If you ever see an ad promoting the Church of the Sleepless Truth, turn around and get as far away from it as possible. It’s too late for me, but if you haven’t signed up, you still have a chance.
My name is John Sanders. I had recently gotten out of an abusive relationship when I stumbled upon a poster advertising some kind of support group for people who went through traumatic incidents. In retrospect, perhaps the name should have tipped me off, but at the time, I just needed to talk to anyone who could understand what I’d gone through.
I signed up.
I arrived there at 6 a.m. sharp next Saturday and met with the rest of the group. I’m quite a shy person, so I decided to wait for everyone else to speak. The first person to speak was Carla, a dark-skinned woman in her early twenties with a shy smile on her face. She talked about her relationship with her religious family, who stabbed her with knives, believing she was possessed by a demon.
Jesus. Is this what support groups were like?
The next person, Sharon, shared about her encounter with an old gypsy woman, who placed a curse on her and plagued her sleep with nightmares.
Everyone who spoke shared horrifying stories, each worse than the last, until it was my turn. At this point, I was feeling kind of embarrassed. Compared to them, I haven’t suffered at all. So I spoke.
I told them about my relationship with Alex and how she cheated and then turned the blame back on me. It was my fault for not being good enough. For not listening to her when she was upset. She made me feel like a bad boyfriend. And that she deserved better.
When the session concluded, everyone got up and headed out the door. When I stood up, however, one of the members, Darren was his name, I think, walked up to me and whispered.
“That was a nice story, John. But you need to try making it a little more plausible or you won’t survive a month in here.”
I was confused. Was he accusing me of lying? But before I could ask what he meant, he left.
The next day, I decided to cut things off with Alex. Yesterday’s events made me realize that I wasn’t the problem, she was. She screamed and cursed at me, but I was unwavering. I never saw her again.
The next week, I went back to the Church of the Sleepless Truth. Once again, I waited for everyone to share before I spoke. Weirdly enough, the stories they told were different.
Carla was now turning into a vampire and Sharon’s husband was secretly a serial killer. When it was my turn to speak, I didn’t know what to say.
“Alex and I broke up, so everything’s fine now. I feel better than I have in a long time.”
They stared at me, as if waiting for me to say more.
“But then, she came back when I was asleep and kidnapped me. When I woke up, I was tied up in her basement.”
I wove a story about how she was a crazy yandere who could not bear to be without me and how I tricked her into letting me go.
When I was finally done with the story, the session was over, and everyone left.
Only later, I realized that Darren was missing from the last session. Then I recognized him as a victim of a murder on the front page of the newspaper. He was murdered in his own home, found with carved out letters on his chest.
“OOC”
I then understood what they wanted me to do. Play along or die.
It has been months since I first joined and I’m running out of ideas for new stories. Anyone who leaves simply dies the next day, so that’s out of the question.
It’s too late for me, so I’m typing this out to warn anyone who will listen. Stay away from the Church. And remember, they’re always watching.