This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Interesting_Wear_437 on 2024-09-10 08:16:15+00:00.

For most of my childhood, I took an interest in all things supernatural. No, I wasn’t some tinfoil hat-wearing, end-is-near preaching maniac. I just enjoyed exploring the wacky cliche theories that get thrown around- UFOs, Bigfoot, top secret CIA projects, that kind of stuff.

I think it was a coping mechanism to make life a little less grey. I come from a small Idaho town in the absolute middle of nowhere that my parents moved to for ‘the lifestyle’. The best attractions are the local convenience store and the meth-heads that hover outside it. Believing that there were surreal disturbances around us was a good way to not die from boredom. Gave my buddies and I a chance to go out and about, to stoke our imaginations as we hunted down these legends. Our town’s traditions of hunting, hiking, and camping became a lot more fun.

By the time I turned 21, we had well and truly grown out of it. We still avidly camped and trekked, but with much different motivations. It was now about drinking and fooling around, away from the prying eyes of society. I’d recently bought an off-road pickup truck with my hard-earning savings. Now my weekends consisted of lugging my friends and our camping gear at blistering speeds down the winding dirt roads of Nez Perce-Clearwater National Forest.

It was just another weekend of hurtling through the forest roads. For one reason or another most of my friends were out of action or busy, leaving only Max with me to scout the map for potential camping areas. We saw ourselves as too cool and seasoned for the designated grounds, preferring to seclude ourselves from any other soul in the area. My mind is on autopilot until I see a fork in the road, and I blurt out,

‘Alright which way we going?’

I hear a hushed ‘the fuck?’ from Max as he paused for a moment, then replied ‘wait, just stop for a second’.

I step on the brakes, a bit frustrated.

‘Quick, we ain’t got all day.’

‘There’s… there’s not supposed to be a fork here. What the hell…’

I reach out for the map, and as Max hands it out to me I almost snatch it. I narrate as I read it.

‘So we passed the old shack, drove by the river, and we should now be… huh. No forks around here…’

I think to myself for a good minute, eventually deciding to fire up the car again.

‘Let’s just go right, we can trace our route.’

Max responds with a quiet murmur of approval. I inch the truck through the right side of the fork, no longer trusting myself to stomp on the pedal like usual. It’s long and steep, the truck winding up and down with fright. The trees appear increasingly withered, no longer sporting their thick, green manes. Our guts are screaming at us to turn back, but the road is so narrow and the trees so abundant that we’re essentially walled off from any other direction than forwards.

After what felt like half an hour, we’re greeted with a bizarre sight- a large, perfectly circular and flat clearing, surrounded by the fully leafless skeletons of trees. Given that the park was protected, mountainous land, this was completely alien- something we would have imagined in our youth. But what was even more harrowing was the small settlement that resided within it. We knew there were a few of those in the region, but this one was sorely different to the usual sight of weathered wood houses and dirt streets.

It looked like a time capsule of the 60s. Vintage cars parked on the side of perfectly paved roads, and a few rows of immaculate suburban houses not too far from a small group of vibrantly painted stores with blaring signs. A retro-looking billboard about 200 feet in front of us read ‘Welcome to Isotope’. The whole place felt unnaturally wrong, like it had been cut out of a different dimension and pasted here. The fear and suspense is cut through by Max’s voice.

‘There’s no fucking Isotope on the map… where are we?’

‘You think I know?’

‘Well let’s at least check it out.’

I really should have told him to shut up, but our survival instincts were pushed aside by our youth and stupidity and nostalgia for conspiracy theories. Before we knew it we had parked smack bang in the middle of the town. The first thing we noticed when we stepped out was its emptiness. Despite its perfect condition, the town was absent of any life. No people, no animals, not even the chirping of birds- just a soulless husk of concrete. As we looked across the street we noticed a store that read ‘Bill’s Mini-mart and Butcher’, its lights on but devoid of any human presence.

‘I dunno, maybe we should turn back.’

‘I know Max, but maybe we could explore a bit. Show the boys the cool stories they’re missing out on.’

‘Umm… alright.’

As we enter the store, I felt a pang of surprise at its pristine condition. The shelves and produce are fully stocked, the lights a warm yellow, and the floors without a speck of dirt. But upon inspection we realise the food brands look like they’re from eons ago- some we don’t even recognise. I can feel a sense of dread growing by the second, although it’s far from the overpowering morbid curiosity that drives me to further explore. We approach the butcher’s section, the meats shining a brilliant, mouth-watering shade of blood red. As I press my hand to the cool glass, the PA system belts a symphony of pure static throughout the building, causing us to jump back. It melts into a corporate-sounding male voice.

‘Welcome to Bill’s Mini-mart and Butcher! We’re proud to be the finest source of produce for Isotope’s residents, as we help America rebuild from the ashes of nuclear war. Please be courteous to our staff and your fellow shoppers.’

I turn to look at Max, whose normally pale face is now like a ghoul’s. Nuclear war? Rebuilding? What timeline had we stepped into? My thoughts were interrupted by the disembodied voice.

‘Make sure to check out our fine selection of meats. Our butcher takes pride in his creative ways of sourcing the finest cuts for our town. And as for the recent reports of wailing-like sounds, please be assured that we are working to fix our ventilation system.’

I look back at the meats, realising they have no labels. In fact, they all look the same. My heart freezes in terror as Max speaks with a shaky voice.

‘L-let’s get out of here man.’

‘Yeah, fuck this.’

As I’m about to take the first step to leave, my ears catch a faint, muffled sound of something between a ragged wail and a scream. It sounds… agonisingly human. Like someone being slowly dragged into the ninth circle of hell. We didn’t need any more hints to bolt to the door. As we sprint with our lives the PA crackles back to life, and this time the voice is garbled and distorted.

‘Our glorious creator has word of two outsiders in our presence. Hunt them down- Isotope thanks you for helping us source America’s finest produce.’

The next half hour was a blur- all I can really remember was the slamming of car doors, crushing the gas pedal to death, and yanking my steering wheel with more intensity than an F1 driver. By the time Max and I had gone back the way we came, we were on the verge of a full on breakdown. Our attempts to report things to the park authorities fizzled out on the spot- they had no records of a town called Isotope, and when they checked out the exact route we took, the fork was gone. All we managed to do was make ourselves look insane.

But that’s not the worst part. I haven’t told anyone this, but as we left Isotope, I saw in the corner of my eye a man dressed in all white, wearing a gas mask and holding what I swore was a cleaver. I thought it was my mind playing tricks at first, but it’s been a few days and Max says he’s started hearing faint, strange noises, something between a wail and a scream. As I’m writing this, I’m booking a flight to move in with some relatives in California. I’m not sticking around to find out what happens to Max- or me.