Hello everyone. I am somewhat new to reddit. I have a story that happened to me three nights ago. Let me elaborate.
I live in western Washington State. Around 8 PM on Thursday night, five of us decided to go out for a few drinks in downtown Puyallup. There were three guys and two girls, not the best ratio, but what can you do. Anyway, we go downtown to a few of our favorite local bars. By the end of our time at the third bar, it's approaching midnight, and my group is about ready to call it a night. I haven't really been out drinking much since graduation, so I'm having a blast, and decide that I'd like to stay out by myself. My friend Chris warns me that since he drove me down there, that I would either have to take a cab or walk. Being the cheapskate that I am, I say that a cab is not necessary, and that I have no problem walking home after, since it is only two miles. We say our farewells, and I am solo on the town.
I head back to the first bar that we were at that night. It is usually my go to bar when I'm home because the drinks are cheap and they are generous with their liquor. I grab my drink, a whiskey water, and survey the room. I notice a table with three ladies and one guy, so I go and ask the ladies if I can join them. I explain how my friends were lame and left me out to have fun by myself. They let me sit down, and we have some laughs for awhile. At last call, they say they are going to a diner and that I should come with, but I decline because it was in the opposite direction. I tell them goodnight, and begin my journey back home.
It's 2 am at this point, and I'm walking on 5th street, which will eventually turn into Chrisella blvd. About thee quarters of a mile from where I had been drinking, I get to an area that I always hate walking in at night. Now, I won't say that Puyallup is "ghetto" by any means when comparing it to other areas of the country, however, people are not unfamiliar to drug and alcohol abuse in this area, not by any means.
I continue walking, and I see a shadow of a man. The way this shadow is sitting, makes me think that it's my imagination, because it looks rather inhuman. The shadow appears to be sitting crooked, possibly on a bucket or something, while leaning on the hood of a car toward his left side. The road is dark, so I'm staring at this shadow seeing if it will move. There is no movement. I look away momentarily, and the shadow speaks to me. "Do you have my fire truck?" says the shadow, which is now obviously a man. I'm asking myself in my head, "what did he just say?" He repeats himself, as if he could hear what I was thinking. "Do you have my fire truck?" He doesn't emerge from the seemingly uncomfortable position he is sitting in, so I begin to assume he is drunk or on some sort of substance. "No sir, I don't have your fire truck." I reply, hoping that the conversation will be over. I walk past the man, on the opposite side of the street of course, and slowly start to begin my dreaded ascent up the long and winding Chrisella blvd.
At this point, I'm maybe a couple hundred feet up Chrisella blvd.There are no more street lights for the remainder of my journey home, just moonlight and an expanse of trees on both sides of the road. I'm starting to breathe heavily. I'm in good shape, but I'm tired, and the alcohol is not helping me regulate my breathing I'm sure, so I am starting to notice how heavily I'm actually breathing. I start hearing footsteps coming from behind. These are not the footsteps of someone walking, oh no, someone is running after me. I look back and I see the man from before, running straight at me. I start panicking, but face the approaching man and stand straight. I don't want to look weak. Seeing him under a moonlight, I can now gather more descriptive details about this man. I would describe his body type as an awkward, skinny-fat person, meaning that he has very thin legs and arms, but a very fat midsection. This is the kind of body alcoholics often develop, so I'm becoming more reassured that he is just another crazy drunken burnout. He's not dressed well. It looks like he has been wearing the same orange shirt with blue rings on the sleeve, denim shorts that cut off midway at his shins, and white new balance shoes for a very long time. When he gets about ten yards from me, he slows to a walk, and continues to walk right up to me, maybe six inches from my face. His face is a few days unshaven, and his brown hair is so awkwardly thin that his head would look better completely bald.
"Where is my fire truck" he demands. When he talks, I notice that he doesn't have slurred speech like a drunk, yet he cannot pronounce his words correctly. He has a hard time saying his R's. When he opens his mouth to talk, I can't help but notice very poor oral hygiene. His teeth are brownish-yellow and crooked, and have black in the gums. His mouth looks almost like how someone with chewing tobacco in his teeth and gums would look, but I couldn't smell tobacco. His breath is putrid and nauseating, yet I don't smell alcohol. Now I'm especially concerned. This man is either on drugs, or worse, he's insane. Dealing with a drunken person is easy, but someone who is mentally unstable is a whole different story.
Frightened now, I say, all the while trying to sound polite, "sir, I don't have your fire truck. Where would I store a fire truck? And better yet, if I had this fire truck, wouldn't I be driving it...?" His eyes start to squint, he presses his lips and clenches his jaw to the point that I swear I can hear a popping sound.
"WHERE IS MY FIRE TRUCK?!"
I'm petrified now. This man is taller than average, screaming in my face, and appears to be insane. I push forward against his chest with the palms of my hands and he stumbles back a few feet. At this point, I'm thankful I have the high ground. I set out on a dead sprint up the hill, running as fast as I possibly can, too scared to look back. I'm wearing boat shoes mind you, so I'm not running as quickly as I'd like. As I'm running, I hear a sob. The crazed man is screaming and crying like a child throwing a tantrum.
I run all the way to our private road at the top of the hill. I finally feel that it is safe to slow to a walk again. I'm gasping for breath. I come up to my house, which is dark because one, it's three in the morning, and two, my family is out of town at our cabin for the next several days. When I get inside, I triple check that every door is locked. I'm in a panic. I run up to my room and make sure my gun is loaded. It's a small 9 mm meant for concealing, but if that deranged man enters my house, I want to have it with me.
It's 3:30 am at this point. I'm finally feeling alright. I've calmed down for the most part. The last thirty minutes have been spent looking outside the window in my sister's bedroom because it overlooks the front yard of the house. My buzz is gone, as you can probably imagine. I decide that I should make some food, then get some sleep.
I walk downstairs to our kitchen, start up the stove and put a pan on top. I go to my refrigerator, pull out some eggs and bacon and set them on the counter. Just as I grab the coconut oil cooking spray from the cupboard above, the doorbell rings.
I'm frozen with fear. My face is starting to tingle and my heart feels as though it is coming out of my throat. There is no rational reason coming to my mind as to why the doorbell would be ringing at 3:43 am.
Ding
Ding
Ding
Three rings of the doorbell in a row. I fumble for my gun that is laying on the counter top and walk to the door. In the two large panes on each side of the door, I see nothing. I slowly walk to the door, looking for any movement whatsoever. I see nothing. When I get to the large pane to the right of my front door, I peer outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of who I already know is at my door. Suddenly, a young boy, maybe age 6 takes a step left, and is standing directly in front of me in the pane. There is no expression on his face. The boy stares into my eyes, and I stare back. His eyes are all too familiar to me. Words cannot describe my confusion, and then I look up. Across my yard, standing in the middle of the road in front of the thick woods on the other side, the man from before, glaring at me. I take my eyes off of the hatred radiating from his face and look down. In his left hand, held between his thumb and middle finger, a small red fire truck...
Submitted July 12, 2015 at 10:22PM by Watchman-ASF http://ift.tt/1JZ1Nyo nosleep
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