2022.01.17 19:45 Wildfire_2044 A little something I got to test out today as part of geek squad
|submitted by Wildfire_2044 to Bestbuy [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:45 stinkerwren 👑 Shiba Fuji💎 | 10% $SHIB rewards 💰 | Stealth launched at 10k market cap and already on it's way to MOON | Experienced Team 🔥 | Anti Whale 🐳 | $ShibaFuji
Are you tired of rugpulls, scams, and honeypots? Today we present you to $ShibaFuji!
Contract - 0x612c920A581Ab0771869e8747ed97449a46FdAaB
What is ShibaFuji?
ShibaFuji Just Launched and is a $SHIB reward token that treats you with 10% distribution per transaction and gives you SHIBA-tokens directly into your wallet! Also it adds to the liquidity with 3% to ensure static growth of the project.
The token will have tons of upcoming marketing and giveaways so your investment will increase! The yield generating mechanism will help provide enough liquidity to buy bigger amounts in the future and also increases the token value and helps us build the project further.
Tokenomics: 10,000,000,000 Total supply
5% max wallet to ensure no whales
Tax 0% for buy 18% for sell:
10% in SHIBA reward
3% to locked liquidity pool
5% to marketing and buyback
Slippage is ~18.5% (18% + 0,5% Pancake)
Links and Social Media:
💰Contract - 0x612c920A581Ab0771869e8747ed97449a46FdAaB
💰Liquidity Lock: https://www.pinksale.finance/#/pinklock/record/14648?chain=BSC
💰PancakeSwap V2: https://pancakeswap.finance/swap?outputCurrency=0x612c920A581Ab0771869e8747ed97449a46FdAaB
submitted by stinkerwren to CryptoMarsShots [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 DrewBerry6 Tap in 💰 it’s Ona Flo
|submitted by DrewBerry6 to AprilBlueAcornCapPlus [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 1DoctorDreamer I may not be active to answer rn but I will when I’m back on.
|submitted by 1DoctorDreamer to teenagers [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 DoubLife89 Neocraft F'd Up and we are paying for their mistakes.
2022.01.17 19:44 fradac Sensical App
2022.01.17 19:44 cherryribs shitty pho (40) and a yummy smoothie (95) at least my pho craving is satisfied lol.
|submitted by cherryribs to ShittyRestrictionFood [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 TheHolyHoosier Need some help
I have ocd and one of the obsessions is doubt, and the unforgivable sin. Could anyone just give me something to disprove the blasphemous thoughts that say Jesus wasn't gods son
submitted by TheHolyHoosier to Christianity [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 ramblingrubbisher I voted.
|submitted by ramblingrubbisher to DeTrashed [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 bcr_po Her sister before the fake tits.
|submitted by bcr_po to sabrinaleamon [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 P4perH4ndedBi4tch Sen’s entitlements and capability approach
2022.01.17 19:44 Positive-Coffee-8366 (30m) bored and need an interesting convo
|submitted by Positive-Coffee-8366 to FreeCompliments [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 ACPhantom_ Total gym
So my dad bought a total gym a while back and I used it for a month, I was 130/5”8 at the time and my brothers told me I gotten bigger using it. I’ve been thinking about using it again but I’ve read in a lot of places that it doesn’t work for muscle mass. I just need some clarification on this.
submitted by ACPhantom_ to bodybuilding [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 Rec_Rob First video of 2022!
|submitted by Rec_Rob to discgolf [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 avpol111 May Technological Resurrection Be Sometime Supported Like That
Have you heard about Altos Labs? It's a startup founded by a group of billionaires (Bezos, Larry Page and others) whose task is to prolong life, ideally up to immortality. They hired the best biologists and gerontologists of the world, they pay them huge money (equal to salaries of top managers of big corporations), they give them any amounts to cover all necessary expenses.
I hope some day technological resurrection will be treated like that, too; it deserves it. Apart from being able to bring back to life dear people you've lost, you can "insure" your own life (because who can garantee you won't fall a victim of an accident or a mortal disease)? Besides, an entrepreneur could build his/her business around it. The field is certainly worth investments.
submitted by avpol111 to QuantumArchaeology [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 Morde006 Do you still enjoy any positive "disinhibition" or relief from drinking alcohol?
I used to be quite loving and social person when drinking alcohol. Now just makes me crazier and more stupid... It's like there is almost no point in trying to get high with drugs, because I don't have inner or sense of self anymore nor inner monologue or spark of life in my deeper self
submitted by Morde006 to anhedonia [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 Rafeh17 [Start] Looking to form an Online Band
Hey everyone! My name's Raf. I'm a 21 year old lead guitarist (Intermediate) and was looking to form a Rock/Metal band. I have made a few instrumental projects and am somewhat decent with mixing/mastering and recording. My fav bands are Metallica, Avenged Sevenfold, Alice in Chains etc. I enjoy making a bit of those depressing ballad with melodic and shreddy solos.
I'm from South Asia, so we'll have to see if our time zones match and would be needing a Vocalist, Rhythm Guitarist and a Drummer
Here's two instrumentals that I've released so far:
submitted by Rafeh17 to BedroomBands [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 PoopyHead30 Ending of the show be like
2022.01.17 19:44 allanspines Under the Closet
My wife breaks the news, “the Smiths have backed out of buying the house. I uh, couldn't get them to tell me why, sorry.”
My sheriff's uniform is stiff, too much starch Margaret, but I don't say that. Instead, I sigh, thank her for everything, and sit down for some pancakes. She's more concerned about them backing out than I am. They just seemed too skittish for my taste. Probably would've converted the basement into a meth lab and tried to break some bad.
Our daughter Shelly is with her friends in the living room, snickering at whatever they're looking at on their phones. Packed suitcases for her summer at Grandma's stationed by the door. Ready whenever I am, which is soon.
Marge pours me a coffee and I ask, “so the sleepover went well?” “You slept right through it so you tell me Andy,” I snort in approval. Don't remember the names of her friends, which means they grew up good girls. It's only troublemakers that ever stand out to me.
I dig in, and that first bite is always bliss. My wife is better than I deserve. She's better than this awful house deserves! Water bill is always double everyone else's, electrical stuff is always on the fritz, and Shelly's night terrors started here at this ranch-style abomination.
I check my watch, “did they call this morning?” “Yes sir, just got off the phone with them while you were in the shower.” It wasn't a long shower either. Haven't dared take one of those in six years. Not since the first bill came in. Tried to dig a well, but surveyors found not a single drop available. As if the land itself was too thirsty.
I let it all sink in before continuing, “well, at least there wasn't an accident or a murder this time.”
Marge shakes her head darkly, “this place is too beautiful to be cursed, but some days,” she lets the words hang in the air. I finish up eating, transfer my coffee to my lucky travel mug, and call out to the girls. Shelly has an airplane to catch.
We pack up and get a move on without a hitch. The department provided me with a spacious four-door. It's new enough to not smell like a drunk man's vomit, but that's because I let the deputies take those calls. It's good for them I tell myself, and I'm sure when I was a deputy the sheriff thought the same thing.
One of the girls, dressed for summer and not much else, wants to ask about our house's history. “Hey, Mr. Woods?” I meet her gaze with my own through the rearview and correct her before she continues.
“Sheriff.” She seems a little put off by this. “Oh yes, Sheriff. Ah, excuse me, I just have a question about the house, Sheriff.” Marge places a hand on my elbow and gives a gentle squeeze. I breathe through my nose and flash a smile. Not now, not today, not ever again. I am not my temper.
“So, one of the people looking to buy it killed his wife right?” Shelly smacks her friend in the arm, my wife chastises her for doing so, we are not those kinds of people she tells her. I wait for a moment of silence before speaking.
“Nothing any of us are ashamed of. They came to look at the place, and a few days later he wrapped his wife in a blanket, and beat her to death with a baseball bat. It all happened outside my jurisdiction so I only got the details from a friend. The news never mentions the part where he claimed to not remember doing it. Even tried to say it was impossible for him to have done it, but the evidence was pretty overwhelming.” I turn off the highway and with the airport in sight everyone grows quiet.
“Any other questions?” She shakes her head no and I'm grateful for it. The news also didn't mention how he tortured his wife first. Pressing the baseball bat between her and the floor, crushing her with it over a short period of time. This is not what I want to be thinking about right now.
I keep breathing through my nose as we see her off. Hugs and kisses and even a few tears. Nothing any of us are ashamed of. Her friends don't ride back with us, their boyfriends show up to get them. I think I recognize one of the boys, I express the urge to walk over and say hi to find out. A gentle tug on my arm is all that's needed to turn off “cop” mode, bringing my wife home so I can get back to the station. It's a quiet ride back to town.
I'm barely out the driveway after dropping Marge off when she comes running out the house waving something in her hand. Turns out Shelly forgot her sleep meds. They keep her night terrors in check, but have sleepwalking as a side effect. We have to lock her in her room at night so she doesn't hurt herself. Turns out she cleans her room while in that state.
Marge and I decide that mailing them may be too risky or take too long. I make a quick phone call to a friend at the airport, someone I met during anger management years ago. He hooks us up with a plane ticket for tonight, a “red-eye” they're called. Marge is excited to visit her mother and I realize I haven't had a night alone in this house since buying it.
The bottle of pills ends up in the passenger seat. Marge is going to spend the rest of the day packing, she's already on the phone with her mom telling her the good news. I decide to go about my day, but first I examine the pill bottle.
Star Signs Technologies, something called Valiprapam. I look it up online and get no results. Well, that's weird. I look up Star Sign Technologies and get a boring website that gives no real details about what they do let alone make.
Since she's not getting a pill tonight I decide to snag one. I can have a friend at the lab check it out on the down-low. Mostly I'm just curious, and feeling kind of guilty. I've let Marge handle this all these years. She probably never thought to question the medicine that was helping our daughter. Maybe it's instinct, or maybe paranoia, but I'd sure like to know more about this drug.
She calls me in a panic and I assure her the pills are with me and everything's okay. I'm just entering them into evidence. She laughs, I laugh, and I'm not technically lying if I let her think I'm joking. I call up the lab and let them know something I found on a routine traffic stop is on their way. No charges brought up, no suspect listed, and so long as it comes up as a normal sleep aid, no one will ever be questioned. One of the many benefits of being a sheriff in a small Podunk town. It'll be a week or more before I get a result, but not because they're busy.
The rest of my day is as boring as it could be, but my wife is a little more frantic. You wouldn't know it by the smile on her face. It makes me wish we planned this from the start. None of the drunks, brats, or dealers in these parts could get one over on me, but when it comes to Marge I'm still an oblivious schoolboy, wondering why she even likes me. Especially after all these years and tears.
I ain't gonna go into too much detail about our last hours together before she leaves. Needless to say, she cooked enough food to keep me swimming in leftovers and never were there more tender kisses shared between us. She wore me out so much, I end up unconscious on the couch. Her laughter, like angel bells, wakes me just in time to get her out the door and to the airport.
I wait in the parking lot after seeing her off. I watch as her plane screams through the sky. Guess I'm feeling sentimental. It's the first time since buying the house that we've been separated. Long nights at work happen, but are rare.
Her mom used to visit every holiday, but with declining health and everything that's been going on, it seemed better to visit her. So Shelly will spend a few months there, and we would visit when my vacation kicks in at the end of the summer. The deputies can handle the kids just before school starts, it's all the same nonsense anyways.
Plans are great, especially when they go off without a hitch, but I'll take adaptability when convenient. Sending Marge to Shelly is harder on me than I thought it would be. I think back on my wife's words. “Family is all that matters, everything else is window dressing.”
I pull into my driveway and don't even bat an eye at the lights being on. Usually, that's Marge waiting up for me, and I feel comforted by the idea that she could still be in there. I'm almost to the door when I realize it.
We turned all the lights off when we left. I have had to pull my gun all of three times in my eighteen-year career. My hand is on it now. Familiar, from time spent cleaning and polishing for no real reason. Alien, on account of me only shooting it out on the range. Shelly sometimes jokes about how I'll have the prettiest gun at the shootout. Marge will laugh and say something about blinding the bad guys with meticulous justice. Her and those damn crosswords I swear.
I mosey around my home. A single-floor ranch style with a small basement that doesn't even cover the whole house. Shelly's room and bath were additions that convinced us to buy in the first place. Next to her room is the hallway that leads to a two-car garage. Shelly was hoping I'd extend the garage for her car when she turned sixteen.
She didn't act too disappointed when her sweet sixteen came and went, no car, no extra garage space. Of course, that's why she's at grandma's now. I got a crew coming in next week, and so long as they don't slack off too much, they'll be done in time to surprise my daughter. It's not a sports car we're fitting in there, but it'll be red, so kind of what she wants.
I check the back patio door. Not the most secure thing, but Marge wanted it. The alarm pad tells me it's armed, the door is locked, and I see no movement. The kitchen light fills the backyard casting long shadows in the midnight hour. A pool would be nice, maybe that's something I can mention to the work crew next week.
I mosey back to the front, no other lights are on. Maybe I only thought we shut every light off? It is the first time in a while that the house was empty. I get one good vacation a year, and not every year do I get to enjoy it. I get back in my car and open the garage door via the remote. The familiar glow of the soft yellow lights wash over my vehicle.
I'm still a little tense as I walk in. I call out “Hello?” and feel silly for doing so. Marge would laugh and call the house cursed, and maybe she's right. Anyone that showed real interest in this place was either scared off by the water bill or something horrible happened to them. I can only assume the last couple we talked to, their names escaping me, decided against the place for one of many reasons.
Heck, it took me three years before I caved in and started doing work on the house. The back patio, the brick garden (Marge doesn't like that I call it that), and a wide-open backyard. Yeah, these things increase the value of the home, but I'm more focused on appeal. Make the place so enticing a family couldn't say no to it. My scheme would've worked if not for some of the most terrible luck a place could have. I still can't believe the kind of people I've shown this house to. A couple that committed suicide the same day they confirmed the purchase, plenty of people who ghosted us, never bothering to call us back. I'm a sheriff for God's sake, I can pull these people's traffic records up so I know they're still driving around, but nothing from them. No explanation.
Opening my fridge I fish around in the back for a bottle. I do something I haven't done in years and crack open a late-night beer. It's cold in my hand, and a little too familiar. After a long draw off the bottle, I notice something peculiar. A single blue drop on the tiles in front of the sink. I kneel down to take a good look at it and immediately can tell what it is. Dish soap. Marge must've dropped a dollop in her rush to get everything ready. Seems strange to me she'd miss that, it does stand out. Bright blue on the clean white floor.
I open the cabinet out of a sense of investigative curiosity. The blue bottle is in front of all the other cleaning supplies. I do recall picking up a fresh one recently. Since I took therapy, Marge and I do a lot more things together. Grocery shopping being one of them. I'm always impressed by how much she enjoys having me there with her. As always, she's more than I deserve. The blue bottle is half empty. That can't be right, can it? Maybe she spilt some and didn't want me to know? Now I'm feeling guilty all over again. I put the cleanser and the thoughts away. I also dump the remainder of the beer down the sink. That first taste is the only good part of it anyways.
I get ready for bed, the quiet finally getting to me, making me alert. I consider cracking another beer open, this one to finish, to ensure I'm tired. I already told Dispatch Annie that I'd be running late tomorrow, well, today, but I still want to be there before noon. I'd never hear the end of it otherwise.
The sheets are cold and it only makes me more restless. I toss and turn for a bit before sighing myself up and out. Maybe I just won't go in tomorrow at all, or maybe I'll show up for a night shift. Haven't done that in a while, but it means I may have to deal with some drunks.
They don't want to mess with me, not after everything. I have a little less patience for alcoholics after being one for nearly ten years. I've thrown out more beer than I've drank since then. Having it in the house, but not having it control me was Marge's idea. Seemed weird to me at first, considering what I put us through, but she was right. Better to be in control, than controlled. I crack open a second beer for the night but don't drink it right away. I walk around my house holding it and I'm reminded of my old man. He'd be outside grilling all day and even all night if my momma let him.
That's what I'll build. A fire pit. Could probably do that all by myself. I explore these thoughts as I enter Shelly's room. Marge would have a fit if she knew I was in here. She'd be worried I'd read her diary or something. Like she'd have something like that. I'd have to pry her phone out of her hands if I wanted to learn my little girl's secrets.
And what secrets does a sixteen-year-old have? Boys she likes, girls she wants to be friends with, a teacher that's tough on her? Nah, she can keep her secrets. I do keep the lights off though, no need to notice something and be tempted to snoop. Avoiding the “temptation” to do things has been a big part of my therapy. No more drinking myself to death, no more yelling at every little thing, no more expectations that nobody can live up to. I sit in the chair that's still next to her bed. The same place I'd read to her from. A chair that's still so comfortable I fall asleep in it before I even realize.
The bottle slipping out of my hand brings me back from dreamland. I tighten my grip so as to not spill any. Some movement from the closet brings me fully awake. I launch myself from the chair to the light switch. The bright white overhead light stings my eyes, but the closet door is swinging slightly open. It's still in motion as I approach. My instincts scream at me to get my gun, instead, I pick up a lacrosse bat collecting dust next to her desk, where I leave my beer.
I use the bat to open the closet fully. There's no movement from the clothes, the telltale sign someone's waiting to jump you. The carpet extends into the closet, and there's a crease towards the back. That seems strange to me. My heart is thumping in my ears and I'm reminded of my blood pressure. I glance over at the beer, it's still full so I can't blame that for what I saw. It then occurs to me to move the closet door back and forth.
No squeak. Not a sound. I run my hand down the hinges and feel the wetness of fresh oil. Now I'm on the verge of panic. I was a drunk idiot when Shelly would complain about the monster in her closet. I'd always blow it off, heck so would Marge, but there's no reason for this. No reason at all for Shelly to do this herself. I turn my attention to the crease in the carpet and give it a pull. It slides back far too easily, revealing the wood floor beneath. I pull it completely into her room and note the deep lines between a couple of the boards and I feel like I'm going insane.
I step back from the closet, sit down in the chair, and lay the lacrosse bat across my lap. The basement proper stops before reaching her room. She has a bathroom next to her closet. On the other side of her closet is the washroom for the garage. Cleaning supplies along with a basin sink fill it. There should be nothing under me right now other than a concrete foundation.
So why does that look like a trap door to me? One that would pull open from the underside. I really must be going crazy. I carefully walk across her room before realizing my footsteps make no sound. I kick off one of my slippers and feel around with my toes. It's almost like memory foam. I can't remember the last time I changed the carpet in here. Don't think I've ever felt the need to since moving in. Her room is always so clean. The night terrors would leave her paralyzed, and she'd scream as soon as they ended. She could never remember the details, and for that, we were all grateful, but she wasn't sleeping.
Not very good for a twelve-year-old to never get enough sleep. Her getting help is what led to me accepting that I needed help. It took a full year, seven sleep studies, and five medications before settling on that Vali-whatever it is. The whole time she kept talking about a monster in her closet.
She would compulsively not leave anything on her closet floor. It would always be moved elsewhere by the morning. After the medication regimen started she'd begun sleepwalking. Neither my wife nor I would witness it, but we'd hear her in her room, late at night, tidying up in the dark.
Missing cleanser from under the sink, a history of late-night cleaning, parents desperate to respect her privacy, and now a possible trap door in my daughter's closet. I've never been much of a detective, most times I just get confessions out of people, logic is typically enough to get the local boys to own up to whatever they did. Logic also tells me when an abusee is covering for their abuser. Logic, however, makes no sense of all this.
I sit with the light on for untold minutes. My awareness extends to the whole room. Shelly was never into posters, but she'll hang her artwork up. Paintings, drawings, some pencil, others charcoal. Nothing bad or scary. Most of it is of the yard as seen from one of her two windows facing outback.
I've always been concerned with things coming into our house. I never even considered the possibility of this. It's madness to even consider it! And it isn't pretty what I'm considering.
As quiet as a church mouse I creep through my own home, feeling like an intruder. I don't like this feeling. I put some fresh clothes on, meant for tomorrow, well, today. I gather some tools from the garage, and make a phone call I thought I'd never have to make.
Deputy Dustin Cole isn't the best I've got, but he's loyal, and most importantly he's quiet. He'll do. He doesn't ask questions when I tell him, at two in the morning, to get here as soon as he can, to bring his shotgun, and his camera. He's sent Shelly pictures from around town, with my permission of course. Shelly's too young and too smart for him, but he's one of the few guys I've brought over here for dinner. He's also one of the only other men to see her artwork, and I don't mind keeping it that way.
Once I'm confident things are truly quiet, besides my breathing, and my rising blood pressure, I wait by the door for his arrival. Luckily, he has the sense to not have his music blaring when he shows up, and a very skinny deputy climbs down out of a “too-big-for-his-britches” truck. He approaches cautiously when I hold my finger to my lips and wave him over.
Shotgun in hand he whispers, “what's wrong Andy? I, I mean, Sheriff.” I brush off the formalities, I swear people take me more seriously than I take myself, “there's a trapdoor in Shelly's closet, I didn't put it there, and we're going to check it out.”
His face grows pale, “what? Should we get some backup?”
“It's just you and me bud, and whoever else might be down there.” I'm fairly certain he understands my intentions without further explanation. He nods solemnly before whispering again.
“How long has it been there?” My stare tells him all he needs to know. He takes a harsh breath through his nose.
“Alright sir. I'm with you, no matter what.” To be honest, if Shelly showed any interest in this kid, I would not get in the way. We enter the bedroom. The closet door is still open, the rug still pulled back, and I'll admit, I was ready for the opposite. Cole is eyeing up that closet. “Sir? What's the plan?”
“Simple, we get a hand drill and a stud finder. We're going to, as quiet as we can, drill our way through the floor and pop off whatever is holding that trapdoor up. No power tools, a few magnets to keep anything from falling, and a whole lot of patience. You understand?”
He nods, “yeah, that's. Wow sir, this is really happening ain't it?”
“Someone's living under my house. It makes too much sense when I put it together. Shelly's night terrors, my damn water bill, and strange stuff happening some nights.” I get up close to him, “I want to be wrong about all of this. So if I am, don't you tell a soul, but if I'm not, well, still don't anyone alright?”
He's nodding so much he's practically a bobblehead on a dashboard. Then he comes up with something smart, a realization I was hoping he wouldn't come to, or question. “I'd feel better if you had the shotgun should anything happen, or if, someone is, I'm saying I'll do all the tool work. I trust you more with this than me.” He presents the shotgun to me and I take it. He still has his sidearm, but this'll do.
He gets his camera out and records the evidence as is. I'm hoping we don't have to delete everything later, but that depends on the freak hiding beneath us. With the camera in one hand and the stud finder in the other, he confirms what I feared. That is a trapdoor, its dimensions taking up most of the closet's floor, and some kind of latch holding it up. The thing is tight, but the lip at the front gives it away, and with a flashlight I can make out the area where it's held up.
Cole takes a deep breath and gets to work. He cuts the carpet out completely from the closet and about a foot outwards. With a pen from Shelly's desk he marks out the dimensions, takes an educated guess, and proceeds to drill into the floor. It takes a good while, but once the boards are breached we can take a look into the floor itself. There are thick heavy screws pushing up from underneath, where no screws belong.
Now the tricky part, fortunately, there's a tool for everything, even removing a screw from the backside. We use a saw to cut a square of flooring out, place an industrial magnet on top of the imagined latch, and try to slide the thing open. No such luck. The whole thing must be made of metal, or the latch isn't close enough for the magnet to catch it. We stick with the hard way and remove the screws. I'm hoping the magnet holds, and as the last screw is loosened I hold my breath.
The magnet wasn't doing a damn thing. The trapdoor swings open without a sound, but I still jump back, grabbing the shotgun as Cole dives for the trapdoor. He reaches into the darkness to keep the latch from falling off and making a racket. He's still holding it when he hisses, “please don't let something grab me, please, please, please.”
We're both frozen in place. The sunrise is an orange glow from the windows as we both wait and just breathe. Cole eventually twists the latch off, and, with great difficulty, pulls it out of the hole.
It's a massive hunk of metal with a handle sticking out the side. No wonder the magnet couldn't move it or hold it. The damn thing has to weigh twenty or thirty pounds! He places it on the carpet and rolls the awful thing aside. Beads of sweat, like the acne he only recently got over, pock his forehead. I aim a flashlight into the hole, the shotgun resting on my arm as I do so. It's a concrete pit, about ten feet or so deep. No ladder or stairs in sight. Not even a climbing rope.
Going away from the direction of the house and towards the backyard I can make out a hallway. There're water pipes, and electrical lines being fed from the garage down the tunnel. I let Cole get some footage with his camera before committing to the act. “We're gonna call Annie and let her know we're not going in today.”
He responds, “she didn't think you'd be coming in anyways. First day alone with the wife and without the kid.” He looks up at me while wiping off his brow with his sleeve, “where is Marge anyway?”
“She's visiting her mother with Shelly.”
He bobbles his head, “should've realized. Yeah, let me give Annie a call. My shift starts late, but I don't think I'm gonna be up for work after this. Whatever this is.”
It's my turn to nod. I pull out my phone and see a text from Marge. She arrived safely and is planning on taking Shelly and her mom out for a surprise breakfast. I smile, she must be exhausted, but I'm glad they're both safe. Now to keep it that way.
Cole calls the station, but forgets to come up with a reason for calling out, “ah, yeah, I'm at the Sheriffs right now. No no, Marge is with Shelly at her moms'. Yeah, yup, so like I said. Won't be,”
I take his phone from him, “Annie? Yeah he's helping me out with a surprise for the family, so keep it to yourself, please and thank you, we'll talk later. Bye.” I hand him back his phone, “seriously? One white lie ain't gonna kill ya.”
Boy, are we going to hear about this later. “Sheriff? I'm thinking we should really get some backup.”
I don't give him time to think any more on the subject. I gather up some equipment, flashlight, guns, and such. He's standing there, waiting for me to respond. He's right too, but I am dealing with this. We've already given this bastard too much time to escape. We went slow and quiet, and now I'm hoping he hasn't gotten away. We bring whoever this is in, and I'm going to have to answer for having a lurker under my house all these years. It explains the water bill, kind of, and all the other nonsense affecting my family. Having state troopers trample through my home, detectives asking stupid questions, that is their job after all, and news crews harassing us is not on the agenda.
Reclaiming my home and sanity is. I don't want to explain myself to Cole, or anyone. What we're about to do is crazy, but necessary. I climb into the hole in my daughter's closet. I look up to the Deputy. “Lower me down.”
He nods, and I know I'm taking advantage of him. He won't let me go alone, it isn't his nature. He crosses his arms and takes my hands, really putting his back into it. I can barely hit the walls with my feet, so it's trickier than I thought it'd be going in. Cole's face is red with strain almost immediately.
I tell him, “alright, drop me.”
He gives it a second before he does like he's proving he can handle holding my middle-aged ass. He lets go, and when my feet hit concrete they slip.
I land on my side but hold my mouth shut. It's my ankle though, that took the brunt of it. Haven't rolled that ankle since high school, and though it kept me from making varsity on the football team I don't let it stop me now.
I hop up, hand on the wall, and wave the deputy down. His face has gone from red to white, any more color and he'll look like the flag.
He hisses down to me, “you alright?”
I hiss back, “get down here.”
He climbs in easily enough but has to hang like a wet noodle, dangling a couple of feet above the floor. It's a bit more than ten feet total clearance, maybe twelve or so. I grab the sides of his pants, mostly to keep them from falling off, but also to guide him down when he lets go.
With both of us down here now, we take a look around. The tunnel before us extends beyond our lights. The piping going along the ceiling looks like the original piping for the house. Something I had changed three years ago. I'm baffled at how the plumber missed all this.
Deputy Cole, as if he was reading my mind, comments, “must tie into the main water line.”
He also notes a phone landline that's tied in with electrical wires. We have a phone in the living room, for emergencies, but it hasn't rung in ages. When we first moved in though, I got calls on it all the time. Could this creep have been listening in?
I steel myself for what's coming. I'm both hoping and dreading we'll find something up ahead. If there's a back way out, and I have no reason to believe there isn't, then he might've already escaped. If so, then this is easy. Gather evidence, try to figure out who it was that's been living here, and either track them down, or wait for them to return. No matter what, this stays under wraps.
If the bastard is still here though, well, I do have a work crew coming in next week. I'll have to pay out the nose for the concrete necessary to close up the hole, and also pay out the ears to keep the guys quiet. It's a local crew so even if they talk, it'll probably be to gossip about the Sheriff's “sex dungeon” they helped cover up. Let them talk, either way, this ends now.
It takes mere minutes to reach a turn, this almost puts us off my property, which could complicate things. The stretch of woods behind my house is owned by the town and kept open for hunting season. There's plenty of orange flags and signs to warn people. CAUTION: SHERIFF'S HOUSE AHEAD. That's usually enough to keep anyone far away.
Except whoever this is. Their exit is probably somewhere between my property and the town's woods. Smart. Too smart. It was after our first year here that I put those signs up. After a couple of hunters wandered by and enjoyed some lemonade that Marge offered. I was so mad at her. It kills me now to think of it while I try not to limp too much, keeping Dustin's courage up along with my own.
He's the one who puts a hand up, to keep me back and quiet as he creeps up to the turn. He puts a finger to his lips and we listen. The unmistakable sound of easy listening echoes softly before us. A radio on a local AM station.
Dustin does something pretty intelligent now. He hangs the camera around the corner with the little flip view screen facing us. We can see that there's more tunnel, more darkness ahead of us, and we can see it goes down. Way down on a shockingly steep slope.
He looks at me as I consider this new information. This tunnel feels like the kind they use in massive industrial mines. Where you have to use a golf cart to truck around, but the floor and walls are clean. No skid marks from tires, no footprints, nothing. It's eerie, but we move onward. The worst-case scenario I can think of is a secret government facility, but that's just ridiculous.
I turn my flashlight to look behind us. All these wires and pipes, but no actual light fixtures. Nothing overhead or along the walls. Someone would have to bring a ladder to that hole, in the dark, for about ten minutes or so, every night.
The stuffiness must be getting to me, I finally start to have some doubts about this whole thing. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let folks more professional than us handle this. Maybe Dustin's concerns are valid.
And maybe I could drink myself to death while my family watches. I am sick of feeling weak, been sick of it for some time, and I am not letting this weirdo get to me. I am ending this.
I slip my boots off and march forward, resisting the urge to wince with each step. With the music to mask the sound, I'm confident we'll get the drop on whoever this is. Cole is only a few steps behind after removing his boots too.
We go down for even longer than we took to get to the turn, and we ain't taking our time either. The music gets louder, but not by much. Eventually, when my own nerve is starting to fray, we see an opening. Our lights are low, our guns are at the ready, and now we take our sweet time. We're going in blind into something that defies my understanding.
This nonsense has been under my feet for six years. Through my recovery, a near divorce, a daughter's night terrors, and I am starting to blame all of it on one person. The “whoever” that's behind all this. They planned it, had to have. They either knew we were going to move in or they simply took advantage of the fact it was us. Down here mocking me, basking in the glow of our suffering. Did they cheer when I finally beat the bottle?
Or did they scowl, hoping for an unhappy ending. Like the one I have planned for them.
This is too big for one person. I am grateful that Deputy Cole hasn't pointed that out yet. This has crew written all over it. I don't know what's about to happen, but someone's day is about to be ruined, that's for damn sure.
We get to the lip at the end of the tunnel. The concrete continues down and around us. We cautiously cast our light around. A massive room with long tables close to us, trough sinks lining the walls with shelves full of cleaning supplies, and dozens of calendars hanging above them, nearly to the ceiling. A curtain made of about thirty stitched sheets hangs in the middle as a divider. My God, it must be larger than my entire house, impossible to tell how deep it goes without getting in there.
I go lower myself down, but Dustin stops me and signals he's going first. I nod and lower him down. I pass him the shotgun and he leans it against the wall. I shine my light slowly along the curtain, looking for movement. The host on the radio tells us the time is 6 AM, and then some jazzy instrumental music plays.
Dustin helps me down, I am so grateful. With my boots off the ankle has swollen to almost double the size. I heft the shotgun and let the pain give me clarity. The Deputy places a hand on my shoulder and draws my attention to the walls.
High above shelves lined with bottles of blue, green, and white, with most the labels long removed, are calendars all with writing on them. Scratched on like a madman leaving a note for his lost sanity. Some of it's single words, like ponies, but with a sad face drawn next to it. Another says Angry Dad and has a smiley face. It goes on like this across years, some of which were long before we even came to live here.
There's no order to it either. A calendar from the '90s is hanging next to one from 2011. Almost like it was put there just because there was space to do so. Each night has a scribble on it, most are illegible. Dustin is sneaking along in front of the sinks, he's on the hunt for something, and finds it.
He coaxes me over, I'm reluctant since this is something I'm sure we can do later, but he's insistent. I hobble to him as quietly as I can. His light is pointed right at a calendar for this year, this month, this day.
It says, “No nononono, she's gone! Truly! Her scent vanished at the loud place. He took her! He slept in her room! Trying to trick me! ME!”
Dustin shifts his light up higher, there are a few blank days with a note written in.
It says, “I found them, they wouldn't listen when I called, so I left them to rot where they lie!”
Dustin leans into me, “is he talking about the last people to look at this place?”
My blood goes cold. That man didn't murder his wife, this guy did! The other people, those interested, he called them? I stumble back a bit reeling from the thoughts. I quickly throw my light around and see it. What I'm looking for.
A phone, in the far corner, where the sinks end. Dustin makes it there before I do, and now he's stumbling back, but he looks like he's ready to vomit. I get up close and see why.
The phone is something out of the '80s. Black and brown with a design like vinyl siding. Attached to the phone are the exposed components of another phone and attached to that, via wires and tubing?
Yes. Tubing, all going into a clear glass jar that has a human brain floating in it.
For a second I think, it has to be a prop or something. That can't be real, right? The Deputy is repeating no over and over again. I swallow down hard, not willing to make any noise, and get up close.
It wiggles, and I nearly drop both flashlight and shotgun. It has to be a prop or joke gift or something, like a singing fish, but for maniacs. I feel myself ready to hurl and choke it down.
Turning to Dustin I reassure him, “it's fake, just something to mess with people.”
I hope it isn't a lie, and if this goes the way I want we'll never find out anyway. This whole place is being filled with concrete even if I have to bill the town for it. Every sheet will be lit on fire, every cleaning product dumped, and whoever is here can rot in the darkness for all eternity.
Dustin believes me though, his color coming back a bit. He zooms in with his camera, getting a damn good look at that phone set up. The brain wiggles again and his teeth clench along with other body parts.
For whatever reason, the radio stops broadcasting. I zip around and realize I don't know where it is. I tap my ear with the end of my flashlight and Dustin understands. He keeps the camera pointed in front of him, along with his revolver. I level the shotgun towards the curtain and skulk forward.
Then I hear it. A gentle wheezing, like an old man snoozing in his rocking chair. It's rhythmic, steady, the sure sign of someone asleep. We close in on the hanging sheet. The breathing shifts and the sound of several people smacking their lips can be heard. I've done the same thing when waking up from a nap.
There's more than one of them. Good thing I brought extra shells.
A pair of yellow hands grab at the edge of the curtain with the intention of pulling it open. I don't register the size of those hands until after I dump every round into the sheet, and through the hole I make, into a dark shape on the other side.
Each crack echoes through this bunker until a couple of clicks prompt me to stop pulling the trigger. Dustin falls back but keeps the camera and his revolver steady. I frantically get more shells into the shotgun, cock it for good measure, and bring my shaking arms up. Shotgun at the ready, light on the hole in front of me.
There's a black mass of blankets on the ground beyond that hole. I shine my light all through and along the other side, trying to look for the rest of them. I don't see anyone. There's another tunnel at the far end, no door to it, just open. More sinks and tables, and a pile of pillows. Some normal, others for couches, and a few body pillows all in a heap.
The mass of blankets stirs and I empty the shotgun again. This time Dustin yelps as he tries to decide between getting closer to keep the camera on it versus falling back completely. Each shot followed by a pump, each pump begetting another thunderous crack. I'm shaking hard as I go to reload for the second time. My ears ringing from the blasts.
There's a blur of movement that takes me a second to register. So many yellow hands, each one larger than my chest, erupt from the blankets, and through the hole. The shotgun is ripped from my grasp, my limbs are grabbed, and I am being held up into the air. Dustin is screaming, but I can't make out a word of it. More hands rip the curtain open to reveal nothing but yellow arms wearing the black blankets like a robe. More yellow hands hit the floor and act as feet as I am gripped tightly. Too tightly. I feel my blood vessels ready to burst beneath their strength.
My limbs are being twisted as this thing clamps down even harder. I can barely breathe, or think.
I rasp, “Dusty run!” and truly hope he does.
A fist approaches my face but stops short of punching me. It opens wide, fingers splayed apart as far as they can go. On each fingertip a bloodshot eye opens up. The creases in the palm split open into three mouths, one smile, two frowns, and the last thing I hear is several voices that speak as one.
“Took you long enough to find me.”
submitted by allanspines to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 ShortAlgo $CTAS Looks oversold Register for 7-Day Trial Access at https://t.co/4iPw4wGRcw https://t.co/j1zhTxx04h
|submitted by ShortAlgo to UltraAlgo [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 calisun7 9b growing like a tall bush or tree
|submitted by calisun7 to whatsthisplant [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 Jiglypuf62 "No Result" 3vs3 team
Please ban this 3vs3 team below...
VADRIS Smyle Mouzouk4640
One of them mass scout rushes to knock 1 player fast and then they desync the game which gives them a win since their score is higher. This has happened to our 3vs3 team about 50 times now. I would love if Relic could start banning these cheaters...
submitted by Jiglypuf62 to aoe4 [link] [comments]
2022.01.17 19:44 captainslapnuts69 My first ever Space marine, can't decide whether to darken the chest or not?
|submitted by captainslapnuts69 to spacemarines [link] [comments]|
2022.01.17 19:44 Ricky190 [BoTW2] What are your hopes and expectations for BOTW2?
2022.01.17 19:44 ShortAlgo $LULU Looks oversold Register for 7-Day Trial Access at https://t.co/4iPw4wGRcw https://t.co/6OsGBkhpEI
|submitted by ShortAlgo to UltraAlgo [link] [comments]|