This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Umbraless on 2024-09-30 07:41:30+00:00.
I’m a handyman. I’m self-employed and will do any job from building walls to fixing plumbing. I take pride in my work, and thanks to positive word of mouth, I have been able to grow a steady business.
I work around the east of England in a county called Suffolk. It’s a rural county without a city but a few large, historic towns.
Today I was working in a small village called Glemsford on the Suffolk border for an eccentric man called Mr. Myers, J. D. Myers; it says above his office door, but I never found out what the J.D. stands for.
Mr. Myers is an older man with white, thick hair that has receded to a point where anyone else would have given in to baldness. He is thin with a long face and long bony nose. He always wears a suit, even when he’s not working, and has glasses that magnify his eyes so large they become the main future of his face.
As I said, Mr. Myers is an eccentric man, and his house is full of little knickknacks from his many adventures around the world. He’s a well-known solicitor for millionaires all over the world. His library, a small spare room in the house, has the most unique pieces. Wooden masks from Africa, jade trinkets from China, and so on.
He hired me to build a small wall in the corner of his back garden as a kind of pen for his Guinea pigs. Due to the unevenness of the ground, I had been digging it flat for the past two days. I had originally quoted him the job as four day’s work; today was my fifth day as the materials had been delayed arriving.
Mr. Myers had planned to go to London the day after I was originally planned to finish. He couldn’t cancel due to his client only being in the country for a few days. I assured him that I could move some other jobs around and come back to his the day after to finish the wall. He waved it away and said that he trusted me to come in while he was away and continue my work. He left me a key and was gone before I arrived this morning.
It’s been sunny in the east today, a rarity if you live in England. Hot sun in summer? Never heard of it. It was half way through the day, and I had just finished with the first layers of bricks for the pen when I heard the Victorian-style doorbell chime.
I walked around the side of the house instead of through it so I didn’t dirty the floor.
At the door stood a man in a prim black suit and bowler hat with a brown briefcase. He was tall and old with a large, grey, thick moustache.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
The man turned to me, his face grim and downturned. His voice was deep as he spoke.
“You’re not Mr. Myers.” He said without inflection yet somehow still surprised.
“No, he’s away on business today. Can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Myers,” he held up his briefcase. “It’s a delivery he’s been waiting years for.”
I was confused; the man felt off in the way he moved and spoke, as if this was of grave importance.
“Do you have his number? You could call him, but I doubt he would answ…”
“You call him.” The man interrupted me. Rude, but I’m someone who tries to avoid arguments if possible. I signed and pulled out my phone to ring Mr. Myers. If what this man had was so important, why didn’t Mr. Myers tell me he was expecting a package? To my surprise, Mr. Myers answered.
“Hello. Nick. Is everything alright?”
“Hi, Mr. Myers. Yes, everything is fine here; it’s just that…” I put the phone to my chest so Mr. Myers couldn’t hear what I was saying. Why I did this, I don’t know. “What did you say your name is again, mate?”
“I didn’t.” He responded tersely. “Just say it’s Clive Kittle.”
“Mr. Kittle has a delivery for you.” The other end of the line was silent. “Mr. Myers?”
“Nick, can you show Clive to the library please, and tell him to put the parcel somewhere he believes is most fit.”
“Sure?” I said questioningly, it seemed a very odd request.
“And Nick, can you leave the library while he does this, please.”
“Okay?” I said.
“Once Clive is gone, can you lock up the house and post the key through the letterbox please? I would prefer if you finished early today and came back in the morning. I will be there when you arrive.”
“Okay, will do.” I said before hanging up.
My mind was racing with questions and intrigue about what was in the brief case.
I live by myself with no partner and so have a lot of free time on my hands. Because of this, I wouldn’t often find myself at home tired after work scrolling through TV and YouTube. I have more than once fallen down the rabbit whole of unsolved mysteries from history. Due to this recurring of my life, I now find myself drawn to mysteries, no matter how small.
“I am to show you to the library.” I said. “And you are to leave the parcel where ever you see fit.” Clive Kittle nodded once, sharply, and stood to the side and allowed me to open the door.
I showed him to the library. Again, Mr. Myers house isn’t a mansion or state house; it is a semi-modern British village home, and the spare front room was what he called the library. Clive Kittle was in the room for around twenty minutes. I stood waiting patiently. Once he was done and had made sure the door was shut behind him, he left and waited for me just outside the front door. I walked out behind him and flicked the lock before shutting the door, I turned to Clive Kittle. He was standing unnervingly close to me. He was looking down at the key in my hand. Once I realised what he was looking at, I quickly turned and posted it through the letter box, I even made a show of turning the handle to make sure it was locked. He seemed satisfied without showing it, turned, and walked down the garden path.
I waited a few minutes, making sure he was out of sight.
I waited a few more minutes.
And then a few more.
Once I was sure he wasn’t going to show up again or drive past the house, I unlocked the front door.
It’s more uncommon these days, but a lot of homes in Britain used to have locks like this. Ones that you would flick a latch from the inside but only open from the outside. The key I posted was my own. I needed to know what the parcel was.
Unethical? Yes. But curiosity is the only thing that straddles both the deadly sins and the seven virtues. It will either lead you astray or to greatness. Sometimes it’s just 50/50 as to which side you land.
Once in, I must admit I started to creep and tiptoe. I have no clue why, probably because it felt like I was doing something wrong, which I was. I even opened the library door slowly.
At first I didn’t see it, hidden in a corner of the room that hadn’t seen sun since the house was built. It was a thick, heavy leather book. I instantly got a headache when I laid eyes upon it. I read the golden embossed words at the top of the front cover.
Novem. Septem. Oculos. Insania. Mors.
I didn’t know what the words meant, and I didn’t care, because under neither the words, sculpted in the leather, was a screaming face in aguish that looked as if it were crying. It terrified me. My stomach felt tight, like someone was squeezing it like a stress ball. I lost my sense of time. Hands felt as if they were pressing the sides of my head, like they were trying to crush my skill. I was only there a few seconds, yet it felt like hours of my stomach being squished and my head being pressed.
I feel silly saying it now, but I ran from the house, making sure to shut the library door and lock and post the correct key through the front door. I packed my stuff and drove home. I have showered but not eaten.
I arrived home at four; it is now one in the morning, and all I’ve been doing is trying to get that face out of my mind ever since.
Ever since I looked at the distorted, horrifying face, I've had trouble blinking. I'm having to think about it; its not a subconscious thing any more. Every time I remember to blink, the static that appears behind your eyes when you close them seems more blocky, more three-dimensional.
I thought a shower would help to clear my mind. I thought feeling hot water and soft soap would help to clear away how icky I was feeling. When I stepped out of the shower, I cleared the mirror of condensation to see if I looked as bad as I felt when I saw on either side of my head. A slightly purple yet visible handprints on my cheeks and going into my hair. There are tender to touch. I will have to wear a beanie to work tomorrow.
The odd thing is, I want to go back. Not to see the book, but to see Mr. Myers and to see if the book has the same effect on him. I need to know if it’s a stupid overreaction or genuine.
I needed to tell someone, or type it down at least; that’s why I thought of this page. It seems like the right place to say what happened.
The delivery man was creepy, Clive Kittle; he was creepy, but the book itself was truly horrifying. It intrigues me.
I’m going to try and get some sleep.
I will keep you all updated on what happens tomorrow.