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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Mister_Glimmer on 2024-10-27 16:54:47+00:00.

“People can be so stupid,” Carl said, his face illuminated by the soft glow of his phone.

The kids were upstairs, and we were just starting to unwind. What that meant was we were fooling around on our phones in the dimly lit living room. The worn leather couch creaked as I shifted, hoping the children were finally asleep. It had been a long day, filled with the usual chaos of raising three kids in a small house.

Carl, my husband of twelve years, continued, his face etched with the familiar lines of stress that had become more pronounced in recent months. “My cousin copied this post to his Facebook feed: ‘Don’t forget tomorrow starts the new Facebook rule where they can use your photos. I do not give Facebook or any entities associated with Facebook permission to use my photos, information, messages.’ People really think this works. They believe copying and pasting this text will somehow opt them out of a TOS.”

I glanced at Carl, noting how he lived for getting upset at what he saw as his family members’ gullibility. “The most baffling thing is who originally makes these and what do they get out of it?” he asked, really on a tear now.

“Do you remember chain letters?” I replied, not understanding why he even still visited Facebook. All I could figure was that he got a dopamine hit from getting irritated. “You know, ‘Send a copy of this to ten people you know or else something bad is going to happen to you’? I think someone just gets a kick out of making people do things and wasting their time. They want to see how far they can get the letter to travel or how many people they can get to participate.”

Carl nodded, considering my words. “I think we’re being too logical about this,” he said after a moment. “Is it possible that some people think they have the power to bestow luck onto another person? Maybe it’s kind of like ‘Ringu’, right? Do they think they have the psychic powers of Sadako?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Trust Carl to direct the conversation to his favorite subject, J-Horror. “Make a copy of the tape within seven days, pass it on to someone else and it breaks the curse, at least for you,” I said, reciting the plot to a movie he made me watch countless times.

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed through the house, followed by a piercing scream. Carl bolted upright, his phone clattering to the hardwood floor.

“What was that?” he barked, his eyes wide with alarm.

“I don’t know,” I said, my heart racing. “I thought they were going to bed.”

Carl stood up, his fists clenched at his sides. “I can’t stand this. They always do this kind of shit. This has to stop tonight.”

Carl is usually calm, but sometimes things rub him the wrong way, and his temper flares. Tonight was one of those times. As he stormed up the carpeted stairs, each step a thunderous stomp, I couldn’t help but remember the gentle man I’d fallen in love with. The man who would spend hours playing make-believe with the kids, his laughter echoing through the house. That man seemed to be appearing less and less these days. Perhaps it was his 60-hour a week job, maybe he spent too much time looking at social media. Whatever the cause, this last month is the most stressed I’d ever seen him.

I followed him up to the kids’ room, my mind racing. We live in a modest two-bedroom house, its walls adorned with family photos and children’s artwork. Our three kids share one room, which often makes bedtime a challenge. The oldest is Charlotte is twelve, Abby is our middle child at ten, and our youngest is Conner at eight years old.

At the top of the stairs, Carl took a sharp right, his shoulder brushing against the pale yellow wall we hadn’t been able to repaint in years. He violently yanked open the door, slamming it into the wall with a resounding thud. A framed picture of the kids at the beach rattled precariously - a memento from our last family vacation three years ago.

The scene inside the room was surreal. The three children sat in a circle on the plush blue carpet, illuminated by the soft glow of an astronaut-shaped night light. Charlotte had her back to us, her shoulders hunched. Conner’s face was pale, his freckles standing out starkly against his skin. He looked deathly afraid, his wide eyes darting between his sisters and us.

“You’re supposed to be asleep. What are you three doing?” Carl shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls covered in glow-in-the-dark star stickers.

Conner pointed a trembling fingers in the direction of Charlotte. “A-Abby jinxed her,” he stammered. “They said the same thing at the same time.”

“Now she can’t talk till somebody says her name,” said Abby calmly, as she turned to face us. Whatever had Conner on edge didn’t seem to affect her. There was something unsettling about Abby’s composure, a glint in her eye that I’d never noticed before.

I didn’t think Carl could look any angrier until that moment. His face turned a deep shade of red, and if it were possible for steam to expel from his ears, it would be happening. I could see the vein in his temple throbbing, a sure sign that he was about to explode.

“I wish you would just do what I ask,” Carl barked, his voice rising. “We told you three to go to bed, and you’re up here playing games.” Charlotte laid her head in her hands, her curls falling forward to hide her face. Conner looked even more frightened than before, but it wasn’t because of Carl’s shouting. Those two didn’t seem to notice his rant. Abby lowered her head, her small fingers fidgeting with the hem of her pajama top. She was the only one who appeared to be listening.

“I am so tired of repeating myself over and over. You are the worst kids ever. Now please, do what I say, just this once.”

I watched Abby carefully and noticed her lips move slightly, barely audibly mouthing those last three words along with Carl. He did say that phrase to the kids quite often. A chill ran down my spine as I realized how much our family dynamics had changed. When had our home become filled with so much tension and anger?

Abby then looked Carl right in the eyes, her gaze unnervingly steady for a child her age. She softly retorted, “Jinx.”

Carl’s hands flew to his mouth, his eyes growing wide with shock and confusion. He turned to me, his gaze pleading. Slowly, he lowered his hands to reveal smooth, unbroken skin where his mouth should have been. At the same time, Charlotte turned around, and I gasped as I saw that she too was missing her mouth.

I stood frozen, trying to process what I was seeing. Every child knows the jinx game - the silly rule that if you say the same thing at the same time, you can’t speak until someone says your name. But this… this was different. This was impossible.

As the reality of the situation sank in, a mixture of emotions washed over me. Fear, seeing my husband and daughter’s faces smooth where their mouths should be. Confusion, as my mind struggled to rationalize what couldn’t be real. And strangely, a hint of relief.

The only thing I knew for certain was that none of us were in a hurry to say Carl’s name.