A description of a YouTube video I found:
So do any of you remember those Mickey Mouse cartoons from the 1930s? The ones that were just put out on DVDa few years ago? Well, I hear there is one that was unreleased to even the most avid classic disney fans. According to sources, it's nothing special. It's just a continuous loop (like flinstones) of mickey walking past 6 buildings that goes on for two or three minutes before fading out. Unlike the cutesy tunes put in though, the song on this cartoon was not a song at all, just a constant banging on a piano as if the keys for a minute and a half before going to white noise for the remainder of the film. It wasn't the jolly old Mickey we've come to love either, Mickey wasn't dancing, not even smiling, just kind of walking as if you or I were walking, with a normal facial expression, but for some reason his head tilted side to side as he kept this dismal look. Up until a year or two ago, everyone believed that after it cut to black and that was it. When Leonard Maltin was reviewing the cartoon to be put in the complete series, he decided it was too junk to be on the DVD, but wanted to have a digital copy due to the fact that it was a creation of Walt. When he had a digitized version up on his computer to look at the file, he noticed something.
The cartoon was 9 minutes and 4 seconds long.
"After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the 6th minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn't a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickeys walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk. On the 7th minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn't have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face. The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconcievable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately store the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until 8 minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the mickey mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the backround. This happened for about 30 seconds. From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying "Real suffering is not known" 7 times before speedily taking the guards pistol and offing himself on the spot. The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of russian text that roughly said "the sights of hell bring its viewers back in". As far as I know, no one else has seen it, (..until now).
There are no footprints in the snow. It's his reflection.
In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.
She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.
When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery, three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to the starving people.
And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply "This is the last one I am sending you today."
You're at work alone, when you suddenly hear the copy machine start up. You walk out to take a look at what's going on and see several copies filling the tray. Picking up one of the pieces of paper you discover that it is a copy of a picture depicting you sitting in your office chair, dead, with your eyes torn out and your throat cut. The others are the same picture, but taken from increasingly bizarre angles.
There is no original picture in the copy machine.
You come into possession of an old box. Inside are several glass vials filled with dirt, dust and tiny bits of gravel or cement. The vials are labeled with places and dates such as “Port Chicago 7/17/44?, “Halifax 7/6/17? and “Guernica 7/17/36?. A trip to the library confirms that all are dates of massive loss of life in explosions. A few days later a package arrives with no return address.
Inside is an empty vial labeled with your home town and next week’s date.
One day, a boy named Tom was sitting in class at school and doing math. It was six more minutes until after school. As he was doing his homework, something caught his eye. His desk was next to the window, and he turned and stared outside. It looked like a picture. When the school bell rang, he ran to the spot where he saw it. He ran fast so that no one else could grab it.
He picked it up and smiled. It had a picture of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a dress with tights on and red shoes, and her hand was formed into a peace sign.She was so beautiful he wanted to meet her, so he ran all over the school and asked everyone if they knew her or had ever seen her before. But everyone he asked said "No." He was devastated.
When he got home, he asked his older sister if she knew the girl, but unfortunately she also said "No." It was very late, so Tom walked up the stairs, placed the picture on his bedside table and went to sleep.
In the middle of the night Tom was awakened by tapping on his window. After the tapping he heard a giggle. He saw a shadow near his window, so he got out of his bed, walked toward his window, opened it up and followed the giggling, taking the picture with him.
He walked across the road, when suddenly he got hit by a car, killing him instantly.
The driver got out of the car and tried to help him, but it was too late. Looking down, he saw the picture and picked it up. He saw a cute girl holding up three fingers…
A woman and her stepfather live a miserable existence at a last-chance gas station. One day while they're trying to dig a bit more out of a dried-up well, the bottom suddenly drops out of it.
They lower a flashlight to figure out how deep the well has become and when it gets to the bottom, something grabs hold of the line. Eventually they get the line back and it holds a chunk of gold and some handwritten notes, but in a language they can't make out. The stepfather orders the daughter to keep away, but she sends some ham, a note and a dictionary down in a bag. The next day she pulls the line back up and finds the bag filled with some jewelry and a note in response - 'thank you for the meat'. She then packs them a basket of goodies, again sending it down the well. They send her all sorts of sparkly jewels in return.
The stepfather returns with a tow truck and a container filled with flashlights. He sends them down on a tow cable, expecting gold and jewles in return. When he pulls it up, he discovers all the flashlights have been destroyed. Furious, the stepfather decides to go down into the hole. He gets a gun and puts on a gas mask and army suit. He lowers himself down on a wooden platform and tells his daughter to bring him up after ten minutes. Ten whole minutes pass, so she begins to hoist the cable back up. Soon the wooden platform is back to the surface, to her relief, standing on the platform is her stepfather, still clutching the gun. Obviously concerned she walks over to him. To her horror all that has come up is the suit, stuffed with gold, jewelry, coins and a single note attached which reads 'Thank you for the meat'.
It's a simple enough thing. It's all a part of the body's sleep processes. Sleep Paralysis, right? No big deal, really. Your body produces a chemical that paralyzes your body during R.E.M sleep to prevent you from hurting yourself by thrashing about during your dreams. No big deal.
Okay, so you opened your eyes and you can't move your body. It's the chemicals. Oh, you can keep trying to wriggle those toes, but it's not happening. Forget it. Just relax. It'll go away. It's fine. It's normal.
Oh, now there's something pressing on your chest, real hard, it's making it hard to breath. It's heavy, so very heavy, whatever's on your chest. Chemicals. It's all chemicals. Stop trying to scream, it won't work. Your throat muscles are paralyzed too. You still can't breath.
You are staring at a blank ceiling, you can't stare anywhere else. Shadows flit across your vision, forming shapes you try not to think about. A clawed hand, a flash of jagged, shadowy teeth. All images from your subconscious. A face forming above yours, leering through black void eyes. You think you hear whispering. Angry hissing, like a snake that's been disturbed.
Suddenly, a sharp white light briefly flares in the room as a car pulls down the street, dispelling the shadows. The weight is gone. You can breath, your hands clench sheets.
You feel an eternity has passed by but it was all the work of a moment. You wriggle, just to prove to yourself you can. You sit up, take a deep breath and then laugh a little at yourself. Sleep Paralysis. Stupid.
You turn to shake your wife awake, eager to share your experience. You feel paralyzed again, but it has nothing to do with Sleep Paralysis. You stare at the blood, the jagged wound in her throat, her wide, staring eyes, mouth opened in soundless scream.
You survived your Old Hag Syndrome.
You were out of town for the weekend. When you came back to your apartment, your mailbox was stuffed full. At least 30 letters. Letters with no return address, several of them felt soggy and heavy, as though they were recently wet, or perhaps contained a liquid.
All of the letters have your name and address written on them, and many of them had your name scratched all over them in red ink. They don't smell nice. They smell like rotting meat and old garbage. You're reluctant to take them back to your room, but curiosity gets the better of you. You dump them in your kitchenette sink because you don't want them smelling up the rest of the apartment.
You grab one that doesn't seem damp and isn't covered with writing, and open it up. There's pictures inside. Pictures of people you don't know, with their eyes torn out, teeth missing, unhinged jaws hanging open, throats ripped out. You're horrified and yet you can't help but wonder what's in the rest of the letters. You open more, and more to discover increasingly gruesome photos of dead people. Piles of bodies with limbs missing, splayed open corpses on operating tables with their vital organs removed, hanged bodies that have been gutted and bled dry. Some of the soggy letters had blood and other fluids in them.
The more letters you open, the more you notice that not all of the people are strangers. Some of them were people you see at work, others people you went to high school with. By the time you get to the last few letters, the pictures are of the mutilated bodies of your close friends and family members.
Eventually you reach the last letter. You don't want to know what's in it, but it's not like you have a choice now. You peel the letter open, and it's a picture of yourself. Not dead, eyes intact, no limbs missing. It's a picture of you entering your apartment building earlier that day, shortly before you collected your disgusting letters.
As you hear a door elsewhere in your apartment open, you black out.
The last man on Earth is sitting in a room, reading a book, when he hears a knock at the door.
The girl locked her bedroom door. Her parents were out for the evening, and she was afraid to be in the house alone at night. She climbed into her bed and closed her eyes. "Alone", she thought to herself.
Then came a small, cold voice beside her: "Are we alone?"
The Terrible Secret of Animal Crossing
" @riri4life said:"Attack of the WIG!!! lolz "This sounds oddly like Egyptian and Jamrock music, mixed with basement jaxx techno...XD "
Driving home from a friends house, you sit at a red light when you hear a familiar tone from your phone, sitting in the passenger seat. A text message. Probably from your friend; you always leave things at their homes. Being a responsible driver, and the light still red, you open the message and wait for a moment for the image to load. Suddenly, a photo pops into view. Red, obscured, strange contrast. And no text accompanying it.
But the light is green, so you close your phone and go back to driving, wondering vaguely what that was, and who would have sent you it. Perhaps someone accidentally took a picture of the inside of their bag or pocket and sent it to you. You're still caught wondering as you pull up to the next light, also red, and another little tone from your phone. You flip it open, hoping for an apology from a friend, but find yourself waiting as another photo loads on the screen. This one, still mostly red, but textured now with scraps of blue, yet still indiscernible. This time, it takes an impatient honk from behind you before you realize you can pass through the light and be on your way home. Closing the phone, you continue on your way.
You sit uncomfortable now as the tone rings again, at yet another stop signal. You pause, hesitate, and then open the phone. The picture now is suddenly much more clear. That scrap of blue seems to be the ragged edge of a bit of denim, half blood soaked and laying across a pile of entrails, torn straight through the back of a human torso. You can only see from the bottom of the shoulder blade to the tops of the thighs, but its unmistakably human. Blue-white spinal bone smeared in blood, tubes of intestine trailing out between ragged looking spinal tissue and going out of the frame of the picture. You choke back a throat full of bile and throw the phone back into the passenger seat, happy to be on your way again, and dreading the knowledge that you won't be able to not look as you hear that tone again.
There is some relief as you realize there are no more stoplights before you reach your home. But as you pull up to that red stop sign, the bottom of your stomach drops out and you feel a cold sweat build on the back of your neck. You have already picked up the phone, even before that tell-tale little tone has told you there is a message. The cell vibrates in your hand as you flip it open, your mind gone on auto-pilot, driving home with your eyes on the screen as the newest photo loads. Intestines piled almost artistically to the side of the body, scalp ripped free and no hair discernable, and that sickening contrast of darkening red on blue. For some reason, you expected that, even as you taste bile on the back of your tongue.
Its not as close or obscured. Flesh torn apart by God knows what, torn denim, and blood soaked so far into the threadbare fabric of a hand-me-down couch. The one you have in your living room. You pull your car into park, hands shaking as you make your way up to your front door. You can't stop yourself now, your body's just doing as it normally would, but your finger frantically scrolls down the screen, finding no name, no phone number, and a time dated on the message three minutes from now.
You put the key in the door as you shrug off your denim jacket.
Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. Harold, the gravedigger, upon hearing a bell, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it was neither. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.
"Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked.
"Yes!" The voice assured.
"You were born on September 17, 1827?"
"The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857."
"No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!"
"Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as hell ain't alive no more and you ain't comin' up."
In a fire station in California, there is a light bulb that is always on and has never, ever burned out. If you read Numbers 16:41-45 from a King James Bible (other versions don't work) in the same room as this light bulb, the light bulb will dim significantly. If you keep reading until Numbers 16:48, the light bulb goes back to its original brightness.
The trick is, if you hesitate too long while the lights are dim, you start seeing a weird lightshow in front of your eyes, it is most similar to what happens when you rub your eyes for a long time while they are closed.
If you wait for still longer, the lightshow starts forming patterns, like circles and triangles. Still longer, and the lightshow starts to form words. The people that have read these words are reluctant to talk about it, but are often obsessed with the year 2112 and are very interested in what countries are producing biological weapons...
(BTW, this lightbulb ACTUALLY EXISTS: http://www.centennialbulb.org/ )
You stumble into the kitchen, covered in sweat. Mind racing. Heart thumping. Jesus Christ, could he have followed me here? You think. How did he even find me?
A moment passes. One thing is certain.
He's not here now.
Your stomach rumbles. Even someone in your position has to eat. Your refrigerator door cries as you tug it open. You peer through the shelves. A jug of tea catches your eye. You take a swig, right out of the container. Your mother won't know.
The tea tastes sharper than usual. You examine the label. Black tea. She bought the wrong kind. You shrug, reach for some leftovers. Flip the TV on in the other room as you slide them into the microwave. The five o' clock news plays in the background. It might say something about him.
The usual teary story about the war. Some presidential candidate is coming to your town. You count down the numbers on the microwave: 5, 4...
"And, finally, tonight a food contamination alert for all residents in this county."
"A shipment of Lipton's Black Tea delivered to local stores has tested positive for traces of the ebola solanum virus. This super-strain of the disease causes painful sores on the underarms, neck and groin followed by profuse bleeding from all orifices. The survival rate once infected is less than 10%. I repeat, Lipton's Black Tea has been pulled from the shelves but any resident who purchased the tea is advised to call the Center for Health Control to dispose of it immediately."
You tug open the fridge once more and look at the tea you just drank.
Lipton's. That's not the kind your mother usually buys.
"Authorities report the shipment was tainted by an unidentified biological expert who remains at large."
He's not here now, you think. The jug of tea falls to the floor.
But he was.
It's 3AM, and you've been up all night on a horror binge. You've watched your favorite horror movies, read your favorite scary stories, and even attempted the old "Bloody Mary" trick in your mirror. You stretch and yawn, deciding now is about the time to hit the hay, so you move into your bedroom and lay down to sleep.
After awhile, however, you realize that you can't get the images of some of the fictional creatures you saw on your TV out of your head. "Meh... I'm going to hate myself for this tomorrow", you say aloud as you flick on your bedroom lamp, knowing that having a nightlight used to help get rid of your nightmares as a little kid. Within minutes you're close to sleep, snuggled up comfortably under the blankets with your eyes closed and more pleasant thoughts on your mind.
That is, until you detect something moving in front of the light, casting a shadow over you. You blink, beginning to turn towards the lamp before a rotting hand grabs hold of your shoulder. "Thanks for turning on the light. I wouldn't have been able to find you in that darkness."
Normally you sleep soundly, but the thunderstorm raging outside is stirring you from your sleep. You begin to doze, then another crash jolts you awake. The cycle lasts most of the night. So you lay there, eyes open and outward, looking at your room stretching out before you in oblong shadows. Your eyes move from nameless object, to object, until you reach your mirror, sitting adjacent to you across the room.
Suddenly a flash of lightning, and the mirror flickers in illumination. For a scant second the mirror reveals to you dozens of faces, silhouettes within its frame, mouths open and eyes blackened. They stare out at you, their black pupils fixed upon your face.
Then it is done. Are you sure of what you have seen? Unsettled, you don't sleep for the rest of the evening. The next morning you remove the mirror from your wall and toss it in the trash. It didn't matter if the vision you had seen was of truth or falsehood, you wanted to be rid of that mirror. In fact, you scrap every mirror in your house.
Weeks pass and the event of that night falls into passive memory. You are spending the day at a friend's house and it's time to use the bathroom. While you are in there the faucet starts to run without you prompting it. Taken aback by this, you do not yet act, trying to reason with your paranoia in your mind. The water starts to steam and a skin of moisture covers the mirror up above. You're watching intently as words form: "Please return the mirrors. We miss watching you sleep at night."
You volunteer at the mental health clinic. Given the dangerous nature of the residents, they assigned you the rooms of the less violent patients. The suicidal. Those who hear voices. Those that don't say anything at all.
You become close to a mute man named Arthur. He is a rapt listener, willing to nod his head for hours as you tell him the story of your life. You mention your past, your present. The people involved in both. Your hopes for the future.
And Arthur just nods.
After several months of listening, you figure that you owe it to Arthur to get him out of the clinic. He can't be happy sitting in a room by himself nodding at interns everyday. You talk to the supervisor of the clinic. You argue that he isn't harming anyone. That he grooms and feeds himself with no problems. That perhaps his condition is a physical aliment.
The day comes when your arguing pays off. The supervisor has agreed to let Arthur go. You rush to his room to tell him the news. "You're free!" You shout. "Isn't that great?"
And Arthur just nods.
You write your name and address on a piece of paper. Hand it to him. "I'm going to miss having someone to talk to." You say. "But now you can write me. I can learn all about you. Like why they were so insistent in having you in here, pal. I had to fight Dr. Thanner everyday to get you out."
He looks at you and takes the paper. Just nods.
You go home, feeling good about yourself. You brag to everyone you can tell, friends, family, co-workers, about how you came through for Arthur. You even fall asleep with a smile.
That night, your eyes snap open. Screams, unearthly screams wake you up.
Then you see them. Your mother. Your father. Your friends. Your co-workers. Lying on your floor, their blood soaking into your carpet. Your walls stained with carnage. Their heads bashed in, their eyes missing from their sockets. Everyone you know dead or dying.
You whimper and see a man standing in the doorway.
It's Arthur, holding the piece of paper you gave him.
Your entire body shaking, you choke out. "Are you here to kill me?"
And Arthur just nods.
It's been 2 weeks since this whole thing started.
It all started with a tanker accident. It was all over the news. Everyone thought it was just another oil spill. There were plenty of volunteers. Plenty of people wanting to help the poor defenseless animals. Plenty of victims. Within hours of the tanker accident, it started happening. The animals had gone crazy, they were scratching and biting the clean up volunteers. They said that it was an adverse effect to whatever was in that tanker.
Rescue workers were still trying to get the crew out of the ship. They could hear screaming inside. Screams to open the doors. But that's when it all went to hell. As soon as they cut the door out.
There was 6 minutes of broadcast before it went silent. 6 minutes of screaming and agony. The ship crew attacked the rescue workers like rabid baboons. Breaking bones and tearing flesh. The people on the shore weren't fairing any better. Those that had been attacked by animals were attacking everyone else. It was worse than any war zone report, it was sheer brutality, and yet the broadcast still went on for 6 minutes. 6 minutes and then blank faces. Nobody could explain what was happening. They tried to continue with regular news, the economy, the weather, a cute human interest story, but they couldn't make us unsee what we saw.
I tried to continue with my regular existence but every time I switched on the news or walked by a news stand it was there. This big mystery. They had some explanations, some kind of infection, brain parasites, but it didn't matter. It wasn't an infection we were afraid of, it was them.
4 days after the initial report, a state of emergency was raised. And yet we'd all seen this before. Every zombie movie ever. People didn't know who to trust. People were stockpiling food and weapons. Some tried to flee but it seems every zombie movie was right. They didn't make it. 3 days later they arrived in my town.
I expected moans, shuffling corpses, dismemberment, but that's where the movies lied. They ran through the streets, screaming. I remember running to my front door as fast as I could, locking, barricading, doing anything to make sure it would stay shut, and then I headed for the window. I was on the second story and I could see the carnage. They were unstoppable. They were aware.
A group of them made there way through a building across the street. They jumped straight through plate glass windows. Even the shards slicing through them made no difference, they just kept coming. My barricade wasn't going to hold. I rushed around my flat, grabbing supplies and jamming them into the most secure room of the flat. I went back for one last look across the street, and I wish I hadn't. In a second story window, my face met one of theirs. They knew where I was. I quickly dashed into the room and locked the door.
I don't have any kind of panic room, or a secure basement, so the safest place I could think of was my bathroom. No windows, one door with a lock. I had filled my sink and bathtub full of water, So I could stay for a while. So I sat there in the dark room, with the distant screams in my ears.
I began to feel like I may have over-reacted, it had been 2 hours and no sign of them. It actually got quieter and I thought they had moved on. Maybe I could leave the room, get to the kitchen. Grab more food to wait it out. A crash came from the front door. The sound of someone running full force into the door and knocking down the barrier behind it. There was a couple more crashes before I knew they were inside. Rapid footsteps moving around the flat, a couple screams and then a bang on the wall beside me. My eyes were open to their widest, even in the pitch black darkness of the room. Another bang, and another. They knew I was there and they knew I was scared.
This was the zombie nightmare I had been expecting from the start. I had nowhere to run. There was only so much time before they would break in. I sat with my back to the door, hoping my extra weight would make it harder for them to get in. And then it got worse.
"Why don't you open the door?"
A voice on the opposite side of the door. No screams or moans, just a quiet, whispery voice. And then more of them.
"We've come for you."
"You'll be happier if you open the door"
"It's not so bad..."
The whispery voices became a cacophony of noise trying to persuade me, to break me, to fool me. I had heard that the moaning of zombies would drive people insane but this was worse, a siren call. I sat in the darkness and hoped and prayed that they'd get bored. But they don't get bored and they don't leave. I managed to use the mirror to peak under the door, only to be greeted by horrible unblinking eyes, blood smeared faces, screams and more horrible whispers. That was two days ago...
I don't know what to do anymore... maybe it won't be so bad...
This is the last post I can make until someone else contributes. Help keep the thread alive...
A mother and father decided they needed a break, not having much alone time in the almost a year since their young son, Toby, was born. They wanted to have a night out, dinner, maybe a movie, and the honeymoon suite at a local hotel to possibly give Toby a little brother or sister. They called their most trusted babysitter, who unfortunately was already engaged for the evening. But she did refer a good friend of hers, Opal, who she swore could be trusted. They spoke with the new babysitter and agreed to have her arrive no later than 6:30 so the parents could get an early start.
As the parents got ready to paint the town red, Toby lay on the floor, gnawing on his teething ring in the den off to the back of the house. At shortly after 6:20 the father walked past the open doorway and saw an elderly woman sitting in the rocking chair facing the child, her back to the doorway. The father was slightly startled as his wife hadn't mentioned the sitter had arrived. He spoke to her as he straightened his tie in the mirror on wall opposite the doorway.
"Oh my, I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in. We appreciate you coming on such short notice. My wife put some a chicken in the oven for you. The numbers for the restaurant and hotel are on the counter if you need to reach us. We will be home around 9 tomorrow morning. Goodbye Toby, I love you."
He hurried down the hallway as his wife was coming down the stairs, meeting her at the bottom his wife asked "What were you saying dear"
"Oh nothing, I was just giving the sitter instructions, now we should hurry so we can make our reservation on time." he replied grabbing his coat as he unlocked the front door.
They went to the car and were in such a rush they didn't notice the car pull into the drive way not 15 seconds after they pulled out. They proceeded to have the best night out they could remember. The wife become somewhat concerned shortly after arriving at the hotel when she called home and no one answered. The husband calmed her as he pulled her into bed, kissing her neck.
"Don't worry dear, she's an older lady and it's almost 10, she must have gone to bed after putting Toby down."
The next morning after a nice breakfast they arrived home to find a note on the door. It read:
"I arrived at 6:30 as agreed but no one was home.
If you had made other plans I would have appreciated
if someone had called me.
The husband gave his wife a confused look as she put a hand to her mouth and her face turned white. She threw open the front door calling out for her son. There was no reply, in fact there was no sound at all in the house, just the smell or some burned meat. She ran up the stairs as her husband raced to the back of the house the find the kitchen filled with smoke. He turned off the stove and used pot holders to grab the smoldering pan or charred meat and drop it in the sink. His wife came into the kitchen crying into her hands
"He's not here! Toby's gone! She took him!"
The husband then took her in his arms as she cried. It was then that he noticed blood on the lid of the trash can. A pit formed in his stomach as he left his wife and opened the trash can. He exhaled as he realized that it was only the chicken his wife had made. It was then that his eyes shot wide open as his wife let out a fresh scream of horror. As he turned toward her, he caught sight of the melted remains of the teething ring on the bottom of the open oven.
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