This is the update that I promised. For those that want to see the original post, it’s [here] (https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/12bho34/my_dog_died_and_it_ruined_my_life_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3)
Wish I had some good news, but you can’t always get what you want.
I got home from the hospital a couple weeks ago. I felt much better after some time off from work and some rest. The figure didn’t come back for a while. No motion alerts on my cameras, no bones on my lawn. No updates from the police, but no news is good news, right? I thanked God, but I may have done that too early. My wife and daughter left the house last Saturday to go shopping. I woke up and saw the text from my wife letting me know they left.
I smiled at my phone, texted back that I loved her, and told them to have a good time. Then I turned and saw a sticky note, so I thought maybe she left me another note. This note wasn’t written in her neat, beautiful handwriting that looked like professional calligraphy. And it didn’t look like my daughter Cassie’s cheerful handwriting, with hearts over the I’s instead of dots, and swirls for every looped letter. This looked like it was written out of anger. The letters were crooked, the writing was choppy, and part of the note had a hole in it from the brute force of the cruel writing. ‘Hurry up to decide who’s next pal’ it said.
I looked at my ring camera. Motion activity in my backyard and up my side about an hour ago. The fucking figure. This son of a bitch was back. My heart started to race so much I felt like I was choking on it and couldn’t breathe. I went downstairs for some water, chugging on the large pitcher that my wife had filled up in the fridge. I dropped the pitcher on the floor, sending shards of glass all over the kitchen tiles.
I began to stumble across my kitchen, not feeling or seeing that I stepped on the shards. My blood trailed along my tiles and the wooden staircase as I stumbled back upstairs. The figure’s deep, raspy laugh began echoing in my mind. What the fuck did the note mean? I had no idea where to look for answers, until it hit me in the face. Literally. I climbed back into my bedroom and fell on my desk chair, the computer monitor still on from last night. Guess my wife had been using it. I wouldn’t know, I actually slept well.
With my hands still shaking, I slowly typed the words in. “Decide who’s next pal”. Nothing important to me came up, so I kept scrolling and scrolling and scouring. I looked at the time, nearly two hours had passed. Scrolling and scrolling and scouring. Google result page 476, twelfth link on the page. A newspaper article from my town, all the way back from fucking 1995. Twenty-eight fucking years ago. Nearly a lifetime away.
I opened the link. The newspaper article was titled “Man Randomly Loses Son, Claims Alien was Behind Death”. I had to look deeper, I felt this was like my situation. I scrolled to where the explanation began.
“Local resident, Elliot Goldberg, has mysteriously lost his son in a way most horrific. Robert Goldberg, only seven years old, was the middle child of Elliot and Cindy Goldberg. Robert was a loving child and…” I’m sorry kid, I don’t have time for your story right now. Only mine… “On May 5th, Elliot stumbled upon his son’s mutilated corpse. Bite marks were present on the boy’s neck, chest, and his right foot was missing. Carved into the boy’s chest and abdomen were the words ‘Decide who’s next pal’.
I looked at my foot to make sure the cut was not too deep. I wrapped it in some gauze and put a thick sock over it. I ran for my keys and got into my car. After a few minutes of driving, I got to Mr. Goldberg’s house. It looked run down and just generally unkempt. The lawn was overgrown, the windows were greasy looking, and the doorframe looked crooked. Rocks and trash littered the man’s front lawn, and patio furniture was strewn about his porch. I walked up to the porch and knocked on his door. His bell was gone, a ring of brown occupying the space the bell once did.
A short, balding, chubby man opened the door. Mr. Goldberg looked very different. More sad. “Hello? Oh, hey, it’s been a while. Uh, come in I guess.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goldberg.” I walked in. The inside of the house was surprisingly well kept. Old pictures of Mr. Goldberg’s family and himself were neatly hung on the walls in appealing patterns.
“Please, call me Elliot. How are your wife and daughter?”
“Good, thank you for asking, Elliot. How, uh, how are you?“ I stopped myself from asking my original question. I can’t ask about his wife and kids. They allegedly left him after his son was murdered. According to some gossip. See, I knew a murder happened in Elliot’s family. I just didn’t know it was that gruesome, or so relatable.
“Well, I’m okay. Same day, different troubles.” He uttered out a sad chuckle afterwards.
We awkwardly looked around the room for a few seconds. Elliot got up. “I am so rude, may I offer you some food or a drink?”
“No thank you,” I said. “I… God… I do not know how to say this. But I think you can help me with something. I am so sorry in advance.”
Elliot looked confused. “I’ll try my best. What is it? Sounds serious?”
I started to tear up. I shakily took out my phone from my pocket. Two missed calls from my wife. My phone is on silent. I’d text her later. I pulled the note out of my pocket and handed it to Elliot. I even pulled out some screenshots I took from my Ring app off the figure and showed them to Elliot.
“What the fuck is this? Is this some kind of fucking joke? What the fuck is this?” Elliot’s hands started to shake, and his face was beet red.
“It’s not a joke. My dog was killed and I keep seeing this figure. It even hit me and gave me a concussion.” I was still crying. Elliot sat down in his chair across from me and threw the note down.
“It never fucking leaves my life. There’s only one way out of this. You have to decide who is next. You must tell this thing who to kill.” Elliot didn’t look me in the face when he said this. I stared at him, my mouth open.
“I-I…” I can’t find the fucking words.
“Go to the bathroom and wash up,” ordered Elliot. “I’ll explain everything you need to know about this fucking thing. I’ll give you all the details. But get one thing straight: you won’t ever be the fucking same again.”
I ran to his bathroom. My foot sore and my head throbbing in pain. I threw up a couple of times. I texted my wife and told her what I was doing. No response yet. I’m typing this out now in Elliot’s bathroom. I’ll update you after my conversation with him.
I don’t want to lose myself.