I Think I Was Chosen - Free Supernatural Horror Story Audio

I wasn't looking for meaning.

That's the stupid part.

Everyone always says people join cults because they're desperate or broken or searching for something. I wasn't searching for anything. I was just bored.

There's a difference.

I worked from home reviewing insurance claims. Eight hours a day staring at photos of damaged property and deciding whether a dent looked expensive enough. Then I'd microwave dinner, watch garbage television, and scroll until my eyes hurt.

One night I realized I couldn't remember the last meaningful conversation I'd had.

Not argument.

Not small talk.

Conversation.

That thought stuck with me.

A week later, I met Mara.

She knocked on my door at dusk.

Not selling anything. Not fundraising.

She just stood there smiling.

"You live alone, don't you?"

I laughed.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You leave one plate in the drying rack."

That was true.

She pointed at my living room window.

"You also leave the television on while you sleep."

Also true.

I should've been alarmed.

Instead, I was impressed.

Mara had this way of speaking that made every sentence sound like a secret.

She asked if I wanted to go for a walk.

I said yes.

Looking back, that was probably the moment my life ended.

The group lived deep in the woods behind my neighborhood.

Not cabins.

Not compounds.

Just tents arranged in a circle around a huge dead tree.

There were maybe thirty people.

Young. Old. Men. Women.

Everyone looked happy.

Actually happy.

Not social-media happy.

The real kind.

The kind that makes you wonder what they know that you don't.

They welcomed me like I was family.

People hugged me.

Shook my hand.

Called me by name before I introduced myself.

That part bothered me.

Mara said she'd told them.

I believed her.

At the time.

I started visiting every weekend.

Then every few days.

Then every day.

The members spoke about something called the Turning.

Not a religion.

Not exactly.

More like an event.

Something coming.

Something inevitable.

They never explained it clearly.

Whenever I asked questions, they smiled.

"Understanding comes later."

Annoying answer, but somehow I kept accepting it.

The strangest part was their leader.

An old woman named Evelyn.

She had to be ninety.

Maybe older.

Skin like parchment.

Voice like gravel.

The first time she saw me, she started crying.

Actual tears.

Everyone around her dropped to their knees.

I thought she was having a medical emergency.

Instead she pointed at me.

"You arrived."

That's all she said.

Then she laughed.

The sound still gives me nightmares.

After that, everything changed.

People stared at me constantly.

Conversations stopped when I entered.

Children followed me through the camp.

One little girl handed me a drawing.

It showed a man standing beneath the dead tree.

His body was open from throat to stomach.

Something black was climbing out.

I asked what it was.

She smiled.

"You."

Kids are creepy.

I threw the drawing away.

I wish I hadn't.

The ceremony was scheduled for the following Saturday.

Nobody would tell me what it involved.

Only that it was important.

Only that I was important.

Mara seemed excited.

Too excited.

Like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The night before the ceremony, I couldn't sleep.

People were celebrating outside.

Singing.

Laughing.

Praying.

I finally got up and left my tent.

That's when I heard Evelyn talking.

She was inside the dead tree.

Not near it.

Inside it.

There was a hollow opening I hadn't noticed before.

I crept closer.

Her voice echoed through the trunk.

"The vessel is ready."

A pause.

Then another voice answered.

A wet voice.

A voice that sounded like something drowning.

"We hunger."

I froze.

Every hair on my body stood up.

Evelyn continued.

"He believes he was chosen."

The other voice laughed.

"We choose all of them."

I ran.

I didn't think.

I just ran.

Branches tore at my face.

Roots tripped me.

I could hear shouting behind me.

Footsteps.

Dozens of footsteps.

The entire camp was chasing me.

The woods seemed endless.

No matter which direction I ran, the trees looked unfamiliar.

Then I saw lights.

Road lights.

I burst out of the forest and collapsed on the pavement.

Nobody followed.

The woods behind me were silent.

I stayed in a motel that night.

Then another.

Then another.

I never went home.

I moved three states away.

Changed jobs.

Changed apartments.

Changed everything.

For the first time in months, I felt safe.

That lasted exactly forty-two days.

Because that's when the dreams started.

Every night I stood beneath the dead tree.

Every night I heard the same voice.

The drowning voice.

The hungry voice.

Calling my name.

Not speaking.

Calling.

Like a dog whistle for something hidden inside me.

I stopped sleeping.

I started drinking.

Nothing helped.

Then came the headaches.

Then the blackouts.

Hours vanished from my memory.

I'd wake up standing in places I didn't remember going.

A grocery store.

A parking garage.

A church.

Always facing north.

Always staring.

Waiting.

Three nights ago, I finally decided to find out what was happening.

I chained my bedroom door shut.

Taped my phone to a dresser.

Started recording.

Then I went to sleep.

The footage is why I'm writing this.

I watched it six times.

I wish I'd stopped at one.

At 2:13 a.m., I sat upright in bed.

At 2:14, I smiled.

Not me.

Something wearing my face.

At 2:17, I looked directly into the camera.

Then I said:

"Almost open."

My voice wasn't alone.

Another voice spoke underneath it.

The drowning voice.

At 2:23, I started screaming.

Not from fear.

From pain.

My stomach began moving.

Not twitching.

Moving.

Like something was crawling beneath the skin.

The recording ends when I ripped the camera off the dresser.

I've spent the last two days researching.

I finally found references.

Old newspaper archives.

Missing persons reports.

Hundreds of years worth.

Different names.

Different locations.

Same pattern.

Someone lonely gets recruited.

Someone special gets chosen.

Someone disappears.

Every generation.

Every century.

The group changes.

The thing behind it doesn't.

I understand now.

The vessel wasn't me.

Not exactly.

I was an egg.

A container.

Something planted inside me the moment Mara touched my hand.

And I think it's almost finished growing.

The headaches are worse.

I can hear it sometimes.

Thinking.

Learning.

Stretching.

I don't know how much time I have left.

Maybe hours.

Maybe minutes.

But if anyone reading this meets a woman named Mara—

Actually, no.

Forget that.

Mara probably isn't her real name.

None of them use real names.

That's the final thing I discovered.

The missing persons reports?

The photographs?

The faces repeat.

The same faces.

Across decades.

Across centuries.

Evelyn in 1912.

Mara in 1958.

Mara in 1987.

Mara in 2021.

They don't age.

They don't die.

Because they aren't cult members.

They're vessels too.

Generation after generation.

Something crawls out.

Something grows old.

Something lays another egg.

And starts over.

There's one more thing.

Something I noticed while reviewing the camera footage frame by frame.

At 2:14 a.m., when I smiled at the camera, there was a reflection in my bedroom window.

Someone standing outside.

Watching.

A woman.

Smiling.

I didn't recognize her at first.

But after hours of staring, I finally remembered where I'd seen her.

She wasn't from the camp.

She wasn't Mara.

She wasn't Evelyn.

She was the little girl who gave me the drawing.

The one who drew the thing crawling out of my body.

The footage was recorded three nights ago.

I checked my window this morning.

There were muddy footprints beneath it.

Small footprints.

Child-sized.

And next to them, written in the dirt:

READY FOR YOUR TURN?