This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Live_Place_8020 on 2024-07-02 18:28:02+00:00.

The frigid November air entering through the window contrasted sharply with the humid heat under my mask, caused by my rapid and uneven breathing. My hands fidgeted with a button on my coat sleeve, while my leg made a rhythmic thumping sound as it jutted up and down from the floor to the table above it. I relapsed into these movements every time my mind returned to my whole purpose for entering the pocket-sized sheriff’s station. It was as if all the moisture from my body had concentrated around my mouth. I had only brought one mask, which hadn’t lasted long. It was from one of those cheap boxes with forty of them stacked in perfect rectangular mounds and wrapped in plastic. I had just committed to the idea of removing my mask to allow more air into my lungs when the sheriff stepped into the office.

“Good afternoon . . . Mr. Shrider,” said the sheriff between lethargic sips of coffee.

I gave a distant and fatigued “hi.”

“My deputy gave me your written statement and a summary of the conversation y’all had a moment ago. Now, is there anything I can fetch you, like a Coke or a water?”

“No,” I said, reminding myself that I hadn’t seen a fridge anywhere when I came in and was directed to one of two offices the building somehow managed to fit.

The dampness of my mask was becoming too constricting, so I asked to use the bathroom and was directed to a door near the entrance. When I returned to the office, the sheriff stared down at a piece of paper that I presumed to be my statement and didn’t say anything for what felt like ages, the only disturbance being the draft coming in through the window. When the sheriff finally did speak, his voice lacked all the lightness it carried when he first came in.

“Sunny, you can call me Sheriff Matheson. I see you recently moved into one of dem houses off Shepard Road.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I know you already told my deputy and wrote it down in this statement, but could you tell me one more time how you found the thumb drive?”

After a few moments of trying to collect my thoughts to avoid regurgitating everything that had preceded my visit to the sheriff’s office all at once, I began, unable to make direct eye contact, with why I came to Teton county

I hadn’t landed a steady job yet, but I did a lot of freelance photography for a few private companies. These short-term gigs led me to the small city of Choteau. With a population under 2,000 and surrounded by open wilderness and rivers, I wasn’t expecting to stay long—just to snap a few pictures of some water and whatever wildlife came my way. I rented the cheapest house I could find, which had been on the market for about three years. Given how rough the housing market has been because of COVID, I was surprised it hadn’t found any buyers. Without thinking twice, I decided to buy it and flew out to move in four weeks later.

The house I rented was modest, situated near a river and a wheat field over a mile away. At first glance, you might have thought an elderly couple once lived there. The pale-yellow paneling led up to overflowing gutters and a roof in desperate need of repair. By the steps leading to the front door, a wheelchair ramp started near the bottom, veered to the left, then turned right to connect with the platform at the top of the stairs, directly in front of the door. Mountain bikes, overtaken by weeds and rust, littered the sides of the house. The recent rainstorm had caused the rust to stain the surrounding area with a reddish-maroon hue. Everything, except the heat pump, suggested a silent, ongoing battle with the weather and vegetation—slow but persistent.

The inside wasn’t much more appealing than the outside. While the exterior of the house was cluttered, the interior was completely bare. It seemed the previous homeowners had taken every precaution to leave no trace of themselves. This was puzzling because the lawn was littered with bikes and other items, you’d expect a family to either take with them or give away.

On Zillow, the house was listed as fifty years old, but the wallpaper looked fresh, the hardwood floors were scratch-free, and even the baseboards appeared recently replaced. There was no mention of any accidents, water damage, boiler explosions, termites, or anything else that might require renovation. If they had done any renovating inside, surely, they would have addressed the exterior as well.

There was no furniture, and the kitchen had only the cheapest standard appliances. As I walked around, I noticed that the floorboards didn’t make any noise.

I paced through the rest of the house before deciding to investigate the basement. Perhaps there would be new pipes somewhere that would suggest damage requiring repairs. The door to the basement was in the back of the house, isolated in a corner away from the two bedrooms and single bathroom. Scanning the rest of the house as I made my way to the basement door, I tore my view away from the floors and walls to focus on the door, which hung loosely from its hinges in front of me. The basement door appeared to have also been replaced. It was an off-white color, the base color of a hollow door you’d buy from any hardware store, not yet painted. The door made a deep, reverberating whine, which could easily be mistaken for a crying animal.

The basement was unfinished. Exposed stones formed the walls, and the light from upstairs shone through the wooden floors, illuminating the hackneyed basement. I could see tiny collections of dirt lining the base of all the walls. There was no ventilation, and the air grew more suffocating with each minute I lingered. I quickly scanned all the pipes overhead and determined that they were as old as the foundations that held this house. The basement was lacking in everything but dust and dirt. I ran my hand along the walls to check for any leaks or breaches from the outside. Instead of finding any sprouting plants or signs of a crumbling foundation, I found a thumb drive.

I didn’t give much thought to it. I assumed a previous owner had a table or desk against the wall, left a thumb drive there, and accidentally pushed it off one day, causing it to get jammed between two stones in the basement wall. It wasn’t until a week later that I actually saw what was on it. Conveniently, I already had a USB-C to USB adapter for my computer. The thumb drive had been sitting on my desk—the only piece of furniture besides my bed that I brought with me. I was looking through photos with different lens exposures when the thumb drive caught my eye.

I’ve always been a nosy person, ever since I was a child, but now I wish I wasn’t. I wish I had never read the files on that drive.

Sheriff Matheson sighed deeply after I finished telling him what was on the thumb drive.

“May I have a look at this thumb drive for myself?” he asked.

“Yes, Sheriff,” I said meekly.

I took the thumb drive out of my pocket and handed it to him. The rest of the conversation mainly consisted of the sheriff telling me to expect a call if anything came of my statement or if they needed to ask me any further questions. The last thing the sheriff asked before I left his office was:

“Did you make any copies?”

I knew he noticed how long it took me to respond, even though it couldn’t have been more than fifteen seconds before I said:

“No.”

The sheriff didn’t say anything else after that. The only goodbye I received was a silent nod and wave, followed by the cold night as I stepped out of the sheriff’s station.

That visit was two months ago, and I don’t believe they’re doing anything with the evidence I presented. I don’t understand why. However, I did make a copy of that damn thumb drive—how could I not? If something happened to the original, I’m afraid no one would know. I’m posting everything from the drive below. Please, if anyone knows anything, reach out. 

January 5, 2018

Hi I don’t really know what to say. Its weird just talking to myself. I guess its not really talking to myself. My therapist will eventually take a look at these. She’s the one who suggested that I do this. Hi Dr. Sano. Or just Kyra if you prefer. Hopefully you don’t have a hard time reading this. I’m still getting used to typing on a keyboard again. The screen reader I got has been useful. I really don’t like that I can’t see. Obviously. It fucking sucks. But I’m alive. Great. Besides getting better at reading braille and having my dad pack my stuff for when I go dog sitting. Nothing has really changed. I still miss Zach.

January 8, 2018

Hi, I’ve acquired the power of the COMMA! Along with other punctuation marks, of course. I’m still not sure how long I should make these entries. Kyra said I should track my feelings and use this to work through my grief. Not sure how exactly I’ll do that yet, but I’ll also write down what happens each day. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to right now. After the car crash, I pretty much pushed everyone away. The only people who are still around are my ex-boyfriend Tyler and my dad. Tyler doesn’t tell me what’s happening in his life anymore. I’m guessing he’s moved on; it’s been over a year since I lost my vision. I don’t blame him, but he still comes by and checks on me.

My dad and I were never that close, and we’ve only grown further apart. I know he blames me for Zach’s death. The only reason we talk at all is because of my disability. I feel lost.

I leave for Teton tomorrow.

January 9, 2018

I just fin…

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