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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheMark19 on 2025-05-21 14:00:04+00:00.

I’m a volunteer psychologist in a war zone. But I’m not writing this as a therapist right now. I’m writing this as someone who, for the first time in a long time, is truly afraid.

The shelter where I’m working sits atop a hill of red earth, an old structure that seems to bleed when it rains. They say the house was once owned by a wealthy landowning family. Then, a field hospital. Now, it’s run by a European NGO that takes in children displaced by civil war in small Eastern European regions.

I’ve been here for just over two months. There are three shared dorms, a makeshift consultation room (where I also sleep), a basic kitchen, and a large basement where we store supplies and some files no one seems to want to touch. The house groans at night, like wood in pain, just like its “guests.”

During the day, things are almost normal. The children draw, play what they can still call play, and sometimes they even forget about the war for a few minutes. It’s absolutely heartbreaking to see such young children not spared from witnessing things that would shatter most adults. I couldn’t just sit and watch this happen. It felt noble, important even life-saving. That is, until the boy arrived.

He came this past Monday, brought in by soldiers from the Northern Army. No documents. A wet backpack. Caked in dry earth. Eyes too knowing. Silent. The nurse tried to speak to him. So did I. Nothing. He just grabbed a piece of paper with his small, dirty fingers and wrote a single word:

“below”

No punctuation. No emotion. No capitals. He just pushed the paper toward me and kept staring over my shoulder, like something was behind me.

And that’s what he’s done ever since: he walks silently through the house, draws with obsessive intensity, and writes that same word: below. The volunteers started calling him “The Pit Boy.”

But he listens. I see it. He listens very well, and that’s why I avoid any jokes or nicknames.

My routine with him started simple. Passive observation at first. Then short sessions in the office, even if he didn’t speak. Slowly, we gathered more information: he was the only survivor of what they’re calling a “rural cleansing.” His village was wiped off the map, the bodies left to rot in the streets. He was found inside a dry well.

I had to fight back tears every time I looked into his eyes…

The first time he drew in front of me was during our fourth session. He sat still for twenty minutes, then pulled out his notebook and drew the outline of a large, deep hole in shaky, spiraling lines. At the center: a dark spiral.

Around the hole: hands. Lots of hands. Some looked like children’s. Others… far too large.

He looked at me, and once again, tears welled up. What had this poor soul seen in that pit? Were the enemies tormenting him? Had he listened to everyone he loved being killed while he hid underground?

Then, he wrote the same word in the corner of the paper:

below

I forced a smile. I told him he could draw other things. I told him he was safe here.

He just pushed the paper toward me again, harder this time.

The worst part happened last night.

There were light footsteps in the hallway downstairs, even though everyone was asleep.

I woke up with Ramires, one of the NGO workers (our “bodyguard”) covering my mouth. My heart nearly exploded until I realized it was him. He motioned shhh, and I nodded.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“There’s an intruder downstairs… armed.”

A chill shot up my spine. All I could think about was the children. What this man might do.

If he was alone. If maybe death wasn’t even the worst he could bring us.

Ramires interrupted my spiral of thoughts by handing me a gun. He had another in his own hand.

“I’m going down. If you get a clear shot, even if I’m in the way don’t hesitate.”

I couldn’t answer. He just cracked open the office door and stepped out. I followed.

We crept down the stairs carefully, sweeping the space for movement. Nothing.

Just dead silence.

Until, passing the kitchen entrance, something leapt from inside. A shadow. It fell onto me.

I felt the barrel of a rifle press into my neck. All I could see was the glint of a helmet as a thick-accented voice shouted:

“Where is he? Where’s that (word I couldn’t understand)?”

I know it only lasted a few seconds (but for me, and for my neck, it felt like forever) until Ramires fired. The man dropped. Lifeless. Blood spreading fast across the floor.

We could already hear footsteps upstairs. The kids were waking up and the nurse scrambled to get them back into their rooms before they saw the mess.

“Shit,” I said, rubbing my throat. “Any more of them?”

“No,” my colleague replied. “Just this one. Seems like he was after the…”

His voice trailed off.

I turned to see what had stopped him.

There he was, standing on the stairs.

The boy from the pit.

We both froze, unsure how to react.

“Hey buddy,” Ramires said gently. “It’s late. Go back to your room, okay?”

The boy’s eyes were wide. Glassy.

While they tried to soothe him, I noticed something: the wounded soldier was still moving, barely. His eyes darted around wildly. Not at us:

At the boy.

I saw his hand reaching for his weapon, and I swear it wasn’t a choice, it was faster than thought.

I shot him.

Again. And again. Until the bullets ran dry. Until he stopped moving, while the boy watched in silence. As soon as I came to my senses, I dropped the weapon, stunned. I mumbled a faint “good night” and ran back to my office, where I collapsed into sobs.

This morning, one of the caretakers said she found the boy outside in the garden.

On his knees. Digging with his bare hands.The ground was dry. Hard. His fingers bled from the nails, but he kept digging like it was urgent.

When I approached, he stopped.

His knees were scraped, his body covered in soil. Then he started writing again,

but this time, on his own arm, with a bloody finger:

below

My stomach turned. That’s why I had to write this somewhere. To not lose my grip. Because ever since then I’ve started hearing sounds. The shelter is silent, but I can’t focus, and it’s not the coffee. It’s that feeling. Like something underneath us is… moving.

I got up. I slowly made my way down the wooden stairs. The pale sun slipped through the windows, carried by a freezing breeze. As I passed the basement, I swear I heard something. A tiny voice, whispering one word.I know what it said, because it repeated it. Twice. It said:

“Mommy…?”

I froze. It couldn’t be. I know that voice. And God help me, it’s tearing me apart. It was *wet.*Like it came from underwater, through a diving mask.

I didn’t go in. Not today. I won’t.

I closed the door quietly and went back to my room. And there, on the floor, I found a new drawing. I don’t know how it got in, the door was locked. But the paper was there. It was the same hole, bbut this time someone was kneeling at the edge.

No face.

Just long brown hair.

Like mine.

And below her: Hands. So many hands, reaching up. And in the corner of the paper—something new. Not the word “below.” But a full sentence. In childish handwriting:

“She’s going down too.”

I’m a psychologist. Scientific. Rational. But now, I’ve locked my door from the inside

And dragged the cabinet in front of it. Because I hear footsteps in the ceiling. And through the peephole, I can see the boy.

Sitting in the hallway, staring at me.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

His hands covered in dirt.

And smiling.