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Author - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/⁠

Original story - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/r/stories/comments/1ksw8kc/i_work_on_cargo_ships_a_scarred_whale_began/

Original story title - I work on cargo ships. A scarred whale began acting erratically around us. We thought it was the danger. We were wrong. So, so wrong

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In 1994, a rancher in Utah shot a wolf six times at point-blank range. It didn't bleed. It didn't fall. It looked at him and walked away.That ranch would go on to become one of the most studied and feared locations in the world. But the thing that lives there — the thing the Navajo have known about for centuries — is far older than any ranch.Tonight, we talk about the one thing you're not supposed to talk about.

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Prisoner 1471 was sent into the blood ocean to take photographs. What he found in the dark wasn't supposed to be documented. It was supposed to consume him. It didn't. That was the problem. (This story takes place in the Iron Lung universe.)

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A desperate man takes an overnight security job at a remote Buc-ee's in West Texas — good pay, no customer interaction, just watching monitors until morning. Simple enough. But the rulebook he's handed on his first night contains instructions that don't quite make sense, and the longer he works there, the more he notices things he can't explain. Strange patterns. Strange visitors. Strange sounds beneath the floor. His coworker Mitch doesn't offer answers, only warnings. And the note in his locker makes one thing uncomfortably clear — the employees who last longest are the ones who learn not to ask questions.

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Cast

Reese - bayleaf. - https://www.instagram.com/bayleaf.makesnoise

https://bayleafmusic.bandcamp.com/album/champagne

Jamie - Skully

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Six weeks on the job. That's all I had when Reese told me never to open the bag.

She didn't explain. Not at first. Just two words — zip it. So I did.

But the man inside was warm. Not cooling-down warm. Alive warm. And when we pulled onto the highway, something in the back of the rig started talking.

It knew my name. It knew my mother's voice. It knew exactly what would make me reach for that zipper.

Eleven years on the night shift taught Reese one thing above everything else — some bodies aren't just bodies. And some calls on Machen Road don't end when the vitals go flat.

Tonight on Skully's Sinister Stories — whatever is in those bags is learning. And it's getting better at breaking the people who know the rules.

Don't open the bag.

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Six years as a park ranger at New River Gorge. I know every sound this forest makes. I know what belongs out here and what doesn't.

The claw marks were nine feet up. Bears don't reach nine feet.

The impressions in the mud looked like something had been perching above them. The scratches on the metal roof started in October. Something was settling onto it every night between two and four AM, slow and deliberate, like it didn't want to be heard.

Then one night I went outside.

Dale said it chooses someone. He didn't say what happens after.

I put in my transfer three weeks ago. I'm two hours away now. City lights. Street noise. As far from the gorge as I could get.

Last night at 2:15 AM, something settled onto my sister's roof.

It's been there every night since.

And this morning when I looked in the mirror, the blood vessels in my eyes weren't red anymore.

They were glowing.

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They don't force their way in. They knock. They ask. And every single witness describes the same thing — a cold, paralyzing dread that hits before they even understand why.

The Black-Eyed Children have been reported across the world for decades. Same behavior. Same requests. Same eyes.

In 1996, journalist Brian Bethel encountered two of them in a Texas parking lot. What happened next became one of the most documented paranormal accounts in modern history.

Tonight, Skully's Sinister Stories goes deep into the legend — the encounters, the theories, and the one rule that might keep you alive.

Never let them in.

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On the sixteenth day of a solo trip through Tokyo, a hidden market stall offered something that felt like a gift. It looked like an orange, but it felt like feverish flesh. Now, twelve days later in a quiet Philadelphia apartment, the thing on the desk is growing. It has developed a face that watches, a mouth that breathes, and jointed legs that tap against the wood in the dead of night. Every hour it expands, and every hour the narrator’s own body begins to mirror its grotesque proportions. The transaction is nearly complete.

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I started delivering for DoorDash after midnight because the tips were better. For a while, it was just drunk food and empty porches. Then the late-night orders started coming with instructions that didn't make sense — don't look at the second-floor window, don't step on the porch, close your eyes and count to ten. I followed every rule. The tips were enormous. Nothing bad happened. I thought I was safe as long as I kept following the instructions. Then an order came through at 3:14 AM. The delivery address was my apartment. The customer name was a single letter. And DoorDash support confirmed it was placed from inside my home.

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When the school district posted the position for the third time, no one else would take it. I needed the job. I took it.

Felter sits in a shallow valley in northern Ontario, four hundred people carved out of the wilderness and slowly being taken back. The children were quiet in a way that unsettled me. The church windows were painted black from the inside. Every Thursday night, the townspeople walked north toward the lake in silence — and something walked with them.

The principal warned me not to go into the woods after dark. She never warned me about what happened to the last teacher.