Horror Stories: 51 Sleepless Nights

by Wade, Tobias

  It was still about an 18 hour road trip, but after I shared my research with Vicente, he volunteered to make the drive with me. I convinced my grandfather that I wanted to use this research for my future graduation thesis, and he convinced my mother to let me go.

  “What are you going to ask them?” Vicente asked on the drive. One of the conditions for the trip was that I help him practice his English, and he talked non-stop the whole way.

  “I’m going to ask them to help me find the 33rd miner. The one who wasn’t human.”

  “El Diablo,” Vicente said. “And if he’s one of the two you meet? What do you say to him then?”

  “I guess I’ll tell him to go to Hell.” I meant it as a joke, but neither of us laughed. “Or find out why he’s here.”

  “And if you don’t like what he says? You will stop him?”

  I didn’t have an answer then, but I had plenty of time to think about it on the drive to LA.

  We found one of the miner’s address’s by contacting the newspaper which tried to interview him. Vicente told the reporter that he and the miner were old friends – an account made credible by his first person details of the rescue operation.

  Vicente told the reporter that he could persuade the miner into accepting the interview if we only knew where he lived – and voila. I guess private information is less important than a shot at a successful article.

  Vicente and I were soon walking up the dilapidated staircase of the apartment – although even calling this dump an apartment seemed insulting to all the other residences which share a name.

  The walls were covered with grime thick enough to sink a finger into. Trash, dirty diapers, and decaying leftovers littered the hallways, and on every floor we heard either couples fighting, women screaming at their kids, or loud drunken sex. I’m glad Vicente was with me when I knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Vicente and I exchanged a quizzical expression. If I was living in this kind of neighborhood, I wouldn’t invite strangers in. Vicente shrugged and opened the door.

  It was almost surreal walking inside. Fresh white paint on the walls, spotlessly shined kitchen counter, a sterile chemical smell like a hospital – it was like stepping through the door into a different world.

  A middle aged man blinked his black, sunken eyes at us. His dark skin and hair looked a lot like Vicente – he could easily have been Chilean.

  He was sitting on a sofa which faced a blank white wall. There weren’t any books, or TV, or anything. I can’t imagine what he was doing before we came in.

  “Have a seat.” The man patted the cushion beside him.

  There weren’t any chairs, and sitting next to him on the sofa seemed uncomfortably familiar. I shifted my weight from leg to leg and looked to Vicente for help.

  “Sorry to just show up,” Vicente said, obviously uncomfortable as well. “I hope we didn’t interrupt nothing.”

  The man looked back at his blank white wall. He shrugged.

  “Are you a survivor from the mine?” I blurted. Vicente put a hand out to caution me, but I kept going. “I was writing a school paper on – well I wanted to know about – who was the 33rd miner? The one who didn’t belong.”

  “Didn’t belong?” he asked, still addressing the white wall. “He was the only one who did belong down there.”

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  He pulled a notebook out of his pocket and began writing something down. I looked at Vicente, and he smiled encouragingly. All those hours in the car and this was all I could think about. I was finally going to get some answers.

  The man offered me the notebook, and I moved close to take it from him.

  Agustin: 3006 W Burbank Blvd. Los Angeles.

  “Ask him yourself,” the miner said.

  “Will you go with us?” I asked.

  The miner shook his head, still not looking at me.

  “If there’s something bad going to happen, you have to tell us,” Vicente added.

  “It’s too late,” the miner replied. A shudder passed over his body as though he were shivering from a cold wind blowing from the inside out. “He’s the last one left, and it has already begun.”

  Why was he still looking at the wall? I started to move around in front of the sofa to force him to look at me when –

  “Look out!” A hand landed on the back of my shirt and yanked me hard. I spun to the ground, still clutching the notebook. I tried to push Vicente off, but his old hands were like iron. It wasn’t until he had dragged me almost out the door when I noticed the man on the sofa was holding a handgun.

  BLAM. Vicente let go of my shirt and stared with me. The miner had opened his mouth and put a bullet through his own brain. The once perfect white wall behind him looked like an open wound. Vicente grabbed me by the shirt again and dragged me from the room.

  After that grizzly spectacle, Vicente refused to let me keep searching. He was ready to drive straight through the night, all the way back to Texas right then and there.

  He didn’t want to call the police. The reporter knew we were going to visit him, but he didn’t know who we were. Vicente figured that if we just left the state now, we’d never get tangled up in this any more than we already were.

  I saw it differently though. If the last miner really was the only one of the 33 still alive, then Vicente and I might be the only two people who knew something was going on. We had a responsibility to find out more.

  It was all I could do just to convince Vicente to get a motel for the night before driving back. I used the extra time to beg and plead with him, but it was impossible to get through. “Let him burn himself alive for all I care. We never should have come here.” I might as well have been begging the sun not to set in the evening.

  I waited until Vicente fell asleep before slipping down to the street to order an UBER. A dark sedan swept me down the unfamiliar streets, but I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I didn’t even speak a word to the driver. I wish I had though – I wish I’d asked him to wait and make sure I was okay, but he’s gone now. It’s going to just be me and the Devil.

  This isn’t a house or an apartment building though. I was standing outside a crematorium. What if the miner simply worked here now? By the time they were opened again, Vicente would be awake and we’d be driving back to Texas. I circled round the building, looking for some clues, or staff directories, or anything. Maybe this was an unhealthy obsession for me. Maybe I should just let it go and stay out of trouble like Vicente.

  But trouble is there whether you’re looking for it or not, and it’s best to know what’s coming before it hits you. There was a light on in the back of the building. It took about ten minutes pacing outside in the darkness before my heart slowed to a familiar rhythm and I was ready to approach.

  I knocked on the door. No answer. I peered through the lit window – looked like an office room. I knocked on the glass. No answer. My heart was starting to race again. I was stupid for even being here. Someone had just forgotten to turn out the light when they went home.

  I went back to the door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. The grating sound of the door swinging open seemed so loud in the still night that people must have heard it a block away.

  “Hello? Anyone here?” I called out, immediately regretting it. I don’t know which was worse, taking the Devil by surprise, or letting him know I was coming. I still switched on every light I could find, just in case something jumped out at me.

  “Agustin?” I shouted. No answer. I found another door with light seeping under the crack, and opened it.

  Agustin was inside. I could tell because of the name-tag on his overalls. He was on his hands and knees, the charred remains of his head placed firmly inside one of the cremation ovens. I don’t know whether he died the moment his head went inside, but I’d imagine he had to hold it there for a while. What could he possibly have seen or known that was worse than this?

  I called an UBER to take me back to the
motel. I guess that was it. All 33 were dead. I hope whatever evil spirit crawled up from the earth with those men had spent its wrath doing whatever it did to them, and was sleeping peacefully now.

  The same dark sedan stopped and I got in.

  “Hi there,” I said. “Thanks for getting me again.

  The driver – or the miner, I guess they were the same – turned around and smiled. It was hard not to smile with the bottom half of your jaw hanging loose. I could clearly see the pathway where the bullet entered his mouth and tore up through his brain. It was mesmerizing to watch that mass of loose flesh contort to form the shapes necessary for speech.

  “I see you’ve found the man you’re looking for,” what’s left of his face replied.

  “A man wouldn’t be alive right now. What are you?”

  The loose flesh pulled tighter and a trickle of blood dribbled out onto the driver’s console. He didn’t kill the other miners. They killed themselves – as far as I could tell. As long as I kept my wits about me, I could make it through this. I looked down at my lap so I could pretend I was just having an ordinary conversation. Not as easy as it sounds, with the blood dripping down the console around my feet.

  “I will answer one question for your persistence. Don’t waste it on such trivial semantics.”

  I took a deep breath. It smelled like food which has just begun to spoil.

  “How can I stop the sea of fire you mentioned when you climbed out of that mine?”

  “Only fools play with matches.”

  I had to look up at that. Even if it meant staring into that grotesque face – there’s no way my single question was going to be wasted with that shitty answer.

  “What is that supposed to mean? Why are you even here? Are you trying to warn us not to blow ourselves up, because we know that without whatever the fuck game you’re playing.”

  The miner slumped forward into his seat. The blood on the back of his head was congealed – he had died quite awhile ago. I wanted to scream – to break the window – to punch HIM in his disgusting bloody face, but I was next to a dead man for the third time this night. More than anything, I wanted to get home. I just got out of the car and started walking the whole way back toward the motel.

  But the notebook! If that miner was the real Devil – and that’s the only explanation that makes sense to me – then he had given me his notebook. I stopped walking and used the light from my phone to desperately flip through the pages looking for some other clue. There on the first page were more words, written in a fluid hand.

  While they sat down in the dark, waiting for tomorrow’s spark, telling tales of broken hearts, I joined them in their cell.

  Don’t be afraid, I sang to each, don’t hate the world beyond your reach, I hear your prayers as you beseech, me save you with my spell.

  Only fools play with matches, or bury treasure with no latches, or sign a deal when the catch is, the soul you have to sell.

  But the fool has born you, raised you, sold you. The fool has torn you, dazed you, told you. He won’t mourn you, praise you, hold you, when finally you yell.

  Only fools play with matches, and suffer all those needless scratches, you will find your soul detaches, free at last in Hell.

  How much must one man suffer before Hell becomes an escape? I hope I never find out.

  I Met the Devil on Tinder, and I Swiped Right

  Don’t roll your eyes at me. It’s not like I could have known beforehand.

  Okay, let me back up a little. My name is Emma Collins, and I just began working toward my masters in engineering. All those jokes online about there being no girls here weren’t understatements – there are literally classes with twenty people in it and I’m the only one who doesn’t have something hanging between their legs.

  You’d think that would make dating easy, but I was only there to get my degree and get out. I wasn’t about to get bogged down in a relationship. I didn’t even want to have a fling with anyone in my class, because as soon as word got out that I’m looking to hook up – and yeah, I’d like to think people would brag about being with me – I’d have to start beating them off with a stick.

  But you can’t expect a girl to study all day and night and not have a little fun, can you? I tried Tinder just so people would flirt with me and I could brutally reject them and feel good about myself. Harmless fun, right?

  Last night I swiped a sweet looking guy who went to my University, wasn’t an engineer (thank God), and shared my undying passion for Rick and Morty. He made me laugh, or at least snort air, and when he asked to get a drink I couldn’t think of any reason not to. The pub was close, so worse comes to worse I would at least get a free drink out of it and could still be home early. He texted to say he’d be a little late, but he was already there when I arrived.

  Same dude as the photo – that’s a relief – he was even wearing the same clothes. Either he just setup his account today, or he wore the stuff from his photo so I’d recognize him. Either way, it didn’t bother me as long as he wasn’t some fedora-tipped whale.

  And damn was he charming. We just clicked on everything – both big Ramones fans, read Stephen King, watched the same shows, hated the same politicians (looking at you, blonde hairpiece). It was like this guy was specifically designed just to be perfect for me. I guess I should have taken that as the warning sign. One free drink turned into four, and I don’t know whether he asked me to come home with him, or I just jumped in his car and let him figure it out, but we were headed back to his place when I got a weird text:

  So sorry I’m late. Where are you? It was from the guy I met on Tinder.

  But that was impossible. I was in his car right now. I figured it was just a bad connection which stopped it from coming through earlier, so I decided to text back so he could read it later and laugh.

  You missed your chance. I went home with your twin brother. Well I thought it was funny anyway. Until he texted back again.

  Haha, I don’t have a twin brother. Are you still at the pub? I looked between the phone and the driver. The car was dark, but it wasn’t dark when I met him in the pub. He was the EXACT same person from the photos. The guy was pulling into his driveway now. He put his hand on my leg and smiled at me. I should have asked questions right there. I should have just got out of the car and run home.

  I should have done anything except what I ACTUALLY did, which was kiss him. We went inside together and it was dark, but when he pushed me up against a wall, I didn’t fight it. Not until the handcuffs clicked over my wrists.

  Okay so we don’t have ALL the same interests, but I was cool. I could roll with it. I strained against the restraints to kiss him again, and that’s when he put the gag over my mouth. Now this was getting too much. I tried to pull away, but he forced me to the ground. There was a trapdoor leading down to a basement, and he let go of me to open it. I was able to roll over and look at him, but it wasn’t the same person who had stood next to me a moment ago.

  His back was hunched, and he was moving with rapid lurching movements. His eyes were hollow like he hadn’t slept in days, and his mouth was a thin bloodless line. That couldn’t have been the same mouth I’d just kissed. I tried to scream, but the gag muffled most of it. I tried to kick, but he just took it and shoved me through the trap door. I rolled down a ladder and hit the concrete ground HARD. Like I could feel my bones rattling and blood in my mouth hard. Then the light above me disappeared. Was he just going to leave me here?

  But he hadn’t left me. He was on my side of the door, climbing down the ladder toward me.

  “Just play dead. Don’t answer it!”

  I don’t know which was more frightening: the fact that I’ve been kidnapped, or the fact that I wasn’t the only one. I was too focused on myself at first to notice, but as the creature descended the ladder toward me, I saw them huddled against the wall.

  One woman was wearing a torn business suit; her face was two pools of blood where her eyes used to be.

  On
e college girl my age; her hands sealed tight in constant prayer from a nail which pierced them together.

  One little boy – this one couldn’t be more than 12 – sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up to cover his face.

  “Don’t even make a sound. Whatever you do, don’t reply to him,” the professional woman said.

  I nodded my head to show recognition and lay still where I had fallen. It was hard to control my breathing while I heard his feet approach. What would he do if he thought I was dead? It couldn’t be worse than what he’d already done to the living girls, right?

  “Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-THUMP,” the voice above me drawled. It was still my date’s voice. “I can hear your heart singing for me.”

  How does someone even know how to react in this situation? I tried to think of every crime show about psychopaths I had ever seen. What did the victims usually do to escape? But they didn’t escape most of the time, did they? That’s why the psychopaths became famous. Because there were so many who didn’t escape. I bit my tongue to keep myself from screaming.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” the voice continued, but it was deeper now. Was he continuing to change? Was it still a man, or something else standing over me now? I couldn’t help myself. He already knew I was alive, and I had to look.

  I pulled myself up to my knees and stared into his face. He still looked like my date, although I wish he hadn’t, but something wasn’t right. It was like seeing a photograph of someone, only the photo is fifty years old taken on an antique camera. Those eyes were still kind, even though they looked wearier now, and I could remember what the smile looked like on his tightly-pressed mouth.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  The college-girl groaned. Their strategy didn’t work for them, so why would I just surrender to the torture? If there was a way out, I was going to find it. And if there wasn’t… well at least I’ll have tried.

  “But I’m not doing this,” my date replied. “You’re the one who came home with me.”