This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No_Fun_9464 on 2024-09-06 22:09:39+00:00.
I am writing this as a warning. My daughter told me last night something that I simply can’t ignore, as I now fear that others will be subjected to the horrors I witnessed firsthand. It’s been years, but I still remember most of what happened clearly. Of course, parts are foggy now. Trauma has a way of making your mind wilt and crumple in a desperate effort to console itself. It began years ago when I was eight and a half years old.
I run along the streets, my eyes focused on the road ahead. The town where I live is small, so I know every step I take. My eyes eagerly dart here and there, consuming with a ravenous hunger the luxurious items lining the shop windows. For me, these items are precious, and only to be seen—though their ownership is a daily occurrence for others. I glue my face up against one window in particular, staring in at what looks to be a beautiful, gigantic, inflated beach ball. Along with several other beach-related products, it outfits this particular window with a great showcase, complete with a hand-printed sign in black ink that reads “GO BACK TO THE BEACH, PREPARED THIS TIME! SALE NOW!” But I am not worried about being prepared for the beach, as I have never been there before.
Eventually, with a sigh, I step away, shaking from my mind any wish I had to own something from one of these shop displays. I don’t really care which product, gadget, or gizmo, but I wish I could own something for once. For a few moments more, I linger in front of the shop, unsure of where to go now. Off school for the day, I would prefer to stay away from my home as long as possible. With a drunkard of a father and an almost constantly absent mother, these streets seem much more inviting than the drab, dimly-lit hut my family calls home.
I feel a light tap on my shoulder and spin around, to see a tall man standing next to me. He is also looking into the window, his eyes resting upon the display I stand in front of. His long, hollow, gray face almost seems wistful.
“Want one of those, huh?”
“Yes sir, I really would,” I respond, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Course, I don’t really have time, though.”
I don’t want to tell him the reason I can’t just walk up, right into the store, and purchase one with my allowance—namely that I have no allowance.
The man nods his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the display in front of us. He seems as if he is lost in thought. A second later, however, he crouches down to my level. In his eyes, there’s a flicker of kindness that contrasts with his face. He stares at me for a second, almost as if taking in my features.
“Tell you what,” he says, his voice gentler than it was a second before. “I have a wonderful, beautiful ball in my car. It’s not nearly as nice as this beach ball, but I’m sure it’ll do to play with. Want to go get it?”
I hesitate. My parents always warn me about strangers, but this man puts me at ease. Besides, the allure of this treasure—and the ability to avoid my family for a few hours more—is almost irresistible.
“I’m only parked down a side street a few blocks down,” he adds, noticing my reluctance and torn demeanor. “It’s just a few minutes away.”
He stands up and begins walking down the street. For a split second, I hesitate again but follow him. As we walk my eagerness and excitement grow. I can’t wait to see my new toy, play with it, and take it home with me. We turn into the side street, and suddenly out of the shadows springs several more men.
“Help! Help!” I shout, but they quickly stuff a cloth into my mouth and throw a rough potato sack over my head, muffling my voice. They roughly grab my hands, strapping my wrists together. They toss me into a vehicle, and the engine roars to life. As the long ride begins, I cry, sob, and squirm, but I can't break free. Several hours pass, and as the trip continues, I eventually fall asleep from exhaustion. When I wake, I find my hands are free.
I tear at the sack and pull it from my face. As I look around, my eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. In front of my face, a row of bars, with rust eroding their surface, is locked firmly into place. I desperately look around, but the bars are on all sides of me. Above and below me, they are shoddily sautered to a metal roof and floor to form a small crate that’s barely large enough for me to sit up.
The reality of the situation hits me like a tidal wave, and panic sets in. The air is damp, cold, and smells of metal. I am no longer in the vehicle. From the even darker walls in the distance, it looks as if I’m in some sort of warehouse. Through the cracks between the bars, I catch glimpses of flickering light—men walk past, talking in a foreign language and holding lanterns. My thoughts race wildly, blurred and desperate. Who are these men? Where am I? Where are my parents? Even my parents sound like a welcome surprise now.
Hours blur as my terror gnaws at my sanity, and I begin to flinch at every noise. Occasionally I scream, but they ignore me and continue to pass my cage. I notice something else. Occasionally, two men lug another, similar cage past mine. They carry it, one on each side, and inside the cage is another little boy—just like me. On each cage, there’s a plaque with what I assume is the name of the boy inside, scribbled in rough marker. I fall asleep, and when I wake up, my cage is in a different spot. This time, it is closer to the center of the warehouse. More cages, all containing other little boys like myself, surround me on either side. In front of us is where the real horror takes place.
Two men approach one of the cages, hoisting it up and carrying it to the center of the warehouse, where a raised platform is. On the plaque of the cage, the name “Jimbly” is written, I notice as the men pass me. I can see more clearly now, the tears from my eyes dry and now a crust on my face. On the platform, there’s a bizarre contraption set up—a large metal frame with wires fixing it in position. The frame is somewhat spindly, with each metal piece extending to where it is fastened in order to raise the frame and suspend it, held in the air. On the platform itself sit scalpels, vials of strange colorful liquids, and long, thin metal bars that look something like rulers. Grabbing the boy and pulling him out of his cage as he screams, the men hoist him up in the metal contraption. They fix his arms and legs, wrapping some of the metal cuffs around his limbs, and pulling on the wires until he is unable to move.
With horror, I notice that each man looks exactly the same. Each one has the same gaunt, hollow, gray face that my captor had. Each one wears the same, gray and brown outfit, and each man is tall and almost unnaturally thin.
One man, maybe ever-so-slightly taller and thinner than the others, steps forward. He gestures to the boy, now suspended in the middle of the air like some comical spider being prepared for pinning to a board of some fascinated scientist, and ruffles through some papers on a clipboard. Then, he begins to speak.
“This is the last time you will ever hear, so listen up, Jimbly. The process will take a while. You’ll be able to feel everything, and your body isn’t going to shut down to let your mind escape from the pain. It’s…part of the process. For your own sake, I’d suggest holding as still as possible.”
And just like that, they begin. One man administers some sort of injection into the boy’s arm, a disgusting orange liquid that spreads throughout his body, making his skin paler and almost grayish. They shave his head with meticulous precision, as one man gently slides a scalpel over him to remove even the last of the hairs. The men even shave his eyebrows, until not a hair remains on the boy’s body. Noticing his nose is still intact, one of the men gestures toward it, and another man takes a razor blade, slicing it off in a clean motion before sewing up the hole where it used to be. As they work, his body begins to contort in some strange way, no doubt from the shot that now begins to take effect.
From inside my cage, I begin to sob, feeling my body heave uncontrollably as I finally register what will happen to me…eventually. But the little boy’s screams, once so vivid and loud, begin to fade. Watching, my mind suddenly comprehends a silence. Only for a second, the boy looks forward, still positioned in the air, his expression blank. And then, he begins to sing. A deep, dark song at first, but soon the pitch and intensity increase as he continues. His voice is tranquil for the most part, only breached so often by a pause, during which I see his eyes flash with terror before he resumes singing again.
But the men aren’t done. As he continues to sing, one takes a saw, and with immaculate movements, makes some incisions around the boy’s neck and face. He remains conscious, and singing, but no longer does he scream in pain or agony. I have no doubt he still feels it, but he doesn’t react. Blood drips from the incisions, until with one smooth movement a man takes a saw, cutting off his limbs. With some fire torch, they burn the limbs, cauterizing the bleeding stumps on his body. With extreme precision, one of the men cuts open his stomach, rearranging all the necessary organs and adding several new ones, forcing these crucial elements upward into his chest. The process is undertaken once again—new incisions, new cuts, and new burns.
Eventually, the only part of him that remains is the boy’s head and neck, along with some...
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