Not my story, but a close friend of mine’s. It’s a story I don’t quite understand, and one I won’t pretend like I even want to. My friend died a couple of days ago. I’ll spare his family the pain and not mention his name, but for now, we’ll call him Steven.
Steven’s passing was anything but normal; he was twenty, he had a whole life ahead of him, and it was stolen from him. Steven was found mauled and mangled in his upstairs bedroom, frozen in terror and fear. It appeared as if his room had been barricaded; a broken door and clawed dresser told us how well that had worked for him.
Wanna know the strangest part? No one had ever broken in, every door remained locked and untampered, each window was intact, and not a single security camera had picked up anything. The police tried their best, but there was nothing to go on, no DNA, no footage, not even a description, just a desecrated body, and a family in anguish.
But I know what happened, I know every wretched detail. What I just told you isn’t the complete truth; there was one more oddity in Steven’s passing, one more detail that has police scratching their heads all over town. My friend’s life wasn’t the only thing the killer took that night; the man also made off with Steven’s journal.
The way the police found him indicated he was clutching something in his dominant hand, something that was missing, and with a pen in the other hand, most concluded he tried writing something down, moments before his passing, something the killer didn’t like.
But how do I know it was his journal? Simple, because the killer didn’t take it, I did, and the words that lined the interior pages keep me from sleeping at night. I suppose that’s why I’m turning to you. I don’t want to understand what happened to my friend, but I don’t want to live in fear any longer. I hoped that maybe one of you could make sense of the horror… or maybe not.
Either way, it’s best if we start at the beginning, before the notebook, before he died, before it all.
Around three months ago, Steven was in an awful car accident. Late one Friday night, he was driving his little brother home from the movies, and… a drunk driver t-boned him at an intersection, killing his brother. It wasn’t his fault; he was doing everything right, he had always been a cautious driver, but… he blamed himself for what happened. He carried that shame on his shoulders every day.
Steven wasn’t the same after the accident; he started going out less, he started eating less, he broke up with his girlfriend, it was… heartbreaking. I did what I could, I tried to be there for him, but he kept pushing me away, no matter how hard I tried.
It had been weeks since I heard from him, and then my phone started to buzz on a Saturday morning.
“Steven!” I answered with. “What’s up! How have you been?”
“I need you to come over,” He replied in a grave tone. “Now.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
At the time, it had struck me as a little weird, but I went with it. I should’ve called his mom, I should’ve taken him more seriously, I should’ve been there…
Steven lived in a nice suburban home on the edge of town, two stories, and a basement, that’s all you really need to know. There were two flights of stairs in that house, one to the basement and one to his room on the second floor.
It wasn’t a quick drive to his house, but I was glad to make it; an hour in the car seemed like a fine investment for a close friend I hadn’t seen in weeks. When I got there, I remember he never answered the door. I just knocked, and he yelled from somewhere deeper in the house to come in, and that the door was unlocked.
Although Steven had become something of a hermit since his brother’s passing, he’s stayed true to the neat freak at his heart; every countertop was sparkling clean, not a dish in the sink, or a crumb on the floor, perfectly clean. Well, all except for the smell. I don’t know how to describe it; it’s the kind of thing you can only experience to understand, but I will say it was strong, felt like walking into a brick wall, and it smelled worse than anything else I’ve ever encountered before.
“What died in here?!” I remember yelling. “Please tell me you still shower?”
“I’m in the basement!” He ignored my question.
I wandered through the halls, searching for the source of his voice, and all the while praying the source of the smell wasn’t in the same place. But alas, my prayers weren’t answered.
“What the hell is that smell?” I groaned, pinching my nose as I walked down the stairs to the basement, my eyes beginning to water.
“Help me, please,” Steven whimpered from behind the stairs.
I almost forgot about the smell as I leapt down the remaining steps and dashed to the sound of his voice, my worst fears playing through my mind. However, there was no blood, there was no attempt, there was just a terrified Steven, who was curled up in a ball in the corner of the basement, tears streaming down his face, eyes locked on the middle of the room.
“Do you see it?” He whispered.
I looked around. It was a small room, with stone walls and a single lightbulb to light the place; if there was something down here other than Steven, I would have noticed by now.
“See what?” I asked.
“Him…” Steven whispered, raising a finger to point at the same spot in the middle of the room that his eyes were locked on.
I looked once more in a panic, but there was nothing, not even a bug, just an empty basement, with hollow cries from a broken man.
“There’s nothing there, Steven, let’s get you back upstairs, okay?” I said in a hushed tone, trying to be as comforting as I could.
“But–but he’s right there! I see him!” He yelled.
“There’s no one there, Steven,” I extended a hand out to him, crouching down to his level. “Let’s go,” I whispered.
For the first time since I’d gotten there, he broke his stare with the floor, quickly glancing back and forth between my hand and the invisible man, before eventually, he took hold of me, and I helped him to his feet.
He made us walk around where he claimed the man to be, shaking in fear as we did, and even as we climbed the stairs, he kept his eyes trained on that spot.
I shut the door to the basement and locked it, which seemed to calm him down quite a bit, and certainly helped with the smell, as soon after it had all but disappeared. He hugged me and thanked me and begged me to stay for a while, just to make sure the man doesn’t come up the stairs. I indulged, and after assuring him there was no one in the basement, I stuck around for a couple of hours, if even just to catch up with a good friend.
I wish I could say he was doing well, but he told me how he’d been hearing noises at night, how paranoid he’s grown, and how scared he was to even set foot outside. I comforted him as best I could, and I really thought I’d been able to help him, thought I’d seen a light in his eyes I hadn’t seen since the accident, but the occasional panicked glance in the direction of the basement told me he was still far from better.
The sun began to set, and I still had to drive an hour to get home, so I began to say my goodbyes when…
“Wait!” Steven yelled. “Please don’t leave,” He grabbed hold of my arm. “I’m scared, would you stay here tonight? With me?”
I was startled by the sudden change of pace I’m sure my face went pale or I looked surprised or something, because he quickly corrected himself.
“I’m sorry, I’m fine– I shouldn’t have– I’m sorry,” He apologized, quickly ushering me to the door. He looked embarrassed, his cheeks had gone all red, and it looked like he was holding back tears.
“Hey,” I spoke up before he could lock me out of the house. “I’ve got work in the morning, but how about tomorrow night?”
A smile broached his face as a single tear was freed from his eyes.
“I’d quite like that,” He whispered.
And that was that. I hugged him goodbye, walked to my car, and made the drive home. I didn’t think anything of it. I knew he was struggling, and I knew he was blaming himself. I just thought this was him grieving, and I wish I knew then how wrong I was.
The next morning, while at work, I received another call, and despite my manager’s strict policy on no phones, I answered anyway; it could be an emergency after all.
“Hey man, I’m at work, what’s up?” I said in a hushed tone, ducking into the bathroom.
“I need you…” Steven whispered.
“What’s wrong? Talk to me!” A wave of panic shot through me, and my blood went cold.
“Please, help me…” He whispered once more.
“I can’t, I’m–!” I stopped abruptly as the door to the bathroom opened. “I’m at work,” I whispered as quietly as I could.
“I can’t do this alone… please, I’m scared.”
An abhorrent scene flashed in front of my eyes, a scene I'm sure you may all guess, but one I’m not comfortable repeating here.
I told my boss it was a family emergency, and I needed the rest of the day off. Reluctantly, he let me leave, although he didn’t have much of a choice. As I sped down the interstate beyond felony speeds, I began to question for the first time the last words Steven had said over the phone.
You see, after I told him I was on my way, he said the simple phrase, “Padlocks, bring padlocks.” I was in such a panic, I didn’t think twice, I didn’t question it, I just bought three padlocks from a nearby hardware store and continued on my way.
What the hell did he need padlocks for!?
After an hour had passed, I sprinted to the door, locks in hand, and began to pound on it.
“It’s unlocked!” A gently cry from deep within the house granted me entrance.
I swung the door open and was almost thrown backwards by the stench that lurched out from inside. Why was it back? And what was in his house that made it smell that bad? Then I recalled the day before where the smell had originated from.
“Steven!” I yelled as I sprinted towards the basement door. “Get out of there!”
I turned to jump down the stairs and almost crashed into Steven, who was standing idly, phone in hand, in the basement doorway, staring at that same spot from before. I grabbed his shoulders, dropping the locks to the floor, and pulled him inside, slamming the door shut.
“What are you doing!” I cried out. “Why would you go back down there?”
“He moved… He cried all night long, and I couldn’t sleep, then I went to check, and he moved, did you see!?” Steven said in hysterics.
“What are you talking about? There’s no one down there!”
I certainly came off a little more aggressive than I had intended. To be honest, I was a little frustrated that this was what he had called me down for, but at the end of the day, I was glad it wasn’t the other option, so I calmed myself down before continuing.
“Listen, I’m glad you’re okay, I’m here now, it’s all gonna be fine,” I said after a deep breath.
Steven lurched into a hug and began to bawl, “I’m sorry I made you leave work, I’m sorry! I was so scared!”
“It’s okay, I’m just glad you're safe,” I glanced down at the padlocks by my feet. “What did you need the locks for?”
He pulled away from me in fear, face pale, before whispering, “I’m afraid he’ll move again, I’m worried he’ll get out.”
It took everything in me not to laugh, but I kept a straight face, and assured him there was no one in his basement, “I promise you, Steven, there’s no one down there, not a soul, except maybe a dead raccoon or something, what’s that smell about?”
His face went pale again, “It’s him, I think he’s dead.”
That was all he’d say about it. I asked him to clarify, but he refused, so I padlocked the door, and we went about our day. He told me a little more about how he’s been feeling, we watched a couple of movies, ordered pizza, and I even got him to go out, even if only for a little while. Everything seemed to be okay again, and I had almost forgotten about the basement until night fell.
“You’re sure you're okay in here?” I remember Steven asking.
I had promised him the day before I’d stay the night, and he made sure I stayed true to that promise.
“It’s okay, I promise,” I assured him.
He had me stay in one of the guest bedrooms on the first floor, and he was worried I was too close to the basement for comfort. After I had promised him several times there was nothing to be afraid of, he left me be, and we both fell asleep.
That was until around midnight, when I was startled awake by the sound of something being dragged across the floor in a nearby room and silent whimpers. I knew the basement was the closest room to mine, and I knew Steven was having another episode.
I almost went back to sleep. There and then, I was beginning to grow indifferent to this man in the basement, but he was still my friend, and I knew he needed me.
“What are you doing, Steven?” I groggily called out.
The smell was back, faint, but there, still strong enough to make my eyes water. Steven was dragging a dresser in front of the basement door, tears streaming down his face, eyes bloodshot.
“Can’t you hear it?” He whimpered. “He’s crying again, he wants out, he’s trying to get up the stairs, he wants out!”
“Hey, calm down,” I gently pulled him away from the dresser and made him collect himself before we could go any further. “If I help you put this in front of the door, will you go back to bed?”
He nodded, and I pushed the thing the rest of the way, assuring him that if there was anything in that basement, it wasn’t getting out. For the rest of my stay, I didn’t hear a thing about the man in the basement, and I convinced myself that that was the end of it, that all was well, and normalcy was around the corner.
We briefly broached the subject of the basement the morning after. He didn’t seem in the mood to talk about it; he seemed embarrassed, but this was a conversation we needed to have.
“Listen, man, I’m not gonna be there every time something goes wrong, and I need to know you’re still gonna be okay,” I started.
“I know, I just–“ Steven interrupted.
“Hold on just a second, I’m not upset, I just think there are some other things you should do before you resort to the extreme… have you ever tried journaling?”
His face lit up at that thought, and it seemed like I’d found a good solution to these episodes, and sure enough, he had an empty notebook lying around in his bedroom. He promised me that before he’d call me, or before he’d go into the basement, he’d write down what was happening, in a way to gain control over the situation.
That very same notebook rests beside my laptop right now.
I left after lunch, bidding my friend farewell, and assuring him that if he needed anything, just call, and I’d be down as fast as I could. He tried to convince me to stay another night, but I had work the next morning and was worried for the well-being of my employment, so despite my lingering fears, I left him alone.
Almost like clockwork, the next morning, Steven called me again, and again I found myself hidden in the company bathroom, hurriedly answering his call. In complete transparency, I had grown a little annoyed at this point. I felt my kindness was being abused, and I felt stretched thin; however, I still tried to summon my utmost modesty when answering his call.
“Hey man, I’m at work right now, and my boss is kinda pissed at me for leaving the other day. Can I call you back after work?”
In another instance of honesty, I’ll tell you that I was unable to suppress my irritation after his next words. I remember letting out a groan as the words came through the phone.
“The thing in my basement… It figured out how to climb the stairs,” His frail voice whispered through the phone.
“Did you try journaling? I told you I can’t leave work again. I need this job–“ I tried to protest, but his next words sent me into a panic.
“There’s so much blood…”
I told him to hold on, that I’d be there soon, and he needed to call 911. I ran into my boss’s office and again told him I had a family emergency. He objected fiercely, but I didn’t have time to twiddle my thumbs. I told him I had to go, and that was that.
I made the drive in forty minutes, and when I pulled in his driveway, I didn’t even bother to knock; I just barged in and began to call out for him.
“Steven!” I yelled in a panic, tears beginning to well, and that damn smell was back. “Where are you! I’m right here!”
I pulled my phone out and started to dial 911 when I heard his voice from a nearby room, one I immediately identified as the basement. I froze mid-stride as anger began to boil from within me. I turned and stomped towards the basement door, which, just as I had expected, Steven was sitting in front of, crying, but fine other than that.
“It broke the–“ Steven started.
In a severe lapse of judgment, I let all my anger out on Steven, “What the fuck! I’m gonna lose my job cause of you, asshole! I drive down here every day, risking my life, risking my job, all for some imaginary fucking man in your basement, guess what, there’s no one there! There never has been, and there never will be! I know you’re struggling, but that can’t be on me to fix! It’s not fair!”
My voice grew hoarse after a while, and even then, Steven remained on the floor in a pool of tears. I’ll spare you the rest of my tantrum, and I’ll spare myself the regret of rehashing that immature turn of events; however, I will explain to you the scene I found Steven amidst. In the moment, I took less than a second to ponder what I was looking at; there was no blood, and there certainly wasn’t a man in the basement, so why should it matter? The dresser had been knocked over in front of the door, and two out of the three locks had been snapped off, not unlocked, snapped off. I didn’t pay it any mind in the moment, but looking back, I should’ve known, I should’ve seen the signs.
That was the last time I saw Steven.
I was never given the chance to apologize, I was never granted even a moment more with him, just a handful of ignored texts and unanswered calls.
When I got home that night, I was met with an email from my boss, informing me I’d been let go from the company, and to come get my stuff as soon as possible. I collapsed into my couch that night, too tired to cry, too young to drink, and too angry to sleep.
That was when the calls began.
At first, I ignored it, let it go to voicemail, I didn’t know who it was, and I didn’t care. By the fifth call, I had grown tired of the insistent sound of my ringtone and decided enough was enough. I answered in rage, screaming out at the innocent caller, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT!”
“I’m sorry,” Steven’s voice whispered from the other side of my phone. “It got out, it’s climbing up the stairs, I–“
“Shut the fuck up!” I screamed, jumping up from my couch in anger. “I don’t care to indulge in your hallucinations anymore! Find someone else to fuck with!”
Even now, as I’m writing this, tears swim down my cheeks. I deeply regret what I said that day, on the phone and in person, but it’s best not to linger on how I feel, just what happened.
I hung up and threw my phone across the room, falling back into the couch and screaming in anger every time I heard my phone buzz.
The worst part is, I slept like a baby that night, despite the fact that my life seemed to be falling apart; I slept quite well.
I don’t sleep well anymore.
The following morning, I was overcome with guilt as I glanced at the five missed texts from Steven. They read as follows:
“I’m sorry”
“I’m so sorry”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you”
“It’s upstairs now, it’s going to kill me”
“I’m scared”
I hate myself for ignoring him in his time of need; however, I can’t change the past.
I tried calling, I tried texting, and when neither worked, I got in the car. I made the hour-long drive for the last time, and when I pulled up to his house, as per usual, the door was unlocked.
I didn’t mention this earlier, but I’m sure you’ve already pieced it together. I was the one who found him dead in his room. I’ll spare you the grotesque details.
The first thing I noticed was the stench and how much worse it’d gotten. It was overpowering to the point that I couldn’t even enter the house until I tied my shirt over my nose.
Next, I noticed the basement, where I had originally checked to find him. The door was busted off its hinges, every lock broken and discarded to the side like trash; the stairs were also torn up, scratches lining every stair leading up to the doorway.
Finally, I found myself on the second floor, approaching his bedroom. The door was ripped to shreds, his dresser and bed with similar damage, and worst of all… him. His fucking face, oh god his face, it was like confetti, like fucking ground beef!
That was when I noticed the journal he was clutching, when I stole it, when I ran to my car and hid it, and when I called the police.
From there, you know the story: the police couldn’t find anything, no sign of someone breaking in, just the broken basement and bedroom door.
That was when I read the journal.
The contents on those pages simply detailed what Steven had been seeing and what happened that night, recounted in horrific detail.
Unfortunately, I don’t think I can keep going. Not to say I’m done telling this story, no, I’m going to finish, I’m going to tell you what is in that notebook, I just… need a minute to breathe.
You have to understand how hard this is for me, I…
I’ll update soon, explain the contents of the notebook, but for now, there’s a smell coming from my basement that I have to tend to.