Ok so I’ve always been big. As a kid even. So not to be weird lol. But every time I sit on a toilet, I have a weird thing about my shirt touching the toilet seat. So I would tuck my shirt under my belly to keep it up around my waist area. I literally woke up this morning after weeks of hard work and dieting. And I’ll spare you the details lol. But I CANT DO THE THING ANYMORE. I’ve lost enough weight!!!
Hi everyone, my name’s August. It’s ironic I’m writing something like this because of how many I’ve read, but something happened a few months ago and… well, I can’t get it out of my head. I remember that morning vividly. I was walking out of a burger place and I seen a boxing gym across the street. The place used to be called “EARTHS KNUCKLES,” but the bottom line on the “E,” along with the “H” and both “S” letters, had fallen off. I just looked at it and quietly chuckled out, “heh heh FART KNUCKLE.” Now see that… that’s the kinda stuff that really tickles a man. Like raspberries on the belly, dude. Good clean fun. But anyway, my point is: that sign is the kinda stuff that makes my day. But what happened later was some real freaky shit.
As I was walking to my car, the wind caught the brown, crunchy autumn leaves, sweeping them up into a small vortex around my thick, meaty gamer legs. I would’ve normally brushed it off as a natural occurrence, but then my phone rang. As if on cue, all the leaves fell to the ground. Not like the breeze went away, more like something magnetically pulled them down. I thought, “what the fuck? I’m havin a good day, and I start getting calls from fuckin Voldemort,” then I picked up the phone.
It was my co-host’s wife. If you don’t know, I’m one of two hosts of a pretty popular horror podcast. Anyway, she told me she took their kid and left the house for a while because Mark was acting weird.
“Like sovereign citizen weird or tinfoil hat weird?” I said.
To which she replied, “No, August, this is serious. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s not upset. He’s just not being himself. More quiet. And strange. Could you please just go check on him?”
I thought that sounded odd, but her tone didn’t exactly register as panic. I did kind of think the call sounded like the beginning of one of the stories we read all the time, but it was more of an ironic thought, more like, “things like that never happen to normal people in real life.” Boy, was I wrong.
I pulled into the driveway of Mark’s house to see it completely dark in the middle of the day. The front door was slightly open, and I swear, as I was looking at it, I heard the rustle of blinds by the window. This kinda freaked me out, but I thought, “oh, this little asshole wants to play jokes.” I went back to my car and grabbed a torch from the passenger seat, then made my way inside.
As I entered, I said, “Mark?” a few times to no response. The thought that this was just a joke went out the window immediately when I heard the door slam shut and lock. I frantically tried the knob and locks. I even tried screaming, “FUCK FUCK FUCK NO NO NO,” but nothing worked. Even worse, the windows seemed to be blocked by something on the outside, like I walked into a void or something. Something was wrong in there, because as soon as the door slammed, my torch died immediately.
I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. It looked like the only way out was through. As I stumbled my way through the darkness, I eventually ended up in the bathroom. I slipped, and my hand went through the open shower door. I didn’t fall all the way in the shower, but I was shocked by a loud bang after I tripped. Then I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It wasn’t anything scary. I just knocked down Mark’s shower gun. It was a .40 caliber pistol, but after dropping it in the dark, I couldn’t find it again.
What was scary, though, was the breath of hot, cheesy smelling breath hit my neck. I felt it hit my neck. I thought, “erm, he’s right behind me, isn’t he?” I spun around so fast I accidentally hit the toothbrush holder with my hand. Toothbrushes and two more guns hit the ground. The .9mm Glock didn’t go off, but the big ass .44 magnum blew a hole clean through the ceiling and that’s when I saw it.
I thought it was some kind of creature that landed in front of me. In the instant that the muzzle flash from the revolver lit up the room, I saw two beady, bloodshot eyes that looked like a rabid dog’s an uncanny smile that looked like someone trying to push a white picket fence through two body pillows. I only realized it was Mark and not some monster when I heard his voice.
That’s also when I realized something was very wrong with Mark.
In the cadence of the “beetlejuice” chant, Mark quickly said, “NEEDLE DICK, NEEDLE DICK, NEE-DLE DICK!” Then he took off fast, making a noise like a wet baby deer learning to walk on hardwood floors. Normally, Mark’s like a human bible. I mean, the guy used to be a youth pastor, for Christ’s sake.
Regardless, scared shitless and low on options, I made my way out of the bathroom, questioning what the fuck I just saw and if that was even my friend. I moved through the dark, listening for any creak or noise. It’s hard to tell in those high stress situations if the creaks are coming from your footsteps or something that’s closer to you than it should be.
But I suddenly heard something from the other side of the room. Fumbling footsteps headed toward me. I ran in the opposite direction as far as I could, yelling, “ohhhhhh goddddd fuck fuck fuck,” until I hit a counter. I still heard that thing approaching.
That’s when I figured out where I was. I was in the kitchen. I knew I was in the kitchen when my hand brushed against the toaster. It was right where I remembered it from last time I was there. Right where it was supposed to be. On top of the counter, with the toaster gun inside of it. I quickly grabbed it and started shooting. Every shot offered a little light that showed me his body contorting on its way to get me.
I ran out of ammo and backed up, bumping into the smart fridge and sliding down. As the touchscreen on the front lit up, I saw him. He had shaved his head and was wearing nothing but a Hawaiian shirt and stained tighty whities. I whimpered out, “what do you want?”
Which he responded to with a menacing, rasping growl, his head snapping closer to my face like a meth fueled zombie. Knowing my time was up, I started to cry frantically and panic.
That’s when it happened.
I don’t know why, but something in my brain just snapped. My mind went blank. It must’ve been my subconscious working through me or some cosmic trick of the universe, but my mouth started to move. In between sobs, I said, “ARUBA whimpering sobs JAMAICA louder sobs OOO I WANNA TAKE YA.”
As I continued to sing, something miraculous happened. Mark froze at first, but then stood up straight. He kept the devious, grinning snarl on his face, but he started to do a little shimmy shake moving his hips and arms around like some kind of gangly robot. I stood up as well and continued, regaining my mental control and realizing the song was affecting him in some way.
By the time I got to “DOWN IN KOKOMO,” Mark puked up a heavy looking, half solid stream of yellow bile, then his body hit the ground like a sack of bricks. The lights flickered back on, and the strange black fog over the windows moved away like some kind of swarm.
Some time later, the paramedics had arrived. We were sitting on the back of the ambulance. Mark was back to himself, mostly just shook up. I was still reeling with frustration from the whole event that I yelled, “fuck, man. You know I don’t deal with freaky shit. What the fuck even was that in there?”
Mark let out a sigh and started to speak, calm and frankly. “You probably won’t believe me, man, but the government is hiding billions of pounds of cheese in my belly that it is selling off by manipulating our advertising and education systems to our detriment in order to turn a profit.”
I looked at him wildly. “You’re telling me government cheese made you go Walking Dead on me!?!”
He just looked at me with an empty expression, as if all of the wind had left his sails, and said, “corrupted cheese corrupts absolutely.”
Note from the author: this is my first story here. I hope everyone likes it. I dedicate it to Hunter and Isaiah completely they didn’t convince me to start writing, but they constantly convince me not to stop. Also, sorry about any grammar or punctuation problems. I have dyslexia, and I was never really good at that stuff. Oh, and also. Post story… I know… little late, but they haven’t read it yet, so it’s still technically a BEARTRAP. I bet you, if they read this story, Isaiah or Hunter (most likely Isaiah) will call me on being British because I said torch instead of flashlight. I’m from Georgia yee-haw!!!