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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Fractured-North on 2024-11-26 00:21:09+00:00.

Foreword: This letter was found on the bed of inmate Riley Hanson by an unknown correctional officer in Seattle Washington on November 16th, 1983. 

 I am sorry to whoever finds this letter. I didn’t mean for everything to happen the way it did. This is the only thing I can think to do before I go, so you know why. This is my final story, my last confession. 

It all started shortly after Brian & I moved to Seattle. He had just graduated medical school, and we moved to the big city to start our new lives. We house hunted for a few months before we finally found our dream home. It was a beautiful two story house on the outskirts of the city. The moment we entered, we both fell in love with it. We signed the papers that week, which our parents didn’t approve of. That is, until they toured the home themselves a few weeks later. 

A month after moving in, Brian was hired at the local hospital, and our new life was off to a wonderful start. I had a job at one of the local bookstores for a few months, until I found out I was pregnant. When I told Brian, his face lit up and we spent the night getting ice cream and walking around Seattle talking about different names. 

The first incident happened when I was 7 months pregnant. I had left my job at the bookstore a few weeks prior, in order to get the house ready for our baby. I was painting the spare bedroom a light blue color, as we had found out we’d be having a boy. I turned to discover an empty can. I was about to stop painting altogether when I remembered we had several cans of paint in the basement from when we first moved in. I made my way out of the soon to be nursery, and walked halfway down the main hall to the basement door. 

I stood at the top of the stairs to the basement, peering into the darkness below. For a moment I hesitated, wondering if I should just wait an hour for Brian to be home. I’d been down into the basement countless times in the year and a half we’d lived in the house, but the air felt different now. I tried to shrug off the feeling I was walking into the lion’s den as I descended the wooden steps into the dark void below. 

A cloud of dust rolled up as my feet hit the dirt floor. I waved my hand to dispel it as I flipped the light switch and made my way across the room. I stopped in front of a shelf that held various tools and other house-keeping items. I skimmed through it with no luck. I turned and made my way to a workbench littered with wood chips and carvings. Before my pregnancy, I’d taken to using the bench for my wood carving hobby, but stopped a few months ago. Doing my best to remain steady, I bent down and opened a shelf underneath the bench. Inside it were several paint cans. I grabbed one out to examine it, only to find it wasn’t the right color. I sighed and put it back, then repeated the process three more times. None of the cans matched the one upstairs. Defeated, I put the last can back and closed the door, then proceeded to make my way back upstairs. 

My left foot was on the first stair when I heard a crash. I leaned back and saw a paint can had fallen from the shelf underneath the bench. I sighed and started for the bench when the ground began to shake. I steadied myself against the shelf, but the shaking intensified. Various cans and tools began to fall off the shelf. I jumped back as a gardening tool slapped against my arm. There was barely any time to react when I noticed the shelf next to me was falling towards me. It crashed to the ground with a deafening sound as I scrambled up the stairs as best I could with my limited mobility. I collapsed at the top of the stairs, and didn’t move until Brian found me still there. 

After making sure I was ok, besides a small cut on my arm, Brian went down into the basement to assess the damage. He returned 15 minutes later, drenched in sweat. Nothing had broken apart from a can of paint. We both decided it had been a localized earthquake, despite not seeing any mention of one in the next day’s paper. 

Two months later, I delivered the most beautiful baby boy, Everett. He completed our small family, and lit up our lives. About a year after he was born, we were surprised to find out he’d be getting a brother. My second pregnancy flew by and before we knew it, our trio had become a quartet. We named our second boy Riley. When Brian suggested it, I initially thought my son wouldn’t want to share his name with his mom, but I warmed up to it. Throughout this time, the small earthquakes persisted, but they were common where we lived, so we dismissed them. 

When Everett was 5, him and Riley began begging us for a dog. I refused due to an incident in my childhood, but we made a compromise. That Christmas, the boys were gifted a hamster. Initially disappointed, they grew to love Mr. Dorito with all their heart. 

A year later is when things took a turn for the worse. That summer, Mr. Dorito had disappeared when the boys were playing with him. It really took a toll on them, and we weren’t sure what to do. One night, I got up to get a glass of water, and I found Riley kneeling in front of the basement door. We developed the habit of locking the basement door after Everett began walking. He jumped when I asked what he was doing, but then told me he heard a dog downstairs. I told him he dreamed it up, and sent him back to bed. 

The next day, I was working on some projects down in the basement. I let the boys play with their toys in the dirt down there when J worked. They had made a decently sized hole when I told them it was time for dinner. They fussed but relented when I threatened to take away their construction toys. 

That night, Brian and I were awoken by a loud crashing sound. We rushed out of bed into the hallway, and found Riley crying at the top of the stairs. Brian’s keys hung from the basement door. I held Riley as Brian ran down the stairs, returning moments later cradling Everett in his arms. Everett’s arm lay broken in his lap. We rushed to the hospital, and Brian took Everett inside as Riley and I sat in the waiting room. After I got him a juice box from the vending machine, he spoke for the first time since we found him. I could barely hear it, but he said, “We just wanted to pet the doggy.”

We returned home in the late morning. Everett was lucky and had only broken his arm. The boys were back to normal at the end of the day, with Everett bragging about how everyone in his class would think his cast was cool. 

Brian and I decided we would hide the key to the basement in a place only we would reach. That all changed a few weeks later. Brian and the boys were outside while I was in the basement. I had just finished up when I saw movement in the dirt next to me. The ground began sinking into itself, then it began to shift upwards, as if something was emerging. I screamed for Brian as I ran up the stairs. There was growling from beneath me as I reached the top and flung the door shut. For a moment, I thought everything was fine, then the door began to shake. I held myself against it while shouting for help, as something on the other side banged against the door. 

Brian arrived to witness the ordeal. We both held ourselves close to the door until the banging stopped. I stayed by the door as Brian retrieved a chair and wedged it in. He proceeded to call the police while the boys and I retreated to our driveway. Within a few minutes, the police arrived and made their way into the basement. The only thing they found was a paint can tipped over and a large indentation in the ground. They left soon after and Brian and I discussed what we’d do. We decided it wasn’t safe to go down there anymore, so we boarded up the door. 

For about 6 months following that encounter, we regularly heard banging and growls from the basement. Brian had told some of his coworkers about the events, and they suggested a priest should come and bless the house. I was hesitant to involve religion, but I relented. A week later a catholic priest visited our house. He told us our experiences were telltale signs of demonic activity. Brian asked that he bless our house, so he said some prayers and sprinkled holy water in every room of our house. The priest requested access to the basement, as that was the source of our grief. We broke out some tools and opened up the door to the basement. The priest and Brian descended below, and returned a few moments later. After the priest left, we immediately boarded the door up again. When I put the tools away, I didn’t notice a hammer was missing. I’ll never forgive myself for that. 

Two nights later, a scream ripped me from my sleep. I instinctively felt for Brian, but he wasn’t in bed. I leapt from bed and dashed into the hallway, and froze. The basement door was opened, a wooden plank still hanging by a single nail from it. The hammer lay next to it on the ground, along with the other planks. I inched my way to the top of the stairs, only to be met with flickering lights below. A scream from below broke me from my trance, and I raced down the stairs. 

I will not recount the exact details of what I found at the foot of the stairs, as that burden is mine to bear until I leave this life. My boys were dead. Their tattered dinosaur pajamas the only identifying feature. I didn’t have time to process the sight before me when another scream took my attention away. Brian was standing in the far corner, brandishing a kitchen knife. In front of him, is someth…

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