Something Has Been Following You Your Entire Life

 It has been patient. It has been watching. It has never once stopped moving toward you — not for a single second of your entire life. This is its confession. And before this video ends, you'll know exactly what it is.

Story Credit: Yours Truly
https://www.reddit.com/r/scarystories/comments/1tf05w7/i_am_the_thing_you_cannot_outrun/

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Transcript

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Do you know what it's like to watch someone realize they're already dead? People fear me and I understand why. What I do, it's terrible, really. If I could stop I would, but this is what I am. It's my purpose. And the only mercy that I can offer, if I can even call it that, is time. I take my time to get to them. Days, weeks, sometimes months or years. I tell myself it's a kindness of sorts, giving them space to live a little longer, to hold their loved ones, to see one more sunrise, to pretend, even for a moment, that they might escape what's coming. It's the least I can do, I think. I've been doing this for a long, long time. For longer than you can imagine, actually. Longer than anyone should have to. But when you carry this burden for as long as I have, you start to notice patterns. You start to understand things about people that they don't understand about themselves. The truth is, everyone ends up in the same place eventually. The only difference is the path they take to get there. Some run, some hide. Some accept it with grace and others well. But the destination never changes. So why does it matter how fast you move? Why exhaust yourself fleeing from something inevitable? I used to wonder about this constantly. The frantic energy humans spend trying to outrun their fate. All that movement, all that ethnic, and for what? There's an analogy that I like. Imagine a child building a sand castle on the beach. They work for hours crafting towers and walls, digging moats, placing cells just so. It's beautiful and creative work. And then the tide comes in. Not all at once, no, no. That would be far too cruel. Noah comes in slowly, wave by wave, each one eroding a little bit more than the last. The child, of course, watches, maybe tries to rebuild faster. Faster than the water can destroy. But we both know how the story ends. The ocean doesn't hate the sand castle, it's just doing what oceans do. I tell myself that I'm like that tide. Patient. Natural, inevitable, but not malicious. But that's a lie too now, isn't it? The truth is simpler and uglier, rather. Why build the castle at all when we both know I'm coming? I put in the effort. Or I pretend those walls will hold. I've stopped trying to justify it with poetry and philosophy in itself is just another wall. And I've learned that walls don't matter. Nothing does, really. There's just the work, target, approach, and then the end. I don't feel much anymore when I start, it's just an automatic mechanical process for me. I identify, chart my course, and begin the journey. One moment after another, closing the distance, and they usually don't notice me at first. I mean, why would they? I'm patient, unassuming, and easy to overlook until it's far too late. Sometimes I'll watch them for a while before they even realize I'm there. They go about their days working, laughing, making plans they'll never fulfill. It's just background noise, really. I've seen it all before. Same fears, same hopes, same delusions of permanence. The job is simple. Get close enough and it's over. That's really all there is to it. But then Oh but then there's that moment where they finally see me. When the recognition of what's about to happen hits them. When they understand what I am and what I'm here to do. That's everything changes. Their eyes go wide, the color drains from their faces, some scream, some freeze, some try to run, some stumble over themselves in panic. As if distance could possibly matter now. As if anything could. And I keep coming. The same slow, steady, and inevitable pace that I've always kept since the very beginning of my journey. Do you know what it's like to watch someone realize they're already dead? To see the exact moment that their hope fractures hits intoxicating, say the least. The way they scramble, the calculations running behind their eyes, how far can I get? What can I hide? Is there any possible way out of this? And of course the answer is always no. Watching them figure it out. Watching them try. Now that's the part I've come to love more than anything. The ones that are frozen, paralyzed by their own terror. Those. Those are my favorite ones. With them, I can slow down even more. I can really draw it out, savoring every excruciating second they spend staring at me, knowing I'm coming, unable to do anything but wait. Their breathing gets shallow, their hands shake, time stretches and warps and becomes a thick, suffocating space that we share together. Just me and them and the inevitable. Sometimes there are others nearby. There are witnesses that see what happens and see me finish the job, and beautiful panic spreads through the group. They scatter. They think they're safe because I'm occupied. Because I can only take one at a time and they're right, of course. For now. But they know. Well they definitely know deep down that one of them is next. They just don't know which one. Or when. And I'm gonna let you in on a secret. Neither do I. Really. And that's part of the fun. The randomness. The way they eye each other afterwards. Wondering if proximity matters. If there's some kind of pattern they can decode or some way that they'll be able to predict who I'll choose next in. Really, there just isn't. I just pick one. And then I start moving again. The screaming is good and the running is better. Not the best? The absolute best is when they think they've escaped. When they've put kilometers between us. When they've convinced themselves that they're safe. When they've started to breathe normally again. And then they see me. Still coming. Always coming. The despair that follows a chef's kiss. The realization that distance means nothing, that I will find them, that I will reach them. That nothing, not walls, not speed, not even time itself, will save them from me. Because this isn't a job anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. It's a game to me. And I'm very, very good at this game. But here's the thing about games. They only work if both players understand the rules. For this game in particular, there are two rules, and the rules are very simple. One, I always win. And two, they will always lose. The only variable is how long it takes and how entertaining they make it for me along the way. So run. Please. Run as fast and as far as you can. Build your walls, make your plans. Convince yourself you're different, that you'll be the exception. And I'll be there eventually. After all I always am. And when I finally reach you, when you see me and understand what I've come to do, I want you to remember something. But this was never about mercy. My slowness, my patience. None of it was ever kindness. It was cruelty in the most refined sense. Do I feel bad about it? Sometimes I suppose. In the quiet moments between targets when I'm alone with the weight of all those final breaths, all those wide, terrified eyes, sometimes I feel a ghost of what might have been remorse, but then I remember this is what I am and this is what I was made to be. And as I've said before, I've gotten quite good at. You're probably wondering who I am. What kind of monster thinks this way, moves this way, kills this way? The answer might surprise you. I'm small, unremarkable, and the kind of thing you'd step over without a second thought. And yet, here I am, having ended more lives than you could count, having inspired more fury than creatures a thousand times my size. All that matters is inevitability. And I am nothing if not inevitable. I have that in spades. They call me many things. The patient one, the slow death, the thing that cannot be outrun. But my favorite name, the one that captures what I truly am is much simpler. The immortal snail. And I'm coming for you too. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'm coming. I'm always coming. And who knows? Maybe you'll be the next one to play my game. I appreciate you giving me some of your time, and I look forward to seeing you again. You can tell me what you thought of today's episode. That would help me so I know what things to give you more of. This story comes from yours, truly. I have a few other things that I plan on writing and releasing for you. So if you like my typical style of kind of psychological horror stuff, then be sure to tune in for that. I really wanted to capture how an unreliable narrator like a snail could really subvert expectations by making the narrator's identity the punchline. That's that's a terrible killer, it's just a snail. I also really like the emotional complexity as well. The snails in her monologue and its justification, its moments of doubts, and and its ultimate embrace of its nature makes it a terrifying yet oddly sympathetic villain. The slow creeping tread is amplified by the contrast between the mundane, you know, a snail and the monstrous actions that it commits. I really liked writing the story. I'm glad I read it, and hope you were glad to have listened as well. Since you probably want to hear more of my voice. Those methods of communication will be placed in the description for your convenience. Again, if you enjoyed today's episode, tune in for the next story or just go back and catch the last one. Look, until then, I hope you watch the shadows that look just to be on your side. Thank you for listening.