Reddit Horror! I ate the caramel crayon.. now my kid might too

Tonight’s story comes to us from u/saturdead, posted in r/nosleep, and it starts with something almost every parent has feared at one point or another — a kid, a crayon, and a trip to the hospital. But what begins as a childhood accident unravels into something far stranger: a group of strangers bound together by the same forgotten memory, a secret nobody was ever meant to find, and a question every parent eventually has to face — how far would you go for your child’s future, and what might it cost you both. This is “Don’t Feed Your Kids Caramel Crayons.”

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to the Voices of Reddit Podcast. I'm your host, Dante. Before we begin tonight's story, I want to be transparent with you, the way I always try to be. The voice you're about to hear is an AI clone of my own voice, a tool I use to help narrate the stories I write, so I can bring these scripts to life in a way that matches the tone and atmosphere they deserve. Every word, every script, every ounce of creative work behind these episodes is mine. The narration is simply a tool that helps me tell it to you. Tonight's story comes to us from USA Terded, posted in R No Sleep. And it starts with something almost every parent has feared at one point or another. A kid, a crayon, and a trip to the hospital. But what begins as a childhood accident unravels into something far stranger. A group of strangers bound together by the same forgotten memory. A secret nobody was ever meant to find, and a question every parent eventually has to face how far would you go for your child's future and what might it cost you both? This is don't feed your kids caramel crayons. Don't feed your kids caramel crayons. Everyone has a first memory. For me, it was chewing on a crayon and looking down at a paper. Someone was screaming at me to do something, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. I was confused, scared, and a bit sick. Next thing I know, I'm being carried to a car and driven to a hospital. I remember the world spinning. I'd been poisoned, and I had a long list of severe reactions to it. I don't remember much from that time. I was happy eating ice cream and getting to play Alex Kid on Omega Drive. Meanwhile, I was subjected to daily tests and taking four kinds of medication. Behind the scenes, things were different. The crayons were part of a promotional deal handed out at a nationwide grocery chain when you signed up for a membership card. You also got a fruit basket and a coupon. Turns out, some of the crayons had been tampered with to include one that smelled and tasted like caramel. That's pretty much my first memory. My teeth covered in wax, the taste of caramel on my tongue, and looking down at a picture I can't remember drawing. My family was one of about a dozen who went to court, but we were offered a substantial settlement to keep it quiet. I don't have the exact number, but my family agreed. After all, no one died. By the time we got the payout, I was already back on my feet. All the kids were. There were a few lingering effects of the poison. For example, I couldn't really taste anything sour anymore. Kids could hand me the most eye-watering sour candy, and I didn't even flinch. To me, it was no worse than a cough drop. I would also have trouble going to bed at a regular time, almost as if my circadian rhythm was broken. I can easily stay up for about 30 to 36 hours without cracking a yawn. By the time I got to high school, things looked different. I was a math whiz studying at a university level. I played four instruments and I could speak three languages fluently. My mom hated when I pulled an all-nighter, but once I got to move into the garage, I got into the habit of sleeping every other day in secret. It worked out fine. It's crazy how much more time you have on your hands when you function on a different level. I can't imagine finishing high school on a regular schedule. I went to college on a scholarship and finished with a doctorate in applied mathematics and statistics. Honestly, it felt a bit like cheating. I would zoom past the other students since I could spend more hours of the day focused on one thing without the need to interrupt myself with sleep. I'd get these cheap meal packs that were more or less a TV dinner with a chocolate bar. I ended up skipping the dinners and just getting the bars. I would go days on end just devouring sugar and caffeine on these high caloric vendors that would send my mood up and down like a roller coaster, but I'd get crazy amounts of work done. I was working on a paper and teaching a college class when I met Kayla. We just clicked. What happened between us is what I hope happens to everyone at some point. That everything just gets easy. There was no doubt about us moving in together, about me proposing, about getting a shared bank account, a townhouse, and a car big enough for a family. Once the wedding bells had faded far behind us, we welcomed our first child, my daughter, Erica. Erica was born six weeks prematurely and had critical respiratory issues. She required round-the-clock care, and things were a bit touch-and-go for a while. There was a severe chance of bacterial infection, so Kayla and I had to watch her day and night through a pane of glass. I would be there for days on end, once again subsisting on candy from the vending machine and the occasional lukewarm coffee. But things turned out alright. Erica pulled through and we took her home. I think the whole thing scarred Kayla a bit, turning her more overprotective than she'd want to be. Not saying I was completely unaffected, but she definitely had a shift in perspective. She'd stay up at night holding a mirror in front of Erica just to make sure she was breathing. But as with most things, we found a new normalcy, and days turned to weeks, to months, to years. By the time Erica started going to preschool, we noticed some behavioral patterns. She avoided other kids and kept to herself. She had trouble following instructions, and she'd sometimes act in a way that made her seem cold. She'd snap at teachers and stay in her corner, drawing with crayons or playing with her favorite stuffed bunny. I figured it was a quirk of her personality, but Kayla wasn't convinced. We had a lot of fights about it, and at one point her patience ran out. We'd been sitting in the kitchen talking for well over an hour. She was having a cigarette, blowing smoke out the window. She only smokes when she's stressed. Maybe it's that shit in her system. She snapped at me. That poison. Maybe it can affect our kids. You suggesting it's my fault she can't make friends? You even know what you have. They ever tell you that? The fight eventually ended, as they all do, with quiet resignation, and Kayla going upstairs to check on Erica. That argument made me take a step back and poke around a bit. It didn't take long for me to find the contact info for some of the other families. Some of them had kept in touch with my parents for years after they went to court. Hell, our family still had some of that settlement money left. I double-checked a couple of names with my parents and sent out some emails. After a couple of days, I got a response from a man named Howard. He was about my age and introduced himself as one of the kids affected by the same thing when we were younger. He had just changed his name for unrelated reasons. He'd been in touch with a couple of the others and wanted to bring us all together to see how we were doing. It was a fun idea, sort of like a class reunion for people who had something very specific in common. I agreed, since it wasn't a long drive. I drove out to a cafe on a lazy Thursday in July after a long day of greeting papers. I didn't really know what to expect when I pulled into the parking lot, but it wasn't hard to spot the crowd I was looking for. Seven people showed up from all walks of life. All of them around my age, skinny and well dressed. None of us wore glasses. I walked up and introduced myself. There were a bunch of names and people wanting to introduce themselves. We didn't get much time before one of the guys up front called for attention and waved us over. Thanks for coming, everyone. He said. Figured it was as good a time as any to figure some stuff out. Howard's long hair was tied up in a ponytail. He had a well-kempt beard and a Hawaii shirt. We all settled into a big booth on the top floor of the cafe. Everyone ordered something. Coffee with extra sugars, an energy drink, classic Coke, snacks, cookies, sandwiches. I wasn't the only one with an appetite, but to be fair, that place had an amazing carrot cake. While we were chowing down, Howard spoke up. I figured we could go around the table and introduce ourselves. He said, something about you, your job, where you live, something like that. We all agreed. One by one, we said our names and a little tidbit about ourselves. I shared a bit about my work, my wife, and my daughter. There was one who was a cryptographer working with the defense industry. Another was a city planner working to stop congestion through simulated models in inner cities. We had an art critic, a structural engineer, a professional musician, and a surgeon. Howard worked with cybersecurity. It didn't take us long to realize we had a lot in common. We all had a college education, and many of us were on the same academic level. We had complex roles that required years of specialized experience. As we compared notes, I had a slice of cheesecake and noticed Howard looking at me. He tilted his head and asked an open question. What else do we all have in common? Turns out, quite a lot. On top of being well educated, we all had a sweet tooth. We all had a complicated relationship with sleep, and we had great short-term memory. All in all, we were doing pretty good. The surgeon chimed in. We don't really know what was in those crayons, he said. They never released a toxicology report, and most of the documents were sealed as part of the court settlement. It'd be impossible to find anything about it at this point. There wasn't anything that different about any of us. We'd all been x-rayed and had our blood drawn at one point or another, and no one had ever noticed anything strange. On paper, there was nothing unusual about us. We just had the caramel crayon in common, and that had changed the trajectory of our lives. Then the structural engineer spoke up. Frankly, if whatever was in those crayons made us end up like we are today, can we really say it was such a bad thing? We could disagree on principle, but the facts spoke for themselves. Another added, If I had a kid, I'd want them to get the same opportunities that I did. I wouldn't mind giving them a caramel crayon. The others agreed. At the very least, they wanted to get a closer look at what it contained. Thinking back on Erica, I could see where they were coming from. Erica had so many issues, and if giving her this one thing could help, I wouldn't hesitate to give her one. Coming home that night, I put Erica to bed. She was having another stomach ache, so I already knew what Kayla was doing. Whenever Erica had stomach issues, Kayla reviewed everything she'd eaten to see if there was a common denominator, some kind of allergen. So far we'd found nothing. I read Erica's story, tucked her in, and joined Kayla in the kitchen. As she reviewed the list, I told her about the group and our meeting. If we got the option, do you think Erica would be better off being a bit more like me? I asked. What do you mean? I mean mentally. If she was a bit less tired and a bit more attentive, you know? How can you say that? I don't mean it like that. I sat down and held her hand, looking her in the eyes. Without using a word, I tried to tell her I wasn't asking this to be mean or to imply anything bad. I was concerned. I think Erica would do better long term if she had the option to be a bit more like me. Do you agree? Kayla looked me deep in the eyes. I could feel the easing tension in her hand as she twirled an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She thought about it, then released a drawn-out breath. Yeah, she nodded. I think she'd do better. Me and the others created an email group and got to work looking into what we could about the crayons. As the case never went to court, the news articles that covered it were sparse. Luckily, some of the families involved kept meticulous notes. I talked to my parents and made copies of all contracts and tests they had and uploaded them all to our communal group. Others did the same. There wasn't much to go on, but the surgeon went through what he could and confirmed that we'd all had symptoms reminiscent of anaphylaxis, allergic reactions. Some of us experienced sudden weight loss, while others had inflammation of the gut lining. Most of us had experienced balance issues, while others had severe eczema spanning the entire length of the spine. A part of the settlement had been the company reassuring our parents that they would either stop production entirely or change their safety standards. The structural engineer suggested that the tampering was probably done in-house when the product moved from packaging to warehouse, meaning the culprit was probably someone who worked at the central warehouse unit. We all pitched in with what we could. It was a lot of fun to dig into something like this, and everyone seemed on board. It was a puzzle to solve, and we were all in. One weekend, I couldn't put the work down. I usually forced myself asleep every night, but that particular day I was too fired up to get any rest. Kayla was worried, leaning on the doorframe to check in on me. I was chatting with Howard, who was taking on an organizational role to keep things centralized. I'd just finished updating my contact info. Her stomach's getting better, Kayla said. Hmm? Your daughter, she grinned. Her stomach's getting better. Right, of course. She likes it better when you read to her. Kayla sat down next to me, checking what Howard had written. We'd been breaking down our symptoms, trying to come up with a list of possible substances that could reproduce them, and looking at their effects on consumption. It was a lot of gobbledygook. Sometimes I forget your genius, she snorted. Then you show me stuff like this. You really think she likes it better when I read? Changing the subject, she said, tapping her nose. Smart. And yeah, she's pretty open about it. She doesn't hold back, that's for sure. You seen what she drew today? Kayla unfolded a piece of paper, showing me what looked like brown, hollow blob. I couldn't make sense of it. She says it's Mr. Rabbit, Kayla snorted. I'll be honest, I don't see the resemblance. She's gonna keep that thing until she goes to college, I swear to God. You think she'll go to college? Well, I said, turning the paper over in my hands. Maybe not for an art degree. Kayla smacked me on the shoulder playfully, giving me a kiss on the cheek. She's beautiful and makes beautiful things, and you're an idiot. Of course, dear. You're right, dear. Smart man. It took us a couple of days to piece together what we could find. The crayon had most probably been packaged as a sort of compact caramel fudge dipped in a fragrant sugar solution. Whatever the chemical mixture we'd been given actually was, it had to be potent enough not to dilute or be rendered ineffective when exposed to heat or room temperature for prolonged periods of time. That sort of narrowed it down, but we were far from an answer. Then, a breakthrough. It was our art critic, Shannon, who found something. She was used to scouring online auction houses and collectibles, and there were a number of people who hoarded strange 90s nostalgia. That included crayons and promotional material, even niche ones. I found a seller in Omaha who's got an actual caramel crayon. She wrote in the group chat. It should be here in a couple of days. This was a game changer. If this was the real thing, we could finally get a sample. And with that, answers. As a couple of days passed, I couldn't help but pay a bit more attention to Erica. Not only was she struggling socially, but she was having trouble with shapes and colors. She could spend all day drawing, but it would always come out as some kind of immaterial blob. Even squinting at a distance, I couldn't make it out to look like anything. It was clear she was struggling with spatial dimensions, often going too fast and tripping over herself. I started thinking she might need glasses. It was a difficult question to answer. Should I give her a caramel crayon if given the opportunity? I wouldn't without knowing what was in it. But did it really matter if I considered the results? I'd been given one without my consent, and I turned out fine. We all had. The question of whether or not it'd been good for us was already answered. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what would change if she ate one. What would she be like in, say, a year? And later in life, would she be thankful for the opportunity or angry that I took something away? Shannon updated us that there'd been trouble with the shipment. She wasn't sure if it was a case of porch pirates or a failed delivery, but the package never reached her home. After getting access to a street camera, don't ask how, I have no idea how he did it. One of the members confirmed that no delivery truck had even passed by her house that day, meaning the package had most probably either been sent to the wrong address or never reached the sorting station to begin with. Given how rare the crayon was, we set to tracking it down. Howard was ready to call the whole thing off, but we turned things around surprisingly fast. One guy managed to get access to the warehouse delivery manifest. Again, don't ask. Cross-referencing the weight of the packages with the order receipt that Shannon had, we managed to find a confirmed delivery to an address not too far from there that matched. And strangely enough, it was delivered to someone with a fake name. While some of them debated back and forth on the topic of whether this was delivered or not, I offered to simply go check. It wasn't a long drive, and I could bring someone from the group along just in case. It was just an inquiry. Howard suggested we talk about it first, but Shannon was all in. She was just as curious as I was. We ended up taking a trip out there later the same day. It wasn't that far, and I picked her up after dinner. Shannon was about two years younger than me. Color coordinated in white and winter green, with her black hair and a complex braid. She had these razor thin glasses that were purely cosmetic. The address we'd found was technically on public property. It wasn't a house as much as it was a mobile home at the end of a long road. It wasn't a bad part of town, but it was somewhere people didn't go if they didn't have a good reason to. If our package ended up there, it was a good chance that foul play was involved. We followed a dirt road to the very end, finding a white camper van tucked away between the sparse vegetation. The lights were out, but we could tell someone had been there recently. The windows were covered up with cardboard. Shan and I just kind of looked at one another, thinking we ought to call the whole thing off. Just as I was about to turn the car back on, she got out. I hurried after her. We walked around for a good minute or so, checking the camper van from other angles. I couldn't see a thing. She had an eye for details though, so maybe I was missing something. It's in there, she said. And there's something else. You sure? She pointed to the tires. You could tell they'd been standing there for quite a while, as grass had grown around them. Then she tapped her nose. Taking a whiff, I could smell something faint and sugary. There was an air vent on the back of the camper van, and the smell got stronger the closer you got. Alright, I said. If you're sure, we'll call the police. For a crayon? You think they care? It's a collectible, still a crayon. Then she cracked a window with a rock. After my initial panic faded and Shannon stepped inside, I couldn't help but to be intrigued. The smell got stronger when she opened the door, and I followed her inside. The camper van was more of a lab than a domicile. On the immediate right there was a table full of small terrariums, housing about half a dozen centipedes. There was a portable stove with several kinds of pots and pans full of melted sugar. And there, on a small cutting board, was a caramel crayon. Someone had carefully removed the wrapping paper and cut off a piece with a scalpel, using a testing kit to get a closer look. Shannon checked the notes while I looked around a bit more. We were already in. Might as well snoop a bit. I noticed this one paper that had an ink drawing on it. A detailed handmade diagram of what looked like a human spine next to an identically shaped centipede. Some of its legs were longer, and its body shape looked more like that of a linked sausage. Still, the shape of it matched the spine perfectly. There were also a couple of folders with newspaper clippings, test results, and transcripts. Some went all the way back to the 90s. Couple of words and sentences were highlighted in yellow marker pen. Sense of taste affected. Irregular sleep schedule. Excessive caloric intake. Memory loss. The last thing was crossed out, with a handwritten note added to the side. It's not memory loss. Looking up at Shannon, she was already taking pictures and sharing with the group chat. It was clear that this was no coincidence. Whoever had diverted the package had done so with intent. It says something about memory loss, I said. You know anything about that? Not really, Shannon said. We'll have to ask the others. Do you have memory problems? I can remember everything from my very first memory. What was it? Eating the crayon, I said, turning a page. Shannon turned to me with a raised eyebrow. That's my first memory too. Taking a couple more pictures, we heard something outside. A car coming down the street. Shannon snatched what remained of the crayon. As we turned to leave, we noticed a shotgun tucked away just above the door. Whoever lived here was prepared for something. Hurrying outside and closing the door behind us, Shannon raised a hand at me to stop. As the car came down, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Howard. He stopped, got out, and waved at us. We gotta go, he said. We don't have much time. We followed him for a bit until we got to a gas station. I stopped for gas while Shannon checked her phone. Howard met up with me at the punk. He was consistent in his fashion choices, still wearing a Hawaii shirt just with different colors. But the same tacky style. I heard some radio chatter. Howard said, I think they called the cops. But we should be good, right? Right. He nodded. I'm a goddamn guardian angel. You got anything? Turns out we have another thing in common, I said. We all have the same first memory, eating that crayon. What's that mean, you think? Well, we were all different ages, so I don't think it's a coincidence, but I can't put my finger on why that bothers me. And it really did. There was a part of me that itched at the thought, like I was missing something obvious. I snapped my fingers a couple of times and said my thoughts out loud. Like, what happened to whatever we experienced before that point? What happened to all those years before I ate the crayon? Neither Shannon nor Howard had an answer, leaving the question looming over us as we called it a night. Howard gave Shannon a ride home as I checked the group chat, watching everyone confirm that none of us had any memory prior to eating that crayon. As I checked on Erica before heading to bed, I couldn't help but wonder if the same thing would happen to her if we gave her a crayon. Would she forget everything we'd done up to that point? Would she still prefer me reading to her over her mom? Pushing the hair from her chin? I couldn't help but wonder. It really bordered on a much larger question. How much was I prepared to give up of my child in order for her to reach her full potential? I wanted what was best for her. But there is no objective way to say what that is. No parent is a fortune teller. Being quick on your feet or good at school is no guarantee for a successful life. What even is success anyway? Closing her door behind her, I met Kayla in the hallway. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and lowered her voice. You find anything? Someone's been looking into this, I whispered. It's strange. You know what's in the crayon yet. No idea, but it made us forget things. What things? What things? I peeked back at Erica, making sure she was sound asleep. Everything. Made us forget everything before we ate that thing. So you don't remember what you were like before? Not really, no. But I was just six. Nothing? I shook my head. Kayla frowned a little, growing increasingly concerned. So it turned you into a new person? I don't think so. If you don't remember a single thing from before you ate it, how do you know you weren't completely different? It was a good question. I talked to my parents about it the next day. Turns out they'd thought about that too. Prior to eating that crayon, I'd been a much louder kid. Angrier, even. I'd been energetic, kinda pushy, and very affectionate. After eating it, it was like I'd hit a hard reset. You talked less, mom shared over the phone. You didn't care much for TV, and your whole sense of taste changed. We had to get new cereal. Would you say I was a new person? In a way, I suppose. But we raised you all the same. You can only get so different in the company of the same people. But I was different. I suppose you were. The group chat had similar conversations. According to one guy, he'd gone from right-handed to left-handed after eating the crayon. Another had a completely different posture. One changed their entire pattern of speaking. All of us had gone through a sort of transformation, changing us on a fundamental personal level. We waited for Shannon to weigh in, but nothing happened. Hours later, as the sun began to set, she still wasn't answering. She'd been one of the most active in the chat up until that point. She wasn't answering her calls either. We were getting worried. She was fine when I dropped her off, Howard wrote. Want me to go check on her. I'll do it, I said. Be back in a bit. Kayla wanted to come along and meet one of the group, but Erica wasn't feeling well, and we couldn't bring her along. Someone had to stay home with her. I said I'd asked Shannon to come by sometime to meet the family. You don't get a lot of chances to make new friends as a first-time parent. I drove out to Shannon's place. She lived in an apartment complex downtown, top floor. One of those expensive places where you have to take an elevator up. She'd already shared the door code in case we had to come by and say hi. This wasn't the first time she'd gotten a visit from one of her crayon buddies. I went inside the building, stepped into the elevator, and typed out her four-digit code. As the doors closed, I double-checked my phone. Still, nothing. When the doors opened, I almost swallowed my tongue. There was only one apartment on the top floor, and the elevator opened right next to the front door. The door was wide open, revealing the coconut white interior. The one thing that stood out was a contrasting pool of red covering the back of her sectional white leather couch. Right next to it was Shannon's lifeless body, having dropped face first onto her minimalist glass coffee table. Strings of black hair cast a bloody contrast on her white carpet, as part of her head had been smeared across the room from a shotgun blast. She still wore her cosmetic glasses from the previous night. The blood had been dry for hours, and the flies were already feasting. All sounds faded as my eyes fixated on that shade of red. It looked almost cartoonish, fake. I could smell the iron of her blood, but it didn't make sense to me. It was the last thing I'd expected to see, and now I couldn't see anything but that. I couldn't see anything but the red. As my heart began to race, I realized there was a sound. It's distant, like from behind a pane of glass. I looked down at my phone that I've been holding, only to see that it's ringing. An unknown number. I press to accept and raise it to my ear. I can barely hear through my own pulse as my mouth runs dry. Step back in the elevator and go home. A voice says. I say the first word that comes to mind. Howard, go home. Call anyone, and I'll know. What are you doing? Do as I say, and no one else gets hurt. The call ends and I leave. I don't touch the door. I don't touch anything. I feel cold as I sit back down in my car. Like a block of ice has settled in my stomach. I carefully adjust the rearview mirror, force my shoulders to relax, and check the speed every 50 feet or so. I don't just drive home. I'm exemplary. I'm collected, professional, panicking. As I park the car on my driveway, I don't know what to do. I keep my phone ready. I've already typed in the emergency number, ready to push the call button. I place my hand on my door, and something in me seizes. What if I were to open the door to another splatter of red? As long as I stay outside and that door is closed, I can pretend a little longer, but I have to know. I step through the door, the lights are dimmed, and the TV is running on low volume in the living room. There's no one there. A light is coming from the adjacent kitchen. I keep my shoes on as I round the corner, only to see Howard sitting on a chair by our kitchen island. He has a shotgun trained on me, has a tube added on the top, some kind of silencer. It's the shotgun from the camper van. There's a small glass on the kitchen island, and he invites me to sit down with a wave of a hand. I stay on my feet, finger on the phone, ready to make the call. They're fine, he says. They're upstairs. What do you want? Have a drink and I'll leave. What is it? Does it matter? I step forward and sit down across from him. The glass has a clear liquid and a powerful chemical smell. Howard sighs as he leans back, keeping the shotgun pointed at me. I couldn't let you give it to that little girl, he mumbles. Or anyone. You know what the crayon is? You haven't figured it out? He scoffed. I thought you were supposed to be geniuses. It made us forget things, I said. Early memories. No, he says, shaking his head. It ate them. What? It ate them, he spat. The damn thing they got into, you ate the kid you were and left you behind. He poked the glass with the barrel of the gun, inching it closer to me. It's an antiparasitic cocktail, he says. Tried to give one to Shannon, but yeah. It should kill whatever's in control. I have no idea what kind of person will be left behind, but at least it'll be human. I am human. No, you were human, he hissed. Before some sadist tricked you into eating a kind of centipede or tapeworm hybrid, the kind of thing you considered infecting your girl with. I wouldn't unless I knew what it was. Now I'd never boom. Shit. He got up and kicked away the chair, making the cheap wood clatter against the kitchen tiles. Sweat is running down my face, making my eyes itch as I blink it all away. He keeps a distance to make sure I can't reach for the gun, but he doesn't let up. He never looks away. I was gonna save all of you. Howard yelled. I just needed more time to test it. That's all I needed. Time. I'd fix you and you could come back to your family, a real man. How do I know it won't just kill me? I say, What if it just kills all my memories a second time? I tap my chest, making a point as I desperately continue. Who is this? Who is speaking to you? Is it the real me, or whatever the crayon put in me? One gulp, and we'll find out. I don't want to leave them. I can't risk it. I won't. You'll be real or you'll be dead. Take a pick. Shannon made her choice. My mind spins. My breaths grow shallow as my hand shakes. I pick up the glass. There's this warmth crawling up the length of my spine. I close my eyes, letting my mind drift. I can almost feel it. Little legs poking at my nerve endings, hijacking one process and replacing another. Maybe it's been there all these years. Maybe I'm just imagining it. I raise the glass to my lips as the chemicals crinkle my nose. Then I stop. I hear a voice from the corridor. My tummy hurts. Howard and I turn to see Erica standing in the doorway. Howard lowers the weapon, giving me a knowing look. She must have slipped out while Kayla was locked in the bedroom. Maybe he thought she was asleep. Daddy's just having a drink, Howard says. He'll be with you in a bit. Can I hold your hand? She asks. Sure, Howard smiles. We can go upstairs while Daddy finishes his drink. He reaches out a hand toward her, and I see something shift. Her eyes reflect in a matte sheen. It looks like she's yawning, but her mouth just keeps going wider and wider. By the time Howard notices, I see something unfolding from under her tongue as she bites down on his hand. Howard screams out and presses the trigger, blasting a hole through our kitchen window in a deafening boom. He collapses to the ground in a seizure as his eyes roll back in his skull. I rush over to pick up Erica as Kayla is screaming from the bedroom. I rush to call for help as Erica curls into my arms and leans in next to my ear. I feel a lot better now. Howard reminds me of a dying spider, curling in on himself, struggling to breathe. Something black spreads from the bite mark on his hand. It doesn't take long for police to get there. Howard was taken to the hospital, and it took him four days to regain consciousness. They had to amputate his arm as it had been infected with a powerful toxin. They weren't sure what kind of toxin it was. I never drank from that glass, and neither did anyone else. Some rejected the idea that we'd been infected with parasites completely. The surgeon avoided the topic altogether, but his silence was telling. He mentioned finding something on her x-rays, but he never shared exactly what. Erica has a small fold under her tongue. If she presses on it just right, it produces this foul-smelling liquid from a leather-like membrane. If she presses enough and spits it out, her stomach stops hurting. Once we figured that out, she started feeling a lot better. Kayla and I have been looking a little closer at Erica. It's clear she's not like other kids. She has started to feel more comfortable in herself. Turns out one reason she can seem distracted and clumsy at times is because she hasn't been sleeping all that well. Most nights, she was just lying there, faking it. Her circadian rhythm has been all over the place. She also can't taste very sour things, just like her dad. The strangest thing is her drawings. We looked at them like random scribbles, but if you put them in a pile, you realize something, they're a cross-section. It's similar to how you would render a 3D printed object. She really was drawing her favorite Mr. Bunny. She was just doing it from a different perspective. Now that we've started to figure her out, she has been opening up a lot more. She used to be scared of accidentally biting people, or them smelling her bad breath. Now that she can deal with that, she has a bit more confidence. At the end of the day, I don't know for sure what I am. I don't know if I'm a parasite or the remnants of a dying mind. I don't know these things. But it doesn't matter. Whatever I am, I have a wife that loves me and a child that's just like me. The real me. She'll be and do things that I never can, and her view of the world will be unique in so many ways that'll never go away. I won't feed her a caramel crayon. She is perfect the way she is. She's just a kid, my kid, and whatever she becomes is hers alone. To this day, I don't have an answer as to who did this to me. I don't know the purpose or why we ended up the way we did. Maybe in our natural habitat, our days are longer, maybe our diet is sour. It doesn't matter. At the end of the day, we're reading from the same picture book. That's it for tonight's story. Before you go, I just want to say thank you genuinely. Every one of you who hits play, who sits with these stories in the dark, who shares an episode with a friend, or leaves a comment about the one that got under your skin, that's why this show exists. I don't take it for granted. A quick note on how the sausage gets made. Once a story is fully scripted and edited, I use an AI voice cloning tool trained on my own voice to help narrate it. It's still me, my writing, my pacing, my choices. The tool just helps me stretch one person and a laptop into a full production. I always want to be upfront about that process because I think you deserve to know exactly what you're hearing. Behind every episode is a lot of late nights, sorting through submissions, finding the ones that actually deserve your time, scripting them so the dread builds the right way, and mixing it all together so it sounds right through your headphones. So thank you for trusting me with your evenings. It means more than you know. I'll be back next week with another story pulled straight from the depths of Reddit. Until then, sleep tight if you can. This has been Voices of Reddit.