by Tobias Wade
That’s when I had an idea. I could just burn the edges of my clothes a bit, and then Lisa and all the other kids would think I was the one who went back in for Sammy. I could be the hero. And even if the real hero DID come forward, well I had the burns and he didn’t, so who were people going to believe?
I kept my head low and stayed away from anyone who might recognize me – which wasn’t very hard since I didn’t have a lot of friends. Or any, I guess. I was new and it would take time, I just hadn’t expected it to take more than a semester for anyone to recognize me. But that’s okay, because after today, I was going to be the hero.
When the bell rang for us to go back inside, I darted straight to the bathroom. There’s a place under the sink where some of the seniors hide a box with cigarettes and lighters. I pulled the box out, found a nice black zippo lighter with a skull on it, and here goes – the fire springs to life.
Well turns out polo shirts don’t light up as easily as I was expecting. I blackened a few hairs, but this wasn’t nearly enough for people to think I walked through a fire. I used a pen to open the zippo at the bottom and poured all the lighter fluid onto my shirt. My heart was pounding – I was excited. I couldn’t wait to come back to class and watch Lisa’s face sparkle with awe. I didn’t even take the shirt off – I wanted a few burns. Enough to show how tough I was.
Just as I was about to light the fluid, my mind played a funny trick on me. It looked like the skull on the lighter was smiling. I didn’t remember it doing that before. Too late now – the fire was already dancing over my shirt. It barely even felt warm. I watched myself in the mirror as the fire spread from shoulder to shoulder. My buttons began to heat up and stung a bit, but the shirt was smoldering nicely. I ran the faucet and splashed the water on me. That’ll be enough.
But the fire drank the water as though nourished by it, spitting boiling vapor into the air. The heat was intense now. I tried to rip the shirt off, but the polyester was melting to my skin. The metal buttons seared into my flesh. I couldn’t stop screaming. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, but it was like I was hearing someone else scream through me without even asking my permission first.
I dropped on the ground and began to roll, but the fire just continued to spread over my entire body. It ran up my arms, and I could actually see the flesh melting from my finger bones. The pain was like you can’t imagine. My whole body was being pierced with red hot knives. Then it started to go black – thank God. I’ll fall unconscious and someone will find me. It’ll be over. But no, only half my vision was gone. I looked into the mirror and watched my left eyeball melting down my face. It would have gone down my cheek if there was any cheek left, but it simply dripped through the hole in my skin, straight into my mouth. I gagged. How was I still conscious?
The pain wasn’t letting up, but I forced myself to watch my reflection. I’d done this to myself. Somehow, I deserved it. My jaw bone was completely exposed now, and it was starting to crack from the heat. There’s no way a zippo lighter could have done this. I grabbed the little black box, but the skull had vanished. WHOOOSH. A toilet flushing. Was someone in here the whole time?
I tried to turn my head, but my spine was too weak to support me and started collapsing in on itself. I crumpled to the floor and watched as a bathroom stall opened. What. The. Hell? Was this it? Am I dead now? Because there’s no reason – no way I could really be seeing myself walk out of the bathroom stall. The other me, wearing my shirt and pants, completely unsigned by fire, walked over to the sink beside me. He calmly washed its hands in the sink – not even glancing down at me writhing on the floor.
I tried to speak – to scream – anything, but only a dry gurgle escaped my throat. That’s when the other me turned and smiled, and I could have sworn it was the same boney-white smile the skull wore.
“Your turn on the inside,” it said, or I guess I said that, because it looked a lot more like me than I did.
Then everything went black, only I could still feel every inch of my burning body and hear the wet plop of my skin sliding down my bones onto the floor. I heard footsteps as it – as I – left the room. I must be inside the lighter now, waiting for the next person to let me out. But I can still feel my flesh burn, so I pray to God it won’t be long.
Haunting Sound
I met with the most unusual patient a little while ago. I would never ordinarily post online about someone’s confidential details, but I’m frankly at a loss with this one. I have begun the process to submit this case study to a variety of peer reviewed journals, but in the meantime I am seeking alternative explanations to help him.
Since I’m telling the story anyway, I suppose there’s no use denying it – I could also use some help myself.
I earned my MD at John Hopkin’s School of Medicine with an additional four years residency at the Baltimore Bethusala fellowship. Next came five years at the Union Memorial Psychiatry Hospital before I opened a private practice, which I’ve now run for the last twelve years. I have encountered everything from a blind synesthetic who can still see visuals through sound, a schizophrenic who tried to kill herself right in my office, and an obsessive compulsive who tightened his shoe laces so relentlessly that both feet lost circulation and had to be amputated.
I thought I had pretty much seen it all until this latest patient. I will protect his privacy by referring to him as “Mr. X”.
Mr. X’s symptoms were innocent enough – just a ringing in his ears which wouldn’t go away. He’d visited numerous otolaryngologists, but as there was no discernible cause for the ringing, he was referred to me to decipher the psychosomatic source of the phenomenon.
During our first meeting, he didn’t make eye contact with me, nor did he ever speak above a whisper. He just stared at his hands, endlessly wringing them against each other. He’d been doing it so obsessively, in fact, that his fingers were rubbed raw and bloody. I made considerable progress on the first day, and with the aid of some anti-anxiety medication, he was able to look me in the eye, although the hand wringing continued.
“Can you hear it, doctor?” he asked me during the second session.
“Of course not. The sound is not coming from a mutually accessible environment. The sound is a fabrication of your mind.”
I wish now I hadn’t prescribed the anti-anxiety medication, however. That I’d kept those black, lifeless eyes pointed away from me. He pulled his gaze away from the ground and looked at my face, and it seemed as though the effort it cost him resembled how you or I might struggle to gaze at the hideous disfigurement of some elephant man. That’s when I began to hear it too – that soft ringing, like church bells inside my skull.
“How about now? Do you hear it now, doctor?” he asked.
And that smile – that twisted grimace of satisfaction – somehow he knew I could. Regardless, admitting I heard his hallucination would only deepen his psychosis, so I naturally had to deny it. I terminated the session early and prescribed some antipsychotics, even taking some for myself. By the time I got home, the ringing was gone.
In our third session, the ringing started again as soon as he entered the room. The pitch wasn’t consistent like it was before though – it rose and fell with melodic rhythm like a whole orchestra was welling up inside of me. Mr. X just stared and grinned. I don’t think he even cared about getting better anymore. He was just relieved at not being the only one to hear it. He wasn’t very responsive that session – all he would do was hum along to the music inside my head. I terminated early again, and he went home without complaint. As he was leaving, my secretary asked me where those strange bells were coming from.
I increased the dosage, prescribing some to myself and my secretary as well. The phantom sounds went away again, but the moment Mr. X was back in the room with me, the music would swell up. My racing heart pushed blood through my veins in rhythm with the beat, and my head would throb from the intensity of those notes reverberating around my brain. I’d started w
ringing my hands too, just as something to distract myself from the noise.
By the end of the fourth session, the skin around my palms was wearing thin and there was blood beginning to seep through. I hadn’t even noticed how hard I was clenching them together.
As you might imagine, I referred him to another doctor. He called no doubt to complain, but I told my secretary to let it go to voicemail. I didn’t care, I wasn’t taking him back. And if that were the end of it, then I would have simply hung up my coat and retired that day, but the sound hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s growing louder, and I had even begun to hear a choir join in with the orchestra.
My secretary didn’t come in to work today. I’m here all alone, at wits end what to do. I’ve tried every cocktail of medication I can think of, but it’s only left me feeling worn out and hollow. The sound is still there. I didn’t want to be alone here, but somehow my office is the only place I felt safe. I tried to call my secretary to see how she was doing, but I never work the phone system and must have pushed the wrong button. I just got the voicemail from Mr. X, but I was so desperate for an answer, I still forced myself to listen to it. Here is what he said:
“As long as the music plays, you’re alright. All the world is a stage, and all of life a play upon it, and as long as the music sounds the show is still going on. I didn’t come to you because I was afraid of the music. I came to you because I was afraid it would stop.”
I spent the rest of the day calling patients and referring them to new specialists. I called my building manager and opted not to renew the lease on my office. I went home, with no intention of ever going to work again. The music is getting quieter everyday now, but that’s only making me more anxious. I’ve tried calling Mr. X again, but his cell phone is out of service. I called the doctor I referred Mr. X to, but he never showed up for his appointment. I even went so far as to visit the address listed on his medical forms, but it was just an abandoned theater.
I don’t know how much longer the music will play for, or what will happen when it stops, but until then I’m just wringing my hands and waiting.
Killer Selfie
Okay there’s something weird going on. I don’t want to tell my friends or family – they’d probably just make fun of me for being scared. I have to post this somewhere though, because if something does happen to me, then I want there to be someone who knows.
It started with these ‘selfies’ appearing on my phone.
“Haha, right, so you accidentally clicked the camera button when you weren’t looking.”
That’s what I thought at first too, until I found a photo of me sleeping, taken from across the room. I live alone in a one bedroom apartment. I charge my phone overnight on the night table beside my bed. There’s no reason the phone should have been across the room from me in the first place.
I deleted the photo as soon as I found it. I just felt weird having it on my phone. The next night, there was another one – this time it was taken by someone standing right over my bed.
After that, it started getting even weirder. I found a couple of photos of myself at Universal Studios – and you guessed it, I’ve never been there. It showed me hanging out with my friend David. We were on rides together, eating ice-cream, getting photos with the giant transformer robots – it actually looked like a lot of fun.
That’s when I decided he must be playing a trick on me. I don’t know how he was getting the pictures on my phone, but he was obviously photo-shopping just to screw with me.
Two days later, David actually did invite me to Universal. It was a relief because I figured this is where he would finally come clean about what was going on. Of course he denied it, but that was all part of the joke.
Or at least that’s what I thought, until another photo appeared while we were hanging out. My face looked so surprised as a man behind me forced his switchblade between my ribs.
I freaked. I just went straight home and stayed in my room for the rest of the day. I broke my phone by slamming it in my desk drawer over and over until it wouldn’t turn on.
The next day I went to the ATT store for a new phone. I said the last one was stolen, and they gave me an insurance replacement one. Brand new – straight out of the package – it didn’t even have a SIM card in it yet. But the moment I opened it, I saw a photo of myself saved as the wallpaper.
Only I didn’t look like I usually do. My eyes were sunken like I haven’t slept in days. My clothes were caked with dirt and blood, and there were open sores on my skin.
The photos are appearing several times a day now. Some depict me getting hit by a car, or sitting in a bathtub in a pool of my own blood. I got one the other day where I was stretched out on a laboratory table, shackled into place.
I’m afraid to destroy my phone again. I decided it might be trying to warn me, and if something is going to happen, I need to know about it so I can be ready.
I haven’t left my apartment in almost a week now. The last photo to appear showed me hanging by the neck from my ceiling fan. I don’t want to do it, but if it does happen I just want people to know.
It wasn’t me who did it. Something did it to me.
Unborn Doll
My family didn’t want me to keep the baby. I could tell from the moment I told them the happy news. My father just sat there with a look of blank shock, while my mother wasted no time in trying to console me. Console me? Why would I need to be consoled? It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life!
It didn’t stop there either. First were the pamphlets from a clinic that was supposed to “take care of it”. Who but a gangster would use “take care of it” as a euphemism for murder? It got worse when I learned the baby wasn’t going to be entirely normal. The subtle hints and worried glances turned into outright accusation. Like there was something wrong with me just because I would continue to love my baby even if it wasn’t like all the others.
I knew I couldn’t live with people who were so Hell bent on destroying my daughter – yes it was going to be a girl with beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes. You may think I’m overreacting, but one night they actually tried to force me into a mental ward so they could declare I was unfit to make my own medical decisions. The baby’s father wasn’t in the picture – don’t get me started on him – so I had to be on my own after that. But it was okay, because I was going to have a beautiful baby girl, and we’d be there for each other even when the whole world turned their back on us.
The delivery was easier than I expected because she was very small. The doctors wanted to keep her there, but I knew she would be better off with me. As soon as I looked into her brilliant blue eyes, I knew everything was going to be okay. The hair wasn’t all there, but I just had to get a little pink dress for her and she looked as beautiful as a porcelain doll.
I don’t know what my parents were so worried about. Being stillborn makes her even easier to take care of. She never eats, never makes a mess, and never makes a fuss when I dress her up. I have to apply makeup and a bit of perfume to cover up the rotting bits, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my little girl. The only thing that bothers me – and this is going to be true of any new baby – is when she cries in the night. She’s doing it now, but it’s honestly okay. I think I’m just going to sew her mouth shut in the morning.
Confessions of a Serial Killer
This letter is from a confessed serial killer to his thirteen year old daughter.
Dear Samantha,
I’m sorry I haven’t been around for a while, but you’re going to have to be strong, just like I’m trying to be strong for you. I don’t know how much your mother has told you, but sooner or later you’re going to hear about what Daddy did, and I want to tell you why I did it. They’re going to tell you I killed those 7 kids. That I tortured them first, chaining them in that shed in the woods. You remember the place – you used to build a fort there and play princess of the castle. You’ll always be my princess, even after e
verything that has happened there. You’re going to hear about how the victims were starved and forced to eat the one who came before them, and how they’d be chained up until the next one came ‘round to eat them up too.
You’re going to see my name brought up on websites and social media. Photos of the murders are going to be uploaded, and you’re going to have to see those corpses stripped of flesh and put on display for the whole world to see. You’re going to hear priests condemning me to Hell, and news stations using my name as propaganda for whatever self-serving platform they can find. And worst of all, you’re going to be feared because of your association with me.
But you have your whole life ahead of you, and no matter how bad it seems now, this is NOT your defining moment. These weeks or months until everyone forgets won’t last forever. These killings will not determine who you are. I won’t be coming home again, but someday after years have stretched this memory thin, it’s going to be like none of this has ever happened.
That’s why I did it. That’s why I confessed, so you could move on and forget. That’s why I never told the police that you were the one who led them into the woods. That’s why I turned myself in as soon as I found the bodies. I don’t care how many of them you got, there’s only one person I care about protecting, and that’s you, my princess.
If this is what you want, then you should have it. You deserve everything in this world. I know you told me that you weren’t going to stop leading people into the woods, but at least try to be more careful next time. Don’t take kids – don’t take anyone they’re going to look for. And when I’m gone, I hope you find someone who loves you as much as your Daddy does. I hope they love you so much, they confess for you and you can keep playing forever.
