This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jigjag22 on 2024-10-20 16:53:59+00:00.
I’m a pretty rational guy; urban planner, born and raised in Philly, spent my career focused on data, zoning regulations, and architectural design. I’ve never had time for the supernatural, but now, I’m dealing with things that have no rational explanation.
It started a few days ago while I was in my home office, reviewing blueprints for a downtown project. Maria, Ethan’s nanny, appeared in the doorway, looking a bit more anxious than usual. “Mark, can I show you something?” she asked, holding one of Ethan’s drawings.
“What’s up?” I replied, expecting to see the usual: a family portrait with stick figures and lopsided heads, or maybe an abstract blob of color that I’d have to pretend I understood.
But when she handed me the paper, I nearly choked.
Instead of bright colors or playful shapes, it showed a dark, crooked building: lines scribbled in black crayon, jagged and rough, with what looked like staircases or doorways unevenly sketched along the sides.
“What’s this?”
Maria’s fingers tightened on the paper. “He said, ‘That’s where the bad things happened,’ and then he just kept drawing.”
I sighed, attempting to lighten the mood. “He’s probably just copying something he saw on TV or one of my blueprints. Maybe he saw a building I was working on, and his imagination ran wild.”
Maria didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. She’s been with us for over a year, through the thick of the divorce, and I know she cares about Ethan. But kids are kids, right? They see things, make things up, and go through phases. That’s all it was...just a phase.
But then it wasn’t.
The next day, Ethan showed me another drawing. This time, the building looked even more detailed. The windows were more defined, and he’d added a door off to the side. But what really threw me was the number scrawled at the top: 49. It was centered, bold, and unmistakable. Ethan was three; he didn’t know what an address was, let alone how to put a number on a building.
“Why do you keep drawing this building, buddy?”
Ethan didn’t look up from his crayons. “Because it’s where they live,” he said, his voice oddly flat.
“Who lives there?”
“The people who screamed.”
I glanced at Maria, who was standing nearby, her arms crossed and a worried look on her face. I didn’t say anything then. What was I supposed to say? That my kid was just making things up, or that this was somehow normal? I decided to let it go, hoping, no praying, that this would all blow over.
But it didn’t.
As I tucked Ethan into bed, he began muttering softly in his sleep. At first, it was the usual gibberish...half-formed words and mumbles. But then, clear as day, I heard him say, “Jonathan.” A moment later, he added in a whisper, “She screamed too much.”
Later, I had the worst nightmare of my life. I found myself standing in front of a decrepit building: the same one from Ethan’s drawings. The windows were cracked and covered in grime, the walls dark and crumbling as if time itself had forgotten them. The number 49 loomed above the entrance, larger and more vivid than in any of my son’s sketches.
I tried to move, to turn away, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. It was as if I was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from the building. Then, from somewhere deep inside, I heard the faintest sound...a muffled scream, growing louder and more desperate. The screams turned to cries for help, and then I heard a voice...Jonathan’s name, spoken in a child’s voice that I recognized all too well.
I woke up drenched in sweat. This wasn’t just some random dream—it was a warning. I couldn’t ignore it. I had to figure out what was really going on.
The next day I headed to City Hall to show the sketch to my buddy in real estate and planning. He knows practically every building in the city: old, new, abandoned, you name it. If anyone could recognize the place Ethan kept drawing, it’d be him.
Dante Moretti, mid-50s, graying temples, always sharp in a suit, glanced up from the sketch, his reading glasses halfway down his nose.
“Your kid drew this?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, he’s been sketching it non-stop lately. Any idea where it is?”
Dante let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, you don’t recognize this place? 49 Raven’s Lane. It was all over the news a few years back. People couldn’t stop talking about it.”
“Why? What happened there?”
Dante’s face darkened. “Three murders. Spread over a few years. Then the guy who lived there, Jonathan Adler, jumped off the roof. That was about three years ago.”
“Jonathan...Adler?” I repeated. The name was exactly what Ethan had whispered to me last night.
Dante nodded. “Yeah, the whole thing was pretty gruesome. How’d your kid even know about this place?”
I had no idea.
When I pulled up in front of 49 Raven’s Lane, it was like stepping into one of Ethan's drawings. Every window, every door...it was all there, exactly as he'd sketched it.
I stepped out of the car and walked slowly toward the entrance, my shoes crunching on the scattered debris. The building loomed overhead, its walls covered with graffiti and the brickwork stained from years of neglect.
As I approached the rusted front door, I noticed the old doorbell panel beside it. Three names were faint but legible: "C. Harper," "J. Lewis," and "M. Evans."
A chill crept over me as I unfolded Ethan's drawing from my pocket. I hadn't noticed it before, but there they were those same names, scribbled in his uneven handwriting.
How could Ethan have known?
I rushed home.
Bursting into Ethan's room, I found him playing quietly with his toys. I knelt beside him, trying to steady my voice.
"Ethan," I asked, pointing to the panel he had drawn, "how did you know those names? C. Blake, J. Owens, M. Harris. Who are these people?"
He glanced up at me, calm and unbothered.
“They’re the ones who screamed,” he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
My stomach tightened. "And how do you know that?"
Ethan's eyes met mine, and a faint, knowing smile crossed his lips.
"Because I’m Jonathan," he whispered. "Jonathan Adler."