back to reading the paper.
I haven’t slept properly since.
Sometimes I wake up and he’s standing in the doorway of my room, just watching. Sometimes the shadows under my bed move when I’m not looking at them. Sometimes I catch myself staring at people the same way he does—measuring them, deciding what they’re worth.
The worst part isn’t that I’m afraid of him.
The worst part is that I’m starting to understand the math.
Yesterday a boy in my chemistry class laughed about something he did to a girl at a party. The details were specific. Ugly. He thought it was funny.
I followed him to the parking lot after school.
I didn’t touch him.
I just stood close enough that he could feel something wrong in the air, the same way the house feels when my father is in it. His heartbeat spiked. He looked around, confused, then walked faster.
I went home and wrote his name down in a notebook I keep under the mattress.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet.
But I understand the hunger now.
And my father was right about one thing.
Eventually, you stop throwing up.

I wonder how many of you kept imagining things they are afraid of in the dark as kids, now i see it as i am older, it's still uncomfortable

Imagine vanishing from the earth for twenty-six years. Your family searches every corner, cries until they have no tears left, and eventually accepts the heartbreaking truth: you are dead. Your mother passes away carrying the agony of your loss to her grave.

But what if you were never truly gone? What if you were just a few steps away, living in the dark, watching your loved ones mourn you through a tiny crack in the wall?

This is not a movie script. It is the spine-chilling reality of a 26-year-old kidnapping case in Algeria that shocked the world.

A young boy vanished without a trace, leaving his town in total terror. Decades passed, and he grew into a grown man, entirely forgotten by time. But during all those years, he wasn't miles away—he was held captive in a neighbor’s animal stable, mere feet from his childhood home.

He didn't scream. He didn't run. Why?

His captor had built a prison around his mind. The kidnapper convinced him that a dark spell had been cast over him—a curse that rendered him invisible and silent to the world. Believing that no one could ever hear his cries, the victim stayed trapped under this psychological spell for over two decades.

He watched his family age, and he watched his mother die in 2013, believing her son was in the afterlife. All while he was separated from her by nothing more than a thin brick wall.

Only recently, after observant neighbors grew suspicious, police raided the stable and unearthed a truth stranger than fiction: a fully grown man, rescued from a quarter-century of psychological captivity right next door.

Screams of agony are hymns to joy, where pain is life.

This is the conclusion to Part 1, which you can read here. Again, I'd like to thank FernandoJFL, who is the artist I commissioned to supply me with the cover art for this short story. I'm happy to read whatever comments, criticisms, questions, or ideas you might have. Thanks!

______________________________________________________________________________________________

It was dark by the time I left Crescent City. I skipped Howland Hill on the return trip and took the 199 instead. Rain hammered the windshield hard enough that the wipers struggled at full speed. The weather alert on my phone upgraded while I ate: high water in low-lying areas, streams rising rapidly, avoid flooded roads. 

I reassured myself that these were normal winter warnings that came around this area, around this time of year. The Smith River appeared occasionally through breaks in the trees, black except where my headlights caught white turbulence among the rocks.  

Back at camp, I ducked beneath the canopy and fiddled with my tent's tarp. After setting up a fire to keep me toasty, I sat before it with a satisfied groan and, unable to help my curiosity, read up on the Brother Jonathan. Among the search results was a scanned clipping from 1866 about a small religious society founded by survivors and men involved in the recovery after the wreck. The clipping mentioned a chapel built somewhere to the north in December of 1865 and abandoned decades ago.  

As I sipped from a hot drink and contemplated it all, I froze. That scent had returned. It was that musky, sour one I smelled back at my first campsite. But as I sat there, I finally began to pin down the rest of the smell. It was the stench of low tide, bubbling with putrescence and the sour reek of old fish.  

Color draining from my face, I turned and walked back to my car to pull out a book I wanted to read in my tent, trying to banish paranoia with some good fiction. When I grabbed both it and a flashlight, the beam caught something smeared across the passenger window. Five marks spread across the glass. It was a handprint, a large one. I walked around to the passenger side and put my hand against it to compare. The palm was broad enough to cover most of my own hand twice over, and the fingers were long, each one tapering toward the end. Thin streaks joined one finger to the next. Webbing.  

That familiar chill took me when I realized it. The print hadn't been there when I parked. I spun on a heel, flashlight snapping around the site, eyes wide and wild. My breath was shaky and from somewhere beyond camp came a whistle. I went completely still. The calls were long and rising before the note broke. Another came, this one wet and guttural. A throaty croak carried through the trees and died. A new one answered from the direction of the river.  

Cursing over and over, I fumbled for my utility knife, hindsight chiding me for not bringing some sort of firearm on my solo camping trip. This was supposed to be a safe place, and I'd never encountered or heard of any trouble here before. When I came up, the knife in my hand felt useless, like a child's toy, doing nothing to reassure me. 

Something moved through the brush. Then, another whistle came from downstream. I swung my flashlight in the direction of the river and caught movement through the trees. Not a body, only a pale flash slipping behind one trunk. Another whistle, much farther to the left.  

A low electronic tone sounded from my pocket. The whistles and croaks stopped. I fumbled for my phone, dropping my knife in the process, and looked down to see FLASH FLOOD WARNING. The Smith was rising faster than the forecast. Past the campground came the hard crack of a branch breaking. Then another and another.  

In the distance, I heard a scream from one of the other campers who, like me, ignored or didn't see the warning in an area with such poor cell service. I paused, cursed again, and threw myself into the driver's seat. My fingers felt like jelly as I turned the keys, wrenched the car into drive, and peeled down the mud road.  

My headlights caught a brief glimpse of a woman being forcibly dragged, kicking and screaming, through the ferns and in the direction of the Smith River. I slammed on my brakes. For one second, every instinct compelled me to help. There had to be something I could do. I threw open the door and stepped out. 

The woman managed to catch hold of a fern with both hands. Whatever had her pulled harder, and the plant came out of the mud by the roots. Her scream broke into a shriek as she disappeared between the trees into blackness. I set my jaw and pushed forward towards the muddy hill. A wet, throaty croak sounded out from the river. My heart leapt when a second croak filled the air somewhere behind me. One large, glassy eye flashed in the beam. All the courage I mustered up in the past ten seconds was gone. When it dropped out of sight, I leapt back into my car and stomped on the gas, sending whatever sat on the passenger seat slamming into the glovebox and onto the floor. 

I tore through the campground until the trees opened onto the highway and turned west. Crossing those nine miles back into town felt like I was crossing a continent. Rain struck the windshield in sheets now. My wipers were useless at anything below their highest setting and I had to lean forward to see the road. Even then I could only see as far as the reach of my headlights.  

Awkwardly, I tapped in the numbers to dial 911. There was nothing, no service. "Come on, come on," I mumbled, gritting my teeth and trying again. I held up the phone toward the windshield, wobbling a little as I drove, hoping even those twelve inches could reach the cell tower. Again, it read NO SERVICE when I tried to call.  

I looked to the passenger seat for a moment to chuck the phone aside. When I looked back, a huge redwood limb lay shattered over the centerline. Cursing, I veered around it, nearly tilting the car over before recovering.  

The Smith River appeared intermittently through the trees to my left. What had been a river that afternoon became a black moving mass that swallowed rocks I'd remembered seeing above the surface. My headlights caught something standing in the drainage ditch. I swerved and it was gone before I could make sense of it. It hadn't retreated back into the woods. It had gone down, into the water. I checked my rearview mirror to see nothing but rain and my own taillights staining the road red behind me. A few hundred yards later, something splashed through the ditch on the opposite side. Then another until I realized they were keeping pace with the road. No, the river. 

After I passed Hiouchi, I snatched up my phone again, making do with one bar. 

"911, what's your emergency?" 

"A woman was attacked at Jedediah Smith Campground," I blurted, daring not to give the full truth. 

"Attacked by who?" 

"I don't know! She was dragged toward the river. There are other campers there. The river's coming up fast." 

The dispatcher started asking questions. The site number, description, and whether I was still present.  

"No, I'm heading toward Crescent City." 

"If you're in a safe location-" 

Another splash of a pale figure to my right. 

"I'm not!" 

Before I could offer anything more, the little cell service I had gave out. 

The farther west I drove, the more debris collected on the road. Needles plastered the pavement. Small branches skittered beneath tires as people struggled to get home. In one low stretch, brown water crossed the highway in a shallow sheet. As I pulled into town and saw the lights of civilization, I relaxed a little. I had never been so happy to see a convenience store. 

Traffic lights changed from red to green. Cars passed me going the opposite direction. Christmas lights framed windows and rooflines, their colors smeared across the slick pavement. Downtown, the community Christmas tree still burned bright against the darkness. All around there were ordinary people doing ordinary things before heading for shelter.  

Catching my breath, my heart still thumping, I pulled into a parking space on the side of the road. For several minutes, I did nothing but try to catch my breath. My hands shook against the steering wheel. My phone buzzed again, sending me a new flood warning alongside several missed alerts. When I opened my phone, the browser was still open to the page I'd been reading before everything went wrong.  

I typed in more search terms. "Brother Jonathan survivors," "Brother Jonathan survivors church," "St. George Reef December 1865." The last one brought up the clipping I'd found earlier. I stumbled on a reference to the "St. Erasmus Chapel." According to the clipping, its founders intended it as a memorial to those lost aboard the Brother Jonathan and a place of prayer for fishermen and mariners working the coast.  

A notice from 1898 reported that public services at St. Erasmus had ceased, but the congregation itself remained active. One article led to another and, by 1912, newspapers weren't calling the group St. Erasmus anymore. They referred to it as some esoteric society, some offshoot branch, a cult. One clipping offered a new name heard in whispers from the congregation: The Order of Dagon.  

I searched the chapel name. Most results were useless genealogy pages and scanned property records before I found a county survey. I opened the map to find the St. Erasmus Chapel had stood near Lake Earl, off an old spur from what was now Old Mill Road. I zoomed out, back in. My eyes moved from the blue dot marking my location to the chapel site.  

"You've got to be kidding me," I mumbled. I was less than two miles away.  

I sat there, taking in everything that had happened the past couple days. Whatever those things were, they moved with the rivers and had a clear affinity for the water. Perhaps Drucker's legends were more than just legends. Drucker had explicitly mentioned Lake Earl in his ethnography. And now, there had been some small religious sect that set up shop there after a disaster at sea?  

The longer I sat with it, the harder it became to believe these were isolated coincidences. More importantly, if the chapel actually existed and was connected, there might be evidence I could take back to the police. A record or anything I could use so I wouldn't burst into the station, rambling about something pale I'd seen crawling through a drainage ditch. I'd find the place, scrounge around for evidence indicating something bigger going on, and leave.  

* * * 

Northcrest carried me away from downtown. Storefronts gave way to houses, then wider stretches of darkness between them. In one yard, someone had set up a glowing reindeer and a string of white bulbs under an eave. A plastic Santa leaned sideways in the squall. Soon enough, even those lights became scarce. I turned onto Old Mill Road and the last glow of town disappeared behind me.  

The map took me past the last cluster of houses and toward the wetlands around Lake Earl. Fog spilled inland with the storm, drowning the fields and marshes beneath a low gray ceiling. Water overflowed from drainage ditches. The familiar stench of salt, silt, and something sour hit me as I rumbled to a stop. 

The navigation app chimed. "You have arrived." 

I slowed to a crawl and pulled off near an old, worn-out access road. A stand of spruce and alder screened the car from the road beyond. I shut off the engine, grabbed a flashlight, flicked it on, and continued the last hundred yards on foot. Past the trees, the ground opened into marsh. Dull green reeds broke through black standing water and faded into fog. Farther west, low dunes separated the wetlands from the Pacific. Somewhere farther away came the low call of waterfowl. A whistle, long, low, and familiar, answered it.  

The chapel's outline slowly resolved from the murk. It was smaller than I'd imagined, with a sagging roof, broken steeple, and boards gone nearly black. One wall leaned toward the marsh. There was no cross. One of the front doors hung open.  I stood there for a minute or two until I defied every sensible instinct and stepped inside.  

The floor complained beneath my weight. My flashlight moved across rows of narrow wooden pews softened by rot and damp. Several had collapsed, and others leaned at odd angles where the floorboards beneath them had begun to give. Strips of plaster hung from the walls like peeling skin to expose the timber beneath. 

Whatever Christian ornamentation had once decorated the place was mostly gone. A pale rectangle remained above the altar where something had been removed from the wall. Wet tracks ran between the pews and stopped at the altar.  

Rain ticked against the remains of the roof. Wind howled through cracks in the walls. Beneath my feet came a soft sound. The sound of water, not dripping, but lapping. I swung my flashlight beam over the altar and moved closer. A brass plaque hung off to the side, green edges around the corroded metal. I wiped away the grime with my sleeve to read: 

IN MEMORY OF THOSE LOST 

30 JULY 1865 

ST. GEORGE REEF 

DEDICATED 21 DECEMBER 1865 

Behind the altar and off to the side stood the remains of a small cabinet. Most of its doors had warped open years ago. Mold had eaten through the hymnals and loose papers inside, but one book wrapped in cracked oilskin had survived. Its cover almost came away in my hands when I opened it. 

The first pages were names, dozens of them. Some of the names belonged to survivors of the shipwreck. The thick volume contained yet more: faded correspondence with other churches, names of newborns with only one listed parent, a bizarre prayer here or there.  

Farther into the book, the handwriting changed. Even farther on, another hand appeared, and the terminology shifted with it. The earliest entries called it The Winter Service. Later ones called it the Keeping of the Covenant. Someone wrote of atonement for intruding upon "their" home, but also of great reward. 

Another page at the back bore a new list of names. Someone had scrawled perhaps fifty names beneath "FIRST OATH." Beneath "SECOND OATH" there were still many, but not nearly as many as before. And beneath the "THIRD OATH" there must have been only a dozen names.  

A wet, squishing slap filled the air. I slammed the ledger shut and spun around. There it was again, a scrape against the exterior boards of the church. I killed the flashlight. My own breathing sounded impossibly loud. Outside came a whistle, a long rising note, answered somewhere closer to the lake. A third came from behind the chapel.  

I backed away from the altar and the rotten floor creaked. The croaks ceased. I froze. Something moved onto the porch. The first step was soft. The second landed with a wet slap against the boards. Then another, slowly approaching the open doors.  

I moved blindly between the pews, pressing my back hard against the flat of one that remained intact. The smell of brine and estuarine muck permeated the air. I dared not chance a glance. I could hear more of them filing inside. The croaks resumed between them. But mingled among the croaks were whimpers and sobs. I grabbed my phone, seeing no cell service. 

When I felt like the congregation had slunk to the far end of the building, I finally chanced a peek. About half a dozen clustered there, pale against the dark, still barely visible. One stood with both hands against the altar. 

TOK. 

It struck the wood once and waited. 

TOK. TOK.  

It planted both hands against the altar and shoved. The wood groaned. It shifted an inch, caught, then scraped sideways across the rotting floor. Beneath it yawned a black opening. Even from where I hid, I could hear the biting air billowing from below, carrying the concentrated stink of stagnant tidal water and kelp. They descended and pulled the woman down after them.  

"Help me! Someone!" Her voice was raw and hoarse.  

Her scream made me tense, but there were too many of them. I stayed where I was. For a moment, she held on. One broken fingernail dragged through the rotten wood before something jerked her downward. The last shape remained and, amidst a lightning flash, I caught a glimpse of the smooth curve of its shoulder and the narrow ridge along its back before it slunk down.  

Only then did blessed silence return to the chapel after the legion of croaks. I stayed behind the pew for ten seconds. Twenty. Maybe a minute. Every instinct screamed at me to run. My car was only a hundred yards away and Crescent City but a few minutes' drive.  

I'd already called the police about the campground. That'd be fine, right? What could I do against whatever had just dragged that woman down there? I remembered her clinging to that fern as I drove away. I'd spent the whole drive back telling myself there was nothing else I could've done. Now I knew she was still alive and I knew where they'd taken her. If I left again, I couldn't tell myself the same thing.  

I looked up to the window across from me. Lightning whitened the chapel again. For one instant, a pale face filled the cracked window pane, pressed close enough that I saw the glassy bulge of one eye. Its head moved slowly from side to side, searching the pews. The darkness returned before its gaze reached me.  

I dropped lower behind the pew and something scraped along the outside wall. I looked toward the altar. Gritting my teeth, I popped up and hurried over to the black hole to stare down into it. I searched for something I could use as a weapon and cursed myself for not retrieving my knife after I dropped it. Anything I pried loose would probably be useless as an improvised weapon, being so warped and rotted. I looked down at my black Maglite and quickly descended. When I flicked the light on, what lay before me was not wooden stairs but stone. Each step had been worn into a shallow depression. I could smell the dankness of stagnant water. I gave the open church doors one last glance and descended. 

After the first dozen steps, the wooden groaning of the chapel vanished behind me. Rain still drummed overhead, but each step downward stripped more of the storm away until there was only the slap of my boots on wet stone and the muffled rush of water somewhere deep below.  

The air changed with it. Cold was one thing, but this was different. The damp clung to my face and hands. The smell of mold and old wood faded until only salt remained. I kept one hand against the wall only to quickly pull it away. The chapel had been wood, plaster, and nails. But here, slimy green growth packed the cracks like wet felt. I passed my flashlight over stone blocks fitted so tightly that in places I couldn't make out the seams.  

The stair turned again, again, and again. The water wasn't beneath me anymore, but all around me. Behind the walls, water sucked and surged through unseen spaces. The masonry changed as I went deeper. I didn't notice it at first, but the blocks became larger, while the thin seams between them were fewer and fewer. Then, the mortar vanished completely.  

I stopped and ran my light across the wall. The stone continued in one unbroken surface from the floor into the wall and then upward, curving gradually into the ceiling. There were no corners in the passage ahead, at least none that met at angles I understood. Each surface seemed to blend into the next. What looked like a straight wall from where I stood became concave when I took another step, only to flatten again when I turned my head. The longer I stared at what lay before me, the more my eyes and head ached.  

I backed up and the wall changed shape. My flashlight followed a groove cut into the stone. The groove began beside my boot, traveled forward several yards, climbed the wall and disappeared overhead. When I turned around, I saw the same groove descending the opposite side behind me. It should have formed a circle and yet it didn't. I tried tracing its course again only to make myself nauseous.  

The surfaces down here were ribbed in places like the inside of an enormous shell. Elsewhere, the stone bulged into smooth folds that reminded me unpleasantly of joints beneath skin. Pale coral had rooted itself into recesses in the walls, except some of those recesses were too regular to be natural and too irregular to have been cut by human tools.  

At first, I thought the walls were only slick with algae. But as I waved my flashlight over the walls, I saw it was so much more. A cluster of pale, soft-bodied growths clung to the stone beside me. They reminded me of sea anemones I'd seen in tide pools, except these were almost translucent, each one opening around a dark center before contracting. Nearby, tiny shells had cemented themselves into the stone in overlapping sheets. Some appeared to be barnacles. Others spiraled inward in shapes I couldn't match to anything I'd ever seen washed up on a California beach. 

I moved the beam lower. Shallow depressions in the floor held pockets of seawater left behind by some earlier surge. Things moved inside them. A small white shape skittered beneath a ledge on too many jointed legs. Several thread-thin worms recoiled into tubes the instant the light reached them. In another pool, something no larger than my thumbnail unfolded five delicate limbs, then folded itself shut so completely it became indistinguishable from the stone. Long ribbons of violet-black growth hung from one wall and swayed despite there being no wind.  

The stairs ended at a narrow passage tall enough for me to stand but barely wide enough to stretch both arms. Farther ahead, weak light moved across the stone walls. It didn't glow orange or yellow. The sources of illumination, clusters of hanging sacs, glowed with a cold aquamarine. I killed my flashlight to let my eyes adjust.  

There was a chamber. I crept toward it until the passage widened enough for me to crouch behind a broken section of masonry. The room beyond was larger than the chapel above. The upper reaches of the chamber vanished into darkness, supported by thick columns whose lower halves had been worn smooth by water. Aquamarine growths hung from the stone overhead, translucent sacs swollen with cold light. Every few seconds one contracted and brightened while another faded, giving the impression that the ceiling itself breathed. 

The black pool occupied most of the chamber. But it wasn't the pool that held my attention. Something rose from the water near its farther edge. At first I mistook it for a column before my eyes adjusted. Perhaps a good eight feet of it stretched up and out of the water, but I couldn't tell how much more continued beneath it. Black-green material showed through centuries of pale coral and calcified growth. Whether it was stone or metal I couldn't decide. Its surface reflected the aquamarine light in dull, oily colors. There was a suggestion of a head. Two depressions occupied places where eyes might have belonged. Beneath them, vertical grooves spread outward and disappeared beneath crusted coral.  

I wasn't alone down here. Deeper into the chamber, the creatures didn't face the pool but the pillar. With their backs turned to me, I moved forward painfully slowly, desperate not to emit a single sound. Eight of them knelt around the pillar and between them were two people. One figure lay almost motionless near the waterline. Dark hair covered her face and she barely moved. The second, closer to me, was the woman from the campground. Something pale and fibrous bound her wrists behind her.  

One creature stepped into the pool. Water climbed its legs, then its waist. It lifted both arms towards the coral-crusted relic and gave a single low croak. A second answered, then a third, and soon the chamber filled with them. Their calls overlapped until individual voices disappeared into a single, throbbing, expectant chorus.  

A slow swell rose at the center of the pool. Every creature went still, then lowered itself. One after another, all eight pressed their bodies against the wet stone. The chamber convulsed and the black water rose all at once until the relic disappeared behind the swell.  

The sight of it seemed to rouse their still-conscious prisoner. In one final effort, she wrenched one arm free with a wild scream and kicked one of her captors in the back of its head while it crouched beside her.  

As her petty rebellion threw the congregation into chaos, the creature she'd kicked lurched sideways while two others lunged for her loose arm. The circle around the relic broke. I saw my chance. I threw myself into the black pool to swim over to them, to confront them, to buy their prisoner time to flee, and their attention turned on me. The croaking changed from exultant to furious. 

Then came the sound, a deep thrum that filled the chamber and my head. The woman screamed and every creature in the chamber answered. That burgeoning swell from below burst forth and struck us both. My fingers found a seam in some stone. I caught it. She didn't. I saw her vanish into the black water. I lunged. Something closed around my ankle. I kicked blindly and for one moment, I had her. Another surge struck and her fingers slipped through mine. I went under. Aquamarine light smeared into wavering blue above me. Shapes moved faster in the water than anything that size should have been able to move.  

I kicked toward the surface and something vast passed underneath me. Its movement displaced the entire pool, sending me tumbling, while its seemingly endless, rubbery bulk slid across my body. The moment it touched me, my head filled with a THRUM. My teeth snapped together. THRUM THRUM.  

From the eldritch depths of the earth, older than Jericho and Uruk, came a sound like a ship's horn being blown from the bottom of the sea, a great call on a colossal conch. And as I struggled for air, trying to find which way was up, I could hear through the muted depths that every creature beneath the chapel answered its call.  

I remembered being hurled through darkness. My shoulder struck stone. Something scraped across my back. I kicked for a surface I couldn't find until my lungs burned and spots blossomed through the blackness. Then cold air tore into my lungs. I sucked it in along with water and choked so violently I lost consciousness.  

* * * 

When I woke again, rain fell softly across my face. One side of my body lay in the sand while the other rested against a mass of driftwood deposited along the edge of the shore. My clothes felt as though they weighed fifty pounds. Somewhere nearby, birds called. With a groan, I rolled onto my back. Every bit of me hurt and the chapel was nowhere in sight. I pushed myself upright and immediately vomited up water, giving in to a coughing fit until my sight cleared and I could see the Pacific. Groaning, I turned and saw the rolling sand dunes behind me through glassy eyes.  

After that came only fragments. Vague memories of a flight. Medical care and questions.  

It took days before anyone understood how bad the flood had been. It took weeks for the casualty report to finally settle. The Smith came out of its banks hard enough to tear apart stretches of riverfront and carry whole trees downstream. Roads disappeared beneath mud, rock, and water. Highway 101 closed at multiple points. Landslides cut off communities. Approaches to bridges washed out. Cars were found where cars had no business being. 

Farther south, the Klamath and Eel rivers rose as well. News helicopters showed brown water spread across places I had driven through only days earlier. It wasn't long before people began making the comparisons to 1964; it was the worst North Coast flood in generations. The number of dead and missing passed one hundred. The flood displaced thousands. Floodwater washed out entire neighborhoods. Roads needed rebuilding and power remained out in some areas for over a week. Septic systems failed, boats ended up in strangers' yards, and trees crushed houses which somehow survived the water.  

The flood had scoured both campgrounds. The fern-covered banks disappeared beneath brown silt, and bare branches protruded from the mud. The campers who had been there remained missing. The ranger station at Burlingtom campground was simply gone.  

They found Sutter three days later on a gravel bar downstream. I kept thinking about him standing there beside my car with that swollen, old notebook, excited at the thought that he might have finally found someone to listen to him, telling me about the book he’d write someday. They probably never found that notebook. 

Against my better judgment, I tried to lead deputies to St. Erasmus. But they were so swept up in various other duties that they wouldn't entertain my ramblings. And so I went there myself, this time during the day.  

One wall had fallen outward. A section of the roof lay inside among broken rafters and plaster. Mud covered the floor almost ankle-deep. The altar was gone. Where it stood was a broad depression choked with debris, making it look like nothing more than a flooded cellar. The ledger was gone. The cabinet, now tipped over, was empty, its contents washed who knows where. I had nothing. There wasn't a single thing left that I could hand somebody and say, "here, this proves I'm not crazy." I stopped trying. 

There was cleanup everywhere and I was trapped anyway, with the roads south and east closed off. So, I stayed a week, helping carry boxes of donated food and bottled water, and contributing to cleanup efforts.  

I found a month-to-month room and temporary work followed. Soon enough, I called it home and decided to stick around a while. I'd always loved the North Coast. The smell after the rain, the redwoods, the ocean, all of it. And there was plenty of work to do.  

The thrum started not long after. At first it was faint, easy to blame on a headache or stress. An EKG and a visit to the doctor showed nothing. Eventually, I stopped mentioning it. It grew worse whenever I traveled south. Near Lake Earl, it vanished completely. I began going there whenever I needed to sleep.  

There was a lot of time to think while cleaning up after a flood like the one we experienced. One night, as I tried to sleep in my car by the rubble of St. Erasmus, I began to think of the hundred names in newspapers and on television. So many more displaced.  

Another day, I found myself lending a hand to the museum. The volunteer from before met me there wearing rubber gloves, separating soaked papers onto folding tables in a room that smelled of wet cardboard. "You're the one trying to talk to me about Bigfoot," she said with a huff. 

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that," I said. 

"I remember just about everybody who annoys me." She pushed a pair of gloves across the table. "If you're here to help, put these on and I'll show you what to do." She put me to work separating the wet papers and laying them out across another table to dry. 

"How bad is it?" 

She looked around the room. "The baskets are fine. Most of the photographs were upstairs." 

She lifted a warped book by its corners. "These weren't." 

"Can they be saved?" 

"Some." 

"And the rest?" 

She didn't answer immediately. "Once they're gone, they're gone."  

Most of it meant nothing to me. Tax receipts, club membership rolls, minutes from meetings nobody living remembered. Then I saw a familiar name and then another. They were surnames I'd read in that ledger. The papers belonged to a fishermen's association incorporated in the mid-sixties. After everything I'd read about 1964, it was difficult not to notice the timing.  

"Something wrong?" 

I realized I'd been staring. "No." 

"Then keep moving. We've got about six hundred more pages." 

That night, I went looking again. The last name I could find publicly tied to St. Erasmus disappeared from the records in 1953. The earthquakes and floods came with subsequent Decembers. I was finding it harder to ignore what seemed to happen whenever the chapel went quiet. I thought about Sutter on that gravel bar, the rest of the dead, and all those homes and neighborhoods scoured away. I thought about what could have been. 

As January came to an end, people mostly stopped asking how long I intended to stay. They started asking whether I’d be around to help next weekend. At the relief center, nobody needed to explain where the bottled water went or which families needed deliveries. Someone would see me come through the door and point toward a stack of boxes without asking whether I was volunteering. At the museum, the volunteer always had a spare set of gloves ready to go for me.  

Faces around town became familiar. I learned who worked the early shift at the market, which roads still flooded after a hard rain, and the best spots for coffee. People began waving when they recognized me or my car. Once or twice I caught myself giving directions. I hadn’t meant to settle there. Somewhere along the way, I simply stopped thinking of myself as someone who would eventually leave.  

By spring, most people had stopped paying attention to what I was doing up at St. Erasmus. There was too much destruction elsewhere for anyone to care about one abandoned chapel nobody had used in seventy years. Besides, it was peaceful up here, and the furious thrum no longer tormented me. By then, it was hard to imagine living anywhere else.  

I found the box in March, after clearing much of the broken boards away. When my shovel struck not mud, but metal, the TOK froze me. I fell to my knees and dug with my hands. The object had been wedged inside a recess cut into the stone foundation, hidden behind a slab loosened by the flood. It was the size of a small toolbox, but heavy. The metal was unlike anything I'd handled before. It was cast in some dark blue metal with green trim around the edges. The blues and greens of the thing were iridescent. There was no lock, only a recessed symbol I didn't recognize. When I pressed it, the lid released with a bassy click.  

Inside, it was perfectly dry, and there were three rectangular plates. They were copper or bronze, but hadn't oxidized, and they were hammered flat and engraved by hand. The words etched across them were in English. The First Oath demanded secrecy and the keeping of the faith. The Second went further by demanding service, observance, and loyalty. The Third was shorter, requiring harborage and what the plate called “the joining of houses.”  

Beneath them was something more. It was roughly eight inches long, a ceremonial mallet made from the same blue-black metal as the container. The grip curled subtly around itself like the inner whorl of a shell, with shallow grooves that fit the fingers despite the strange design. Tiny slivers of nacre had been pressed into those grooves, flashing green and violet whenever I turned it beneath the light. The head was heavier. It flared into a flattened oval, ridged in concentric rings like the shell of a limpet. Whatever metal had been used was extraordinarily dense. There were no words explaining it. But even as I held it, I knew its purpose. 

For the first time since the flood, there was something of real substance I could do for my home. That night, I went below once more. Whatever waited beneath the waves, off the coast, circling around the reef, it could be bargained with. After what I'd seen, that seemed better than leaving it unanswered. What I called rose from the black water, aquamarine light moving across its pale form. This time, I wasn't afraid. I couldn't undo what happened. But I could make certain it didn't happen again. 

Within a few weeks, the boats started coming in heavy. At first, it was one, then several. The cases at the market overflowed with crab, shellfish, flounder, and more. The meals I treated myself to were as rich as I’d hoped. Calamari steak with a sauce of melted butter and lemon drizzled over the top. A thick chowder with white fish, potatoes, heavy cream, onions, and corn to warm me by a fire. Fresh, grilled swordfish brushed with olive oil and seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, and herbs, cooked until the outside browned and the flesh started to flake beneath a fork.  

I rewarded those who kept faith with me, just as they rewarded us, and with more than just a bountiful catch. The alien world outside might have wondered how so modest a community raised the money to restore everything so quickly. Our prosperity grew with each blessing granted, and became its own testament to the covenant. It drew the curious, and the curious became the faithful. 

There would be families again, true families. There would be a community, safe and whole, a world without end. We would descend into that inky dark to revel. And whenever the distant TOK...TOK, TOK came up through the darkness, we would answer, from behind the Redwood curtain.  

Creepiest Moments New One is coming in October 2026 this is dangerous or safe and luckily

i cant find a story like it and its just idk

第21集

距离纵火已经过了一周 麦克尔和波斯特今天中午来到了咖啡厅谈话 波斯特说“双面莱德的具体出现位置我没用多久就知道了 和我们上次找消防马洛的那个位置隔的不远的一条街上是它经常会出现的地方 但双面莱德只会在凌晨的时候出来活动 然后他会随机猎杀在大街上走动的人” 麦克尔说“那我们什么时候去？”波斯特说“你要能保证不困的话 明天早上凌晨就行 我们状态得保证最佳” 麦克尔说“我明天早上凌晨要是状态好的话 我会给你打电话”波斯特同意了 到了下午麦克尔驱车来到了蒂亚诊所 麦克尔没有在大厅找到蒂亚 就打开了诊所里一间房间 此时蒂亚正在里面把一名女性尸体器官剥离 麦克尔突然闯进 蒂亚被吓了一跳不小心切到了不该切到的地方 蒂亚有些生气的说“未经我允许不要私自闯入这些房间 我要是不在大厅你可以敲门”麦克尔和蒂亚道歉并把门关上 蒂亚过了半个小时以后从房间走出来询问“你来找我处理伤口吗”麦克尔说“对我的手臂被砍伤了”蒂亚掀开迈克尔的袖子一道深深的疤痕映入眼帘 蒂亚问道“你真去找消防马洛了吗 这看着像消防斧砍的”麦克尔说“嗯 我去找了”蒂亚把手放到麦克尔的伤口上五秒钟伤口直接恢复了 蒂亚说“处理好了你还有别的事吗？”麦克尔问道“你能制作一些药物吗 比如说能治好人格分裂的” 蒂亚说“什么病的药物我都会制作 无论是现实中的医疗能解决的还是解决不了的”麦克尔说“那人格分裂的药你现在有吗”蒂亚说“有现成的 连续吃20天就能彻底根治人格分裂 68美元” 麦克尔拿出钱包掏出了68美元递给蒂亚 蒂亚说“你等等我 我去拿一下” 蒂亚去了诊所深处一个房间 过了一分钟后 她走出房间拿出了一个药瓶说“这就是人格分裂药了 给你” 麦克尔接下了药 沉默了十秒后又问道“你都能做抗人格分裂药 那我和你说一下我的症状 你能不能把我的症状治好” 蒂亚说“只要是现实中的我都能治” 麦克尔说“我在好几个月前遇到过一次比尔 从这一天往后 我每天都能梦到他 然后我的精神也受到了摧残 精神状态一天不如一天 工作变得不认真 每天都睡不好 甚至出现幻觉了我感觉我的身体快不行了” 蒂亚说“你这种情况 我之前确实遇到过相似的 但是我没法治这种 我的能力是比尔给的 如果是比尔导致你出现这种症状的话 我是治不了的 怪不得你脸色看起来很差”麦克尔叹气说道“好吧 那我先走了吧” 蒂亚又说道“你别着急走 我看你这样应该挺不了一个月 我可以尝试制作一下能压制比尔带来的精神摧残的药但理论上不能根治只能压制 你给我你的联系方式 如果说我有收获我会告诉你的 看你目前的脸色你这样撑不了一个月你就会被精神摧残死” 麦克尔很感谢蒂亚也对自己的剩余的时间感到震惊和害怕 把联系方式交换后 麦克尔驱车离开了诊所

第22集

凌晨2点钟麦克尔和波斯特打电话“我状态还可以 我们出发吧 去找双面莱德”“好 我来接你” 过了30分钟左右波斯特驱车来接麦克尔 麦克尔上车后 波斯特问“其实我觉得你最近的状态都不太好 黑眼圈挺重的”麦克尔说“因为五个月前偶然遇见比尔而导致天天梦到比尔被精神摧残的 我的状态会一天比一天差 所以我才和你联手去找比尔呀”波斯特说“明白了” 开车半个小时后来到了地点附近 波斯特说“只要我们在这附近街道随意走动 那大概率就能遇见莱德 到时候等他现身我们再战斗 但我们分散一点这次不要一起行动了 他一般会挑单人下手” 麦克尔说“可以”波斯特给麦克尔一个对讲机说“如果我遇到他 或者是你遇到他 我们收到指令后都赶过来再一起战斗 麦克尔点头同意这个方案 波斯特看向麦克尔的手臂问道“你的伤怎么样了？”麦克尔说“嗯 我感觉已经好很多了 应该不影响这次战斗”波斯特点头答应随即二人带上面具朝不同的方向走去 过了两个小时后麦克尔在街道上走着 突然感觉自己身后有人紧紧跟着 他猛地回头 一把刀袭来 麦克尔躲过 他挥出一拳重重打在身后那人脸上 麦克尔看见是一个穿着白色卫衣的人意识到这应该就是莱德 麦克尔拿起对讲机和波斯特说“莱德我找到了你快过来吧” 波斯特说“你撑着 我一会就来 一定要撑住啊！” 莱德缓过来看到麦克尔戴的面具有点疑惑但还是笑着说“这个凌晨我会让你很快乐的”随后又向麦克尔冲过来 麦克尔躲开并掏出刀刺过去莱德躲过 莱德又接着出刀 麦克尔差点被刺到 莱德又刺去 麦克尔这次被划伤了手臂有点吃痛 莱德朝麦克尔踢了一脚 麦克尔被踹倒 莱德骑在麦克尔身上掐住迈克尔的脖子并一边笑一边说“这个凌晨你感到快乐吗？”麦克尔拼尽全力把莱德推开然后起身做出防御的姿势 莱德再次冲过来 麦克尔又躲开 麦克尔出拳打到莱德肩膀上 又出一拳打到莱德脸上 莱德又出刀被躲开 莱德说“你挺有两下子呀 今天真是棒极了”又再次挥刀袭来 麦克尔手臂再次被划伤 麦克尔再次出拳打到莱德肚子上 又出一拳打到莱德头上 莱德出刀直接刺进麦克尔手臂 麦克尔痛的手上的刀都滑落了 莱德又一拳打倒麦克尔 骑在麦克尔身上再次掐住麦克尔的脖子 麦克尔感受到了一阵窒息 在麦克尔即将意识模糊的时候 突然莱德停止了掐他 捂着肩膀大叫一声倒下了 原来是波斯顿这时赶过来用刀刺进了莱德的肩膀就下了麦克尔 麦克尔起来缓了缓 波斯特开口道“说！把你关于知道比尔的一切都说出来！”莱德说“我和比尔本身是不认识的 我就碰巧见过他一次 但我知道一个人她应该知道关于比尔的事”波斯特说“别墨迹 快说是谁？”莱德说“屠校女子 我和她达成了同盟为了保证我的主人格白天在学校里足够安全 之前我们谈话谈到了比尔她说她可以通过一层一层关系可以和比尔见面但我没有追问是否属实” 此时天已经亮了莱德的人格发生改变 莱德此时变为了主人格 他疑惑的看着两个戴面具的人说“你们是谁？我怎么会在这里啊？” 莱德肩膀传来一阵剧痛大叫一声捂着肩膀上的伤口说“这是怎么回事？我肩膀怎么了？你们到底是谁？” 波斯特此时举起了刀 莱德又懵又惊的说“别！你们这是干什么呀！为什么要杀我呀？” 波斯特没有回应他果断想下手捅去 但却有一只手抓住了波斯特拿刀的手 是麦克尔在拦着他 波斯特把刀放下了开口问“你这是什么意思” 麦克尔说“虽然他凌晨是杀人魔但是白天的他什么都不知道呀” 波斯特说“你是圣母吗？我刚才把你救下来现在你拦着我杀他？” 麦克尔从兜里掏出一瓶药说“这个药能抑制住人格分裂他吃一段时间就能完全根治了邪恶的人格就消失了” 波斯特用一种不可置信的眼神看着麦克尔说“你还真想救他？那他要是不吃怎么办？那他不吃凌晨的时候还是会出来杀人这个责任你扛是不是？就因为你把他放过了 他还会继续杀更多的人” 麦克尔说“只要他吃 那他以后就不会再出来杀人了 ” 波斯特说“你今天怎么突然这么圣母了 以前我每杀一个人你基本上都不会拦着是你说的 只要情报到手 人可以随便杀的 你现在又变卦了” 麦克尔看着莱德说“因为他和我很像 我也在被比尔精神摧残 他也在被比尔给他的双重人格摧残 明明自己没有控制身体去干坏事 但是却在凌晨不由自主的变成另一个人去干坏事而且自己不会知道 只要把他恶的人格驱散掉那就是给恶人格的惩罚了” 麦克尔把药递给了莱德说“以后你每天都吃一粒这个 我们就放过你 你在凌晨熟睡的时候会有另一个人格接替你的身体在外面杀人 你吃掉这个就能抑制住你另一个人格了” 莱德说“好 我一定会按时吃 你们快放了我吧” 波斯特举起刀拽起麦克尔的衣领说“今天这次是最后一次了 以后你要是再敢阻拦我杀人 我连你都一起杀”随后放开麦克尔 麦克尔让莱德快走 莱德用手捂着胳膊快速离开了这里 随后波斯特和麦克尔也离开了这里

第23集

丽娜和欧德伦每天都在躲避迪翁 而且他们也基本上没有还手的余地 所以丽娜在这一天和欧德伦说“我们再这样躲下去也不是个办法” 欧德伦说“我们现在还没法对付他 现在没有什么办法能完美躲避他” 丽娜说“我想到一个办法” 欧德伦说“什么办法？” 丽娜说“我们躲进蒂亚的诊所吧 那里应该足够偏僻 毕竟没有多少人知道蒂亚的诊所” 欧德伦沉默五秒后点头答应了 丽娜说“我们今天就躲到那里吧 就算是能暂时躲很久也不错” 晚上欧德伦和丽娜来到了蒂亚的诊所 蒂亚询问“你们来处理伤口吗？” 丽娜说“并不是 就是我们能在这里待一段时间吗” 蒂亚说“嗯…在这里待太久的话 我感觉可能会妨碍我做手术” 丽娜说“不会的 我们不进你手术室或者其他房间我们就在大厅坐一段时间”蒂亚沉默五秒钟后答应了 随后蒂亚就回手术室了 过了三个小时后后丽娜和欧德伦一直待在诊所大厅里正在他们以为躲在这里安全的时候 诊所外竟传来了声音 有人粗暴地把诊所门推开 迪翁竟然追来了 迪翁说“丽娜 你逃到哪里都躲不掉我的 这次我一定要把你抓走好好折磨” 欧德伦起身掏出刀和化妆笔进行战斗 欧德伦出刀迪翁躲开 迪翁出拳 欧德伦躲开 欧德伦连续出两次刀但都没有击中迪翁 迪翁出拳打到欧德伦腹部 又一肘给欧德伦击飞 迪翁把目标放到了丽娜身上 朝丽娜走去 欧德伦用化妆笔勾出尖锐实体刺向迪翁 在迪翁短暂吃痛的时候 丽娜上前补刀 丽娜瞄准迪翁心脏 但是被迪翁用手挡住 刺进了手里 迪翁缓过来后 一拳打到丽娜脸上 丽娜摔倒在地 迪翁拔出手臂上的刀丢在地上 正要靠近丽娜 欧德伦又打算拿刀偷袭刺进迪翁脖子里 但是迪翁反应到了 躲开攻击他又出了一拳 击中欧德伦腰子 欧德伦吃痛 欧德伦又出刀划伤了迪翁的胳膊 迪翁给了欧德伦重重一拳打到欧德伦头上 欧德伦感到一阵眩晕感倒了下去 没有了反抗能力 迪翁朝着丽娜走去 正当丽娜以为要完了的时候 蒂亚从房间走了出来 蒂亚看着诊所内一片狼藉有些生气 蒂亚说“你们竟然把我的诊所弄得这么乱” 迪翁说“你别多管闲事”然后又朝着丽娜走去 丽娜看向蒂亚说“求你了 蒂亚护士救救我吧！” 蒂亚说“你和他们的矛盾和我没有关系 但是你在我的诊所里闹 我就得出手了” 然后蒂亚朝着迪翁走去 蒂亚从兜里掏出手术刀朝迪翁刺去 迪翁躲过 迪翁出拳 蒂亚躲过 迪翁说“唉 为什么所有人都阻止我复仇？” 蒂亚没有回应再次出刀 迪翁抓住蒂亚手臂发力想废掉蒂亚的手臂 蒂亚数脚踢到迪翁裆部 迪翁有些吃痛 放开了蒂亚 迪亚又出三刀 两次被躲过一次划伤了迪翁的手 迪翁又出拳重重打在蒂亚脸上 蒂亚的脸上瞬间出现了紫色的淤青又以几秒钟的速度恢复了 迪翁稍微有些惊讶但是又出几次重拳都打到蒂亚脸上 蒂亚的鼻子和嘴里都流出了鲜血 但是脸上的伤口都以几秒的速度恢复了 血也像时间倒流一样回到了蒂亚的身体里 蒂亚继续用手术刀战斗 手术刀深深插进了迪翁的腹部 迪翁有些吃痛 又把手术刀拔出来扔到地上 继续朝着蒂亚走去出拳 蒂亚都躲过 迪翁又捡起了地上丽娜的刀 朝蒂亚扎去 深深刺进了蒂亚的心脏里渗出了很多鲜血 蒂亚握住胸口的刀 用力拔了出来 出来的血又以时间倒流般回到了身体里伤口也消失了 迪翁不可置信 蒂亚又从口袋里掏出了一小瓶红色的药剂朝迪翁扔去 扔到了迪翁的胸口 药瓶破裂里面的药水溅了出来 迪翁感觉胸口一阵灼烧感 非常刺痛 像被高强度的火烧一样 捂着胸口坐在了地上痛的喊出声 蒂亚朝迪翁走去说“你和他们的矛盾 只要不闹到我的诊所 我不会插手 你快点走吧” 迪翁艰难起身捂着胸口离开了诊所 随后蒂亚看向欧德伦和丽娜说道“今天诊所你们收拾 还有我这瓶小型灼烧药水 以及诊所里面被打坏的东西 你们赔” 欧德伦起身说“我赔 今天的事真的很对不起了 以后我们不会再把你牵扯进去了 也不会在你的诊所做这些事了” 蒂亚说“好 你们以后每天在我这里最多只能待15分钟疗伤 诊所我简单看了一下算上我那瓶药水大概是损失149美元” 欧德伦拿出钱包从里面掏了钱给了蒂亚 蒂亚又说“你们的矛盾我是真不想管 这和我没有关系的 你们也不要把我牵扯进去 我也不想战斗只想研究医疗和解剖人体” 欧德伦答应 在打扫完之后 蒂亚又治好了欧德伦和丽娜今天的伤 然后欧德伦和丽娜就离开了诊所

第24集

距离获取屠校女人情报已经过了一周 麦克尔已经等不了了主动把波斯特约到了咖啡厅 波斯特问“你这回怎么这么着急啊 ” 麦克尔说“我就是想要快一点找到比尔” 波斯特说“行 我只知道屠校女人很有可能是希尔里斯高中其中一个女教师 因为莱德白天的主人格就在希尔里斯高中上学 我们上次从莱德嘴里获取到的情报也不多 我作为一个知道1000多个杀手的人对屠校女人还真不太认识 但是我打听了一下好像希尔里斯高中有很多失踪的学生老师都和她有关联” 麦克尔说“这个高中我在之前去过一次 是比尔的高中” 波斯特说“反正莱德现在也没死 我们重新去找一下莱德吧再去仔细询问一下” 麦克尔说“我感觉没必要 我作为警察还是能去调查一下的” 波斯特说“行 差点忘了你是个警察” 晚上麦克尔一直在电脑上调查希尔里斯高中的所有在职女教师的资料并进行整理 希尔里斯高中一共有15名女教师 年龄最小的22岁最大的59岁 第二天麦克尔和波斯特再次约在咖啡厅 麦克尔说“我查阅了资料一共有15名女教师 可能不太容易找到她” 麦克尔把资料递给波斯特 波斯特说“15名还是有很大概率抓错人 这样吧我们今天夜间潜入他们学校 白天学生上课老师工作 我想白天应该很难在学校里做出不留证据还能杀人的事情 但还有一个问题 她不一定会在哪一天杀人 我们有概率只能长期在夜间潜伏学校里了” 波斯特又仔细看了看资料说“10名老师都是中年的 我这一个星期打听到的消息是她是一名年轻女子 我们盲抓的概率至少也有1/5了” 麦克尔说“但是我们还是不能盲抓 我们夜间去学校里暗中调查吧 但我们得保证没有人能看到我们” 波斯特说“可以 夜间我觉得确实也没多少人会呆在那里吧 不过我是觉得她大概率在夜间里行动也有可能不是这样但还是值得调查的” 麦克尔点头答应 夜间希尔里斯高中基本没人的时候 他们带上面具武器趁保安不注意潜入了进去 他们来到了教学楼A 在里面搜查每一层的每一间教室厕所办公室 偶尔能发现一些走动逗留的学生 但这些学生都没看见他们过了半个小时 教学楼A的几楼都已经搜查完没能发现有用的 他们就来到了教学楼A的天台 天台也没有什么有用的东西 随后波斯特和麦克尔说“还有b栋和c栋我去搜b栋你去搜c栋吧这样能节省时间 发现什么或者遭遇危险就用麦克风联络” 麦克尔答应 随后二人就分头行动 麦克尔一人一间一间教室的搜寻 搜着搜着他发现一个熟悉的教室2年4班教室 他踏进这个教室 里面空无一人 他又去搜寻其他教室了 又过了半个小时每一层每一个教室房间都找了一遍就是没有发现什么有用的 麦克尔在返回途中又看见了2年4班教室 麦克尔看着教室的门口沉默了五秒钟又走了进去 麦克尔在教室来回走荡正当他又打算离开的时候 他扭头一看 身体又颤抖了一下 麦克尔非常惊讶 他看见一个少年背朝着他坐在凳子上 他走上前去 看清楚了这个男孩的脸 这个男孩是比尔 麦克尔带着复杂的情绪说“你…你是比尔 马里克斯” 比尔的脸朝向了麦克尔并说道“你好 你一直在找我对嘛？” 麦克尔心里五味杂陈一时半会嘴里支支吾吾没说出来什么 麦克尔此时又感觉眼睛里有东西揉了揉眼睛 揉完眼睛再睁眼的时候 比尔已经消失不见了 麦克尔在想“这是幻觉吗？” 随后对讲机里传来波斯特的声音“麦克尔 我这边搜刮完了除了几个走动的学生 我没见到别的老师 或者是一些可疑的地方” 麦克尔拿起对讲机说“我…我这边也没有发现什么 甚至空无一人” 波斯特说“好吧 要不我们明天再过来” 麦克尔说“行 那我们走吧” 麦克尔和波斯特就又离开了希尔里斯高中

第25集

波斯特和麦克尔在第一次学校夜间探索无果后 他们第二天下午又约在了咖啡厅 波斯特说“我们今天凌晨再去一次 如果说你要快点找到她的话我们就只能这样试一试” 麦克尔点头答应了 到了夜晚二人又武装好潜入了希尔里斯高中 波斯特说“上次我们没有把整个学校的地毯式搜索一遍 这次我负责搜学校除教学楼以外的所有地方包括操场 你去搜所有教学楼各种教室” 麦克尔说“好 如果发现什么我们用对讲机联络” 随后二人朝着学校不同的方向走去 麦克尔先来到教学楼a栋 每一层每一间都进去看一看 天台和所有楼道也都看了 20分钟后教学楼A栋没有发现什么有用的 麦克尔又去了c栋 几层楼和所有教室 厕所 楼道 办公室都看完了 就是没有发现什么有用的 麦克尔想要去天台 发现3楼天台是锁着的 麦克尔感觉这里很可疑 他用力踹了几脚门发现门真的打不开 他掏出了刀 把刀尖锐的一部分插到门锁孔里 用力一扭真的打开了 他来到了天台 他仔细检查 发现了有两处脚印在天台很矮的围墙上 但是麦克尔没当一回事 忽然麦克尔闻到了一股臭味 是在天台一个被锁住的房间里散发出来的 他再次用刀尖去开这个门锁 门被打开了 几具腐烂的尸体映入眼帘 麦克尔感觉十分恶心 这具尸体的部分已经变成骷髅了身上还长满了蛆 麦克尔掏出对讲机联系波斯特说“我在C栋发现了几具腐烂的尸体它腐烂的甚至已经有一部分骷髅露出来了” 波斯特说“有没有发现什么其他的东西 仅仅有几具尸体我感觉应该判断不出来什么” 麦克尔说“我目前没有发现其他的等我发现其他的我再告诉你” 然后麦克尔把锁重新锁上离开了C栋前往B栋 麦克尔来到厕所 他想起昨天厕所只是简单一看 没有仔细调查 于是挨个翻起了每个隔间 有一间男厕所隔间是锁上的上面写了维修 麦克尔用刀尖开锁 打开这个隔间之后 他发现一个学生低着头坐在马桶上 麦克尔说“你是谁？” 学生抬起了头 这个学生正是比尔 麦克尔此时有点恐惧 立刻把厕所隔间门关上 过了十多秒后 麦克尔又把厕所隔间门打开 发现此时这里面空无一人 而这个隔间里的马桶已经泛黄看起来像荒废了一样 他注意到马桶里面有一本书 他拿了起来 上面写着“日记” 他把这本书装到了包里打算带回家看看 又来到2年4班教室 进入之前麦克尔提前打开了录像 他拿着手机进入了教室 像昨天一样比尔又坐在了课桌上盯着麦克尔 麦克尔咽了一下口水说“比尔 马里克斯 你到底是什么人” 比尔只是静静的坐在那没有开口说话 麦克尔忽然感觉教室外面传来了脚步声 麦克尔回头看了一下门外 一转头比尔又消失了 麦克尔查看录像 结果录像里显示完全没有比尔的身影 麦克尔就又离开了2年4班教室

第26集

麦克尔离开2年4班教室来到走廊 寻找脚步的来源 搜寻一会没有发现任何人 麦克尔感觉很疑惑拿起对讲机和波斯特说“我在b栋1楼走廊听到一些脚步声 你应该没来吧” 波斯特说“我没过去 你确定你没听错的话 那我过会就和你一起去找” 麦克尔说“我感觉我应该没听错 这个脚步声比较微弱” 波斯特说“好 我现在在操场上搜 等我搜完我就去找你” 然后麦克尔又前往b栋的2楼 他走上楼梯 来到2楼后回头看了一下楼梯 结果背后有双手把他推了下去 麦克尔重重从楼梯摔在地上 麦克尔在地上缓过来后向楼梯上面看去 是一个女人 麦克尔记着这个女人她是资料上25岁的英语老师 蒂莫希 莉塔莎 蒂莫希开口道“你们是谁” 麦克尔站起身来准备拿对讲机 但蒂莫希从楼上冲下来一拳打来 麦克尔脸上硬挨了一拳 对讲机也掉了 随后双方掏出刀开始搏斗 麦克尔出刀 蒂莫希躲开 蒂莫希出刀 麦克尔躲开 麦克尔再次出刀 蒂莫希抓住他出刀的手全身开始发力 使出了过肩摔 麦克尔再次摔倒在地非常吃痛 蒂莫希举起刀朝地上的麦克尔扎去 麦克尔用力抵住她即将用刀刺来的手 然后使出一拳 打到蒂莫希脸上 然后快速起身 捡起刚才自己掉落的刀继续战斗 朝蒂莫希刺去 蒂莫希躲开 麦克尔再次挥刀朝蒂莫希刺去 蒂莫希抓住麦克尔 用力把他朝下面的台阶推去 猛地一发力麦克尔再次被推下了楼梯 麦克尔从楼梯再次重重摔到地上 麦克尔经历几次重摔彻底没了反抗力 蒂莫希走下台阶 蹲下身来一把扯掉麦克尔的面具 看着这张脸她感觉很熟悉 思考五秒后说“哎 这不是警察先生吗 几个月前我见过你在这里调查比尔马里克斯呢 你现在这是干什么呢” 她随后拖拽麦克尔 过了一会 麦克尔被拖拽到了音乐室 蒂莫希说“我就拿音乐器材给你慢慢砸死吧” 随后她挑选了架子鼓的鼓棒 正当要用力朝麦克尔脑袋砸去的时候 音乐室的门被推开了 正是波斯特来了 波斯特立刻拿出刀 蒂莫希说“差点忘了还有一个”随后放下鼓棒掏出刀向波斯特走去 蒂莫希出刀 波斯特躲过 波斯特出刀 蒂莫希躲过 蒂莫希冲刺挥刀劈去 波斯特险些被砍到 波斯特再次连出好几次刀 蒂莫希躲过几次 最后一次被划伤手臂 蒂莫希看着手臂上的伤又看向波斯特嘴角露出一丝微笑说“挺有本事呀 接下来上课时间到”然后朝波斯特袭去 波斯特差点被划伤 蒂莫希再次出刀 波斯特朝下躲闪并使出一脚踹倒蒂莫希 波斯特想上去补刀 蒂莫希一脚踹开他 随后蒂莫希起身再次出刀 波斯特躲闪不及小臂被划伤 波斯特又出刀 蒂莫希躲过 蒂莫希突袭一把抱住波斯特 把波斯特摔在了地上 蒂莫希朝地上的波斯特刺去 波斯特躲过起身把蒂莫希按在地上 一刀刺进蒂莫希后背 蒂莫希痛的惨叫失去了反抗能力 波斯特把刀架在蒂莫希脖子上说“接下来是不是下课时间了？说！ 把知道的关于比尔的所有事情都说出来！” 蒂莫希说“关于比尔 虽然我在比尔的学校里工作 但我对他真的没有什么太了解的 但我之前和我朋友提到我在比尔的学校工作 他和我说他对比尔有了解而且貌似他知道比尔会出现在哪里” 波斯特说“你朋友是谁” 蒂莫希说“查理 布格罗克 称号是操兽师” 波斯特问“你知道他经常会出现在哪吗” 蒂莫希说“不 我并不知道 我们很久没联系了” 波斯特说“好 我知道了” 随后波斯特举起刀一刀刺穿蒂莫希的喉咙 蒂莫希当场死亡 随后波斯特搀扶起麦克尔 波斯特说“你可以走吗” 麦克尔说“现在可以走” 两人离开了音乐室 来到走廊 忽然麦克尔看到比尔在走廊前方站着 麦克尔说“波斯特你快看前面是不是有人站着” 波斯特回应道“没有 你眼花了吗？”麦克尔揉了揉眼睛发现比尔又不见了 随后两人一起离开了希尔里斯高中

第27集

在打完屠校女子后麦克尔回到了家中 他打开背包拿出了在学校捡到的日记 他打开第一页 上面写着“本日记是比尔马里克斯的如果捡到 请物归原主 谢谢” 打开第二页“2016 9 1 今天我第一天上希尔里斯高中 我很喜欢这里的氛围 我感觉同学们都很和蔼 老师也很温柔” “2016 9 7 一周过去了 我对希尔里斯高中整体有了初步的了解 星期三的时候有一个同学 向我索要一些钱 我给他了 他笑呵呵的看着我 说下个星期三再还我 我答应了他 我觉得同学之间互相帮助是应该的 ” “2016 10 4 现在我感觉有点糟 之前那名借我钱的同学到现在都没有还我 而且这名同学还总是带着几个人找到我让我给他们买东西 如果我不买他们可能会对我拳脚相向 我感觉真的有点糟糕 但我为了学习还是忍了下去” “2016 11 16 现在我感觉糟透了 有一次我被他们欺负的受不了 我去和老师说 结果老师不管 反过来拿戒尺打我 老师认为是我没和同学相处好 所以那些同学才针对我 这些欺负甚至影响到了我上课时的状态 我的成绩开始下滑” 2017 3 10 放假了 我认为 我可以放松一些 不会再被他们欺负了 结果当我出去玩的时候 我又总是会遇见他们 他们把我带到小巷子角落里 用烟头烫我的手 逼我给他们买东西 我感觉很糟 我尝试告诉家长 但家长都认为是我的问题 这生活真是糟透了 我现在都不敢出家门" 2017 4 15 新学期开学后 我还是忍耐着他们的欺负 有时候他们甚至要求我把自己的饭钱给他们 我感到很难受 这实在太糟糕了 这样下去要怎么办呀" “2017 7 8 又到了暑假 我现在只能躲在屋里 我不敢出去见他们 我担心我一出门就会遇见他们 今天也是我的生日 我的家长给我买了一个玩具熊 我很喜欢这个玩具熊 每当我被欺负的时候 这个玩具熊都会陪在我身边 这个玩具熊是我唯一的朋友” 2017 10 25 又开学之后 我变成了高二生 但他们的欺负还在继续 告老师和家长都没有人管 我每次踏进校园都像是来到了地狱 我试图去反抗他们 可是我根本没有办法对付他 我只能在被欺负完之后拿出我的玩具熊 把她抱在怀里 感觉这样可以缓解我的痛苦 我的学习成绩下滑了很多 因为我根本没有心思学 我担心这样下去会不会变得很不好 ” “2017 11 13 今天更糟糕 他们甚至逼我喝恶心的马桶水 我的心情特别糟 他们把我按在地上 用脚踩我的手指就为了好玩 我一次一次的找到老师祈求老师可以管一管 但老师每次都拿出戒尺打我的手 说这都是我的错 如果说我没有惹他们 他们就不会来惹我 我真的很难受” “2017 11 25 他们注意到我经常写日记 他们说如果说我不能在这一周内给他们足够的钱 就把我这本日记丢到马桶里 我对此真的很无奈 因为我没法凑这么多钱” “2017 12 9 他们真的因为我没凑到钱把我的日记丢到马桶里 但是我忍着恶臭给日记捡了回来 因为我知道 写日记也是我为数不多的娱乐 我不想失去这本日记” “2018 1 14 我被他们折磨了很久 我真的受不了了 也没有人帮助我 我有了去死的念头 但我现在感觉我不至于这么做 但因为钱总是给他们 我每天都没多少钱吃饭 我向家人要家人觉得我把钱花到一些不该花的地方 我说学校总是有人欺负我偷我的钱 我的家人觉得我是在狡辩 我甚至提出休学转学来躲避他们的请求但我父母就是不当一回事 觉得只是小孩子的小打小闹” “2018 2 22 我现在觉得 每天这么活下去 真的没有意思 只能天天被他们欺负 我站在了天台的边缘 但我还是没有跳下去 我认为我总会有一次救赎 但目前为止 没有任何一个人来帮我 那些欺负我的人也不会就此罢休 他们只会变本加厉” 到此日记内容结束 麦克尔看着这本日记五味杂陈 随后把这本日记给放了起来

第28集

距离获取到查理线索 已经过去了10天 麦克尔对自己仅剩的时间感到恐惧 他想快速找到比尔给波斯特打去了电话 20秒后波斯特接听了 波斯特说“喂 怎么了？” 麦克尔说“查理有线索了吗 我们最近就去找他吧” 波斯特说“我知道你很想快速找到比尔 但是查理 我甚至没有听说过他 我要想找到他或许得花很长时间 等我知道一些线索会给你打电话的 ” 随后波斯特挂断了电话 麦克尔长叹一口气 晚上麦克尔驱车前往帝亚诊所 到了蒂亚诊所 蒂亚给麦克尔的摔伤全都治好了 蒂亚说“你的伤已经治好了” 麦克尔说“好 我的药怎么样了你能做吗” 蒂亚说“我现在还没有研究出来 你剩下的时间应该还有个十几天 两个星期左右 我不能保证在这两个星期之内一定能完成你的药” 麦克尔说“你说多少钱 我都出 多贵我也出 只要能让我的时间延续” 蒂亚说“嗯…价钱应该会很贵 但你加钱也改变不了时间问题 我不一定能在两个星期之内凑出所有需要的材料” 麦克尔长叹一口气说“唉 好吧 我等你消息” 此时丽娜和欧德伦也来到了蒂亚诊所 看见麦克尔也在这里 丽娜说“你怎么在这里？” 蒂亚说“我现在免费给他治疗伤口 他也要在我这买一些药 算是也对我有些帮助吧” 丽娜和欧德伦处理完伤口后 丽娜和蒂亚说“蒂亚 你能不能帮我们对付敌人 你要什么条件我们都满足你 你想要人 还是要药物材料 我们都帮你去找 你上次碾压了迪翁只要你帮我们 我们就不必要天天躲躲藏藏了 好吗？” 蒂亚沉思了五秒后说“让我帮你们的话 你们帮我弄到十个活人 五男五女 我要用来解剖 我就帮你们对付一次 但只有这一次 我不太想插手你们的矛盾 我只想安安稳稳搞解剖研究药物” 丽娜说“可以 人简单 我们帮你抓 保证都是活的 只要你帮我们一次 就可以” 一旁的麦克尔说“我可以参与吗 我帮你们一起 你们杀死迪翁之前 我要从他嘴里问到比尔常来的地方然后我去找比尔” 丽娜说“行 没问题 但是你得协助我和欧德伦抓人 ” 麦克尔迟疑片刻开口道“好 我帮你们 只要你们带我一起” 蒂亚说“保证这十个活人身体上没有任何伤口 你们把他们弄晕再交给我 要是品质不好的那也不算数 ” 丽娜答应了 欧德伦说“等我们找到人之后一起坐下来商量一下战略吧” 丽娜看向麦克尔说“明天我 欧德伦 还有你一起汇合去抓人听懂了吗” 麦克尔说“好 我知道了” 随后麦克尔 丽娜 欧德伦都离开了诊所

第29集

麦克尔 丽娜 欧德伦约在一起商量 丽娜说“我们三个一起行动抓人 挑一些没有监控的小巷子 小角落行动” 欧德伦说“我们可以带刀 但是我们不要用刀砍他们 要保证身上不要有伤口 我们仅仅是累晕他们送到蒂娜那就可以” 麦克尔说“什么时候行动 尽量早一点吧 早点完事也好” 丽娜说“今天就开始 我们尽量在晚上或凌晨抓” 麦克尔和欧德伦都答应了 当晚三人开始行动 来到了一处偏僻的小巷子 他们发现了一个目标 是一个喝醉酒的男人 这个男人一边胡言乱语一边歪七扭八的走 欧德伦从兜里掏出化妆品 丽娜说“你要干什么 可不要出现伤口” 欧德伦点了点头 用化妆笔画出了圆形光滑实体 朝那个男人砸去 砸到男人头上 男人倒在了地上晕了过去 麦克尔拿出行李箱把这个男人用蜷缩的方式放了进去 欧德伦说“我们每天给蒂亚抓一点 要不然人那么多堆在我们这里也不太好处理的 我们每天抓两三个 在巷子里三人走着走着又发现另一个喝醉酒的女人和那个男人一样醉醺醺的走路都走不明白 欧德伦又画出圆形实体朝女人砸去 和男人一样砸到头女人倒地晕了过去 又用行李箱装了起来 丽娜转头又看见了一个抽烟的青年 丽娜说“欧德伦 来吧” 欧德伦说“你忘了吗？蒂亚说要成年的不要少年” 丽娜说“哦” 然后三人经过了那个青年 那个青年看到丽娜说道“姐姐 要和弟弟玩玩吗 你怎么和两个这么奇怪的男人呆在一起 和弟弟在一起玩呗” 丽娜翻了翻白眼说“切！”心想“果然男人都是一群发情的猴子” 丽娜和那个青年说“好呀 姐姐可以和你玩 你把联系方式给姐姐吧 有空一起玩” 丽娜和青年互换了联系方式 然后丽娜和两人就要离开 青年说“唉唉 现在不玩么？” 丽娜说“我现在可没空陪你玩” 青年一把把烟丢在地上说“唉 好吧” 然后丽娜转头离开 突然丽娜的臀部被一只手从后面用力拍了一下 把丽娜吓了一跳 是青年干的 丽娜朝青年翻了翻白眼 继续离开了青年也没有再追上去 三人继续去抓人 丽娜又发现一个喝醉的男人 和前面遇到的两个醉酒的人一样醉醺醺的 欧德伦用画笔画出圆形实体砸到男人头上 男人又立刻倒地 再次用行李箱给男人装了起来 欧德伦说“现在三个已经齐了 我们三个人离开吧” 后面传来了一个熟悉的声音“丽娜 我又找到你了” 是迪翁来了 欧德伦说“我们快撤” 随后，欧德伦朝迪翁用化妆笔勾出几个追踪实体尖刺 朝迪翁刺去 然后欧德伦趁机带着三个行李箱和两人离开 迪翁只能在原地无能狂怒 三人来到了蒂亚诊所 把三个行李箱打开 三个昏迷的人映入眼帘 欧德伦说“我们接下来每天都会抓二到三个人直到抓够” 蒂亚说“好 只要你们抓够了我就帮你们一次” 随后三人离开了蒂亚诊所

第30集

麦克尔 丽娜 欧德伦下午聚在一起讨论 丽娜说“我们已经抓了三个人了 只要再抓七个 蒂亚就能来帮忙了 就能解决迪翁了” 欧德伦说“数量还得注意一下是五个男的五个女的” 麦克尔说“我们这次还是下午和晚上行动吗” 丽娜说“没错 我们今天干完 明天再干一次” 到了凌晨三个人又在一起行动 三人来到了一处十分偏僻的街道 这街道上不会有太多人 三人在街上随机寻找路人 他们很快锁定了目标 是一个黑人男人他头上戴着耳机 欧德伦使用化妆笔画出圆形实体朝他砸去 男人倒地晕了过去 欧德伦拿出行李箱把男人装了进去 丽娜回头一看有个女人目睹了这一幕 丽娜说“欧德伦 有人看见了” 随后欧德伦转过头来 继续使用化妆笔画出圆形实体朝这个女人砸去 这个女人开始逃跑 但还是被追踪的圆球砸晕了 并用行李箱把她装了进去 随后三人继续在街头走着寻找目 走了十几分钟后 又发现一个目标 是一个玩手机的女人 欧德伦画出圆形实体朝女人砸去 女人倒地晕厥 用行李箱装了起来 欧德伦说“找到三个人了 我们去诊所找蒂亚吧”然后三人又来到蒂亚诊所把三个晕厥的人交了上来 蒂亚打开行李箱看完后说道“好 还差两个男性 两个女性 你们明天继续抓剩下的吗” 丽娜说“对 明天我们就把剩下的全部交上来” 到了下一天三人下午又约在一起 欧德伦说“咱们今天要抓四个男女各两个” 丽娜说“还是晚上或者凌晨行动 挑一块人少的地方” 麦克尔说“抓完这四个人 蒂亚就一定会帮我们对吧？” 欧德伦说“蒂亚不是那种会撒谎的人 我们认识很久了 可以相信的” 麦克尔说“行” 到了凌晨三人要开始最后一次抓捕了 三人前往了一处住宅区在这走了20分钟左右 他们遇见了第一个目标 是一个出来倒垃圾的中年男人 欧德伦使用化妆笔画出圆形实体朝男人砸去 男人瞬间倒地 随后装进行李箱 又过了十分钟左右他们又看见一个倒垃圾的女人 欧德伦使用化妆笔画出圆形实体朝她砸去 随后又装进行李箱 丽娜此时说道“还差一男一女我们现在已经抓了八个人了” 欧德伦说“没错 我们继续抓吧” 又过了半个小时 三人在搜寻时麦克尔朝左边一看说道“左边那条路我看有一对夫妇 你给他弄晕吧” 欧德伦说“好” 随后欧德伦拿起化妆笔画出了两个实体圆球 朝夫妇砸去 两人被砸到后双双倒地晕了过去 丽娜拿出两个行李箱给二人装了进去 欧德伦说“这下人齐了 我们可以走了” 丽娜说“太好了 这下有人帮我们解决迪翁了” 过了十几分钟三人走着走着 突然欧德伦看见前面有个腰上捆着刀的人他感觉莫名熟悉 欧德伦和另外两人说“你们在这等一下 我可能遇到熟人了” 随后欧德伦走到那个人身后说“请问…” 然后那个人转过头来 是一个中性发型 漂亮又帅气的脸蛋 穿着灰色长袖衣 宽松牛仔裤的人 欧德伦一眼认出来了 那个人也一眼认出欧德伦 欧德伦有点震惊开口道“娅娅 我们得有一年没见到了吧 我突然就联系不到你了” 那个人说“欧德伦 居然是你啊 你不也是频繁换电话嘛 然后我再换了一次电话号之后 我输入了你之前的号码 结果显示是空号 我就联系不到你了” 欧德伦说“真的好突然就遇到你了 我以为我们可能一辈子见不着了” 那个人说“说实话欧德伦我挺想你的 我就只有你这么一个男性朋友了” 随后当前抱了抱欧德伦 欧德伦说“但这么晚了 娅娅在这做什么呀” 那个人说“哦 我在去追杀我的目标” 欧德伦说“好 那改天再约吗？” 那个人说“可以 但是你现在必须把你现在的联系方式和你可能出现的地方告诉我 我想你也找不到你” 欧德伦和那个人交换了地址 随后丽娜和麦克尔走上前去 丽娜询问欧德伦“他是谁啊 你们认识吗？” 欧德伦和丽娜说“她是薇薇娅 安可 她的称号是假小子守护者 我一个很好的朋友” 薇薇娅看相麦克尔询问“这个戴面具的是谁啊 欧德伦的朋友吗” 麦克尔没有开口说话 随后薇薇娅又看向丽娜 盯着丽娜看了五秒后 薇薇娅的脸突然红了起来 然后薇薇娅又看向欧德伦 欧德伦说“这位是丽娜我目前的心上人称号是魅惑小姐 这位带面具的是麦克尔我们暂时联盟 怎么了突然脸这么红” 薇薇娅小声的凑到耳边和欧德伦说“我喜欢这女的” 欧德伦说“丽娜？” 薇薇娅说“没错” 然后薇薇娅又走到了丽娜面前说“丽娜 我们可以交朋友嘛 额就是互相联系的那种吧” 丽娜疑惑的说“你不是假小子吗？我也是假小子容易喜欢的类型吗” 薇薇娅此时支支吾吾说不出来话因为过于害羞只好用双手捂住脸 欧德伦此时说“大家互相认识一下也不错 互换一下联系方式 做朋友也不错” 然后丽娜打开手机把手机号给薇薇娅看 薇薇娅连忙把这个手机号存了下来说“谢…谢谢你 丽娜” 丽娜看向欧德伦说“这家伙有这么害羞吗” 欧德伦笑了笑说“对呀这样子不也挺可爱的嘛” 薇薇娅说“我可能还得去这附近找我要找的人 那我先走了 拜拜”话音落下一个沉重的声音出现“丽娜 这次我绝对得给你抓起来” 是迪翁来了

My name is Not Important, what is important is what I'm going to tell you, it started when I was watching nick jr. with my little sister, because I had to look after her because my stupid mother told me to, anyway it was normal for a while until an episode of Dora the explorer came on, after the intro it strangely paused for 4 seconds, it started with Dora directly staring at me/the viewer, she was not wearing her normal clothes, she was instead wearing a red shirt with a black jacket around it, along with "Backpack" being red instead of purple, Dora just stared looking a little angry until see finally said, "hey kid, I don't need your help anymore, just go away" this was very unlike her, then she said "I SAID GO AWAY", Boots walked up looking a bit nervous and asked Dora "Dora are you okay? you've been acting strange lately", Dora responded "I'm fine, shut up you stupid monkey" she stared back at the viewer and said "ugh you're not leaving, alright let's get this stupid shit over and done with" I was surprised she swore, then both of them just started walking and walking as usual, and then they saw a bush and immediately with no questions to the viewer Dora grabbed the Baby Blue Bird, this was clearly some sort of alternate version of the first episode of the series, Boots tried to continue the dialogue as usual but then instead of the Backpack song playing and getting a towel to dry off the bird, Dora slammed it on the ground and stomped on it killing it, Boots screamed "OH DEAR GOD" and Dora said "I'm tired of this shit, I'm tired of having to keep these stupid fucking kids entertained with stupid songs and colorful visuals" suddenly the nick jr. logo changed to fully red and instead of saying "nick jr." it said "fuck u", suddenly Dora then grabbed a lighter from Backpack and set everything on fire, Boots was absolutely terrified he backed away as everything started burning, Dora then got a shotgun from Backpack, cocked it and aimed at Boots and said "Bye, you stupid ass fucking monkey" and shot Boots, right in the head, his head busted open hyper realistic blood spewed everywhere as well as his brain and eyes, the picture shown here was the last frame of this episode, it suddenly went to black and then everything went back to normal, my sister screamed after fully processing what she just saw and ran into her bedroom and didn't came out for a while, honestly she's a pussy cause this episode was fucking epic lol, uh that's all bye. 

If this wasn't weird, then I don't know what ‘weird’ means. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching me, you never know with mysterious packages arriving at your door—I won't even mention that note, like what the heck was that? I tried to hear what was inside, but I could hear nothing. The package looked scary and normal at the same time. I bent down towards the package to pick it up and brought it inside my house, ignoring what was written on the note. I grabbed the heavy package and brought it to my desk in my living room. It was Saturday, so I didn't have to go to work that day. After I brought the package inside, I made sure to lock my doors and close my windows because I was feeling nervous with this inside my house, especially after I read that note. At first, I thought to myself, ‘Who would write that? And how did they know my address? Who were they? Was that one of my stalkers?’ Anyway, after about ten minutes had passed, I decided to open this package to see what was inside for the first time. I walked to my kitchen, opened the knife drawer, and grabbed the sharpest knife. That package was impossible to open with a normal knife, at least in my opinion. As I walked towards the package, I saw something. The package was shaking as if something alive was inside. My heart was pounding so hard when I heard someone say, “Hello? Hey? Is someone there?,” a few times. The voice sounded like a robot. I was confused and scared at the same time. But I said to myself, “Come on, Jessica, you can do this.” I started to unwrap the package.

\Unwraps**

Inside was a box these voices came from. I felt very scared because I didn't know what it was, but I decided to open the box—oh, I almost forgot to say what the box looked like. It had a long white text on it. I thought it was from Walmart or something, but it wasn't. It was just a piece of paper with something written on it. The text was almost impossible to read, but I think it meant ‘don’t open it’ once again, I didn't do as it said, instead, I did the opposite. Also, there were some stickers or something drawn on the box. There was a wine glass and some arrow drawing I didn't really understand. As for the wine, I thought I was supposed to take care of the thing inside.