00:00Welcome to my channel Shadows of History. I found my mom's diary hidden behind the water heater.
00:10It says we died in a car wreck four months ago. I'm typing this with hands that don't feel like
00:15mine anymore. Every time I hit a key, I expect my fingernails to just pop off. I'm currently
00:22locked in the guest bathroom of my childhood home. It's the only room with a heavy brass
00:27deadbolt, and I can hear them shuffling outside. Honey, the stew is getting a skin on it. My mom
00:34calls out. Her voice has this rhythmic, clicking quality to it now, like a beetle's wings. Don't
00:41you want to grow up big and strong? I need to get this out before my phone dies or before they find
00:47the spare key. Please, if anyone is reading this, tell me I'm crazy. Tell me I'm having a psychotic
00:54break. But I found the diary, and the diary doesn't lie. I moved back home six months ago.
01:01My parents, Elena and Marcus, were the golden couple of our neighborhood. Mom was the type
01:07to drop off sourdough starters to neighbors. Dad was the high school football coach who still gave
01:12those rib-cracking bear hugs. Everything seemed perfect at first. But looking back, the signs were
01:18screaming at me. First, it was the house temperature. We live in Maine. It's November. But the furnace
01:26hasn't been on once. The house stays a constant, bone-chilling 41 degrees. Mom says the cold is
01:33good for the complexion. She walks around in these sheer floral sundresses, her skin looking like blue-veined
01:40marble. Then, there's the sound. They don't walk anymore. They drag. A wet, heavy slap his, slap his
01:48sound on the hardwood floors. And the humming. Mom hums this low, vibrating tune that seems to come from
01:55her chest, not her throat. And the flies. God, the flies. Great, fat black bottles that cluster in the
02:03corners of the ceilings. Dad just sits in his recliner, watching static on the TV, while they crawl
02:09across his lips. He doesn't even twitch. I was looking for a flashlight in the basement this
02:14morning when I saw a corner of leather sticking out from behind the old water heater. It was Mom's
02:20diary. The cover was damp, smelling of wet earth and copper. I'm going to transcribe the entries that
02:26broke me. August 14th the brakes screamed. That's the last thing I heard before the oak tree split the
02:33car in half. I watched Marcus's head hit the dashboard. It sounded like a ripe melon dropping on
02:39concrete. My own legs were somewhere else. I felt the cold coming for us. But then he appeared.
02:47The man in the gray suit. He stood in the wreckage and whispered that a family shouldn't be torn apart.
02:53He gave us the soil. He said as long as we keep the vessels full of fresh life, we can stay. It tastes
03:00like old pennies and bile, but I can hold Marcus's hand again. Even if his hand is a little loose at the
03:06wrist. September 20th Marcus's skin is starting to slip. I had to use the industrial staple gun on
03:13his lower back today to keep the suit from sagging. He laughed, but a puff of gray dust came out of his
03:20mouth. We need more than just squirrels and crows now. The man says we need vitality. We're waiting
03:28for Leo. Our sweet Leo. He's coming home on Friday. He'll be the anchor. We just need to make sure he
03:36stays. October 31st Leo noticed the smell. I told him it was the compost, but it was really the neighbor's
03:43golden retriever, Goldie, rotting in the crawlspace. We couldn't use all of her at once. The marrow keeps
03:50our eyes clear. Marcus says he misses the feeling of a heartbeat. I told him to be patient. Once Leo
03:58joins us, we won't have to pretend to breathe anymore. It's so exhausting, the pretending.
04:04After reading that, I ran upstairs, my head spinning. I burst into the kitchen. Mom was standing at the
04:11counter, preparing dinner. Mom, I gasped. What happened in August? The car accident. She stopped
04:20humming. She didn't turn around, but her head tilted at a sickening 90 degree angle. I heard a loud crack of
04:27vertebrae. We don't talk about the accident, Leo. It's rude to dwell on the past. She turned then.
04:35A large piece of her cheek had simply sloughed off. It was hanging by a thin thread of gray sinew,
04:42swaying like a pendulum. Underneath, there was no blood, just a hollow cavity packed with that dark,
04:49damp soil she mentioned in the diary. She reached into a pot on the stove, a pot of beef stew that had
04:55been simmering all day. She pulled out a handful of gray, dripping meat and offered it to me.
05:01Eat. Honey. You're looking so... animated. It's distracting. I looked into the pot. Floating on the
05:10surface, among the grease and the foam, was a human ear. It had a small, diamond stud in it.
05:16The same one our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, wore every day. I backed away, gagging, and ran right into my
05:24father. His bare hug wasn't warm. It was like being pressed against a bag of wet sand. As he squeezed
05:31me, I heard a squelching sound. A dark, viscous liquid, black as motor oil, began to leak from his
05:38pores, staining my shirt. Don't run from your mother, Leo, he rumbled. His jaw didn't move quite right.
05:45It hung unhinged on the left side, swinging like a broken gate. We've worked so hard to keep this
05:51family together. Do you know how much thread it takes to keep a man's torso attached to his hips?
05:57I managed to shove him. His skin felt like wet, cold dough under my palms, and I bolted for the
06:03bathroom. I've been in here for three hours. The scratching on the door is getting louder.
06:09It's not nails anymore. It sounds like bone on wood. Leo, dad's voice is a wet rattle. Open the door.
06:18The transition is easier if you don't fight it. The man is coming back tonight for the final
06:23stitching. I leaned over the sink to splash cold water on my face, trying to wake up from this
06:29nightmare. But then I looked in the mirror. Truly looked. I remembered the car ride.
06:35August 14th. I was in the back seat. I remember the tree. I remember the smell of gasoline and the
06:43sight of my father's head folded like a piece of paper. I looked at my own throat in the mirror.
06:48There was a thin, jagged line running all the way around my neck. I picked at it with a trembling
06:54finger. The skin didn't hurt. It just asterisk asterisk. Asterisk asterisk unzipped. Inside the
07:02wound. There wasn't a windpipe or veins. There was only a thick, black twine, neatly stitching my head
07:09to my shoulders. And there, packed into the gap, was the same dark, graveyard soil. I'm not the missing
07:16piece, because I'm alive. I'm the missing piece because I'm the only one who hasn't realized he's
07:22rotting yet. The scratching has stopped.
07:24No. Mom whispers through the keyhole. I can hear your stuffing falling out, dear. Come out and let
07:32mommy fix you. I'm looking at the window. It's a long drop. But if I jump, will I even break? Or will
07:40I just burst apart like a dropped bag of groceries? I don't know what to do. What do I do? Do I jump?
07:47Or do I let her sew me back together? Update. I'm losing my mind. Mom just slid a six-inch
07:54upholstery needle under the door. It's dripping with that black, oily sludge, and she's whispering
08:00through the wood about how loose my neck looks. She says she just needs to tack me down, so I don't
08:06wander off. The sound from the hallway has changed. Dad isn't using his hands to knock anymore. It sounds
08:13like he's just swinging his head against the door. Every time he hits it, I hear a wet, squelching
08:19sound, like a bag of mud hitting a wall. I'm standing on the toilet now, reaching for the
08:24window latch. My hands are gray, and when I move my wrist, I can hear the dirt shifting
08:30inside like a sandbox. I'm going to jump. It's a twelve-foot drop to the driveway. If I hit
08:36the pavement and I don't break. Or if I don't bleed. I guess I'll have my answer. If my phone
08:43survives the fall, I'll update you.
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