Every Time It Rains, I Hear Angels Screaming I’ve been…
0 reactions
Every Time It Rains, I Hear Angels Screaming
I’ve been carrying this around for fourteen years.
Didn’t think I’d ever actually say it out loud. Put it somewhere permanent. But my therapist kept circling back to it—same calm voice, same patient smile—telling me burying things doesn’t make them go away. Just makes them rot slower.
So… this is me digging it up.
I was eight the first time it happened.
For context, I’ve lived my entire life in the city of Los Haven. If you’ve never heard of it, that’s probably for the best. It’s… wrong, geographically speaking. An island in the middle of the mainland USA, stitched to everything else by a handful of long, narrow bridges. No one ever really explains it properly. They just accept it.
Like the rain.
It doesn’t stop here. Not really. We get breaks, sure, but they never last. And at least once a week—sometimes more—the sky just… opens. Not a drizzle. Not even a storm, not in the normal sense. Something heavier. Like the air itself is being poured down on you.
I grew up on the outskirts. The bad part, if you want to simplify it. Our house was small, damp, and always smelled faintly of rust. My room barely fit a bed and a dresser. The window didn’t shut all the way—never had—so when it rained, the sound got in with a vengeance.
Not just loud.
Close.
Like it was happening inside the room with me.
I used to sit there for hours, just watching it run down the glass. Had nothing better to do.
That’s when I first heard it.
At first I thought it was just the storm shifting. Wind changing direction, pipes rattling, something in the walls. It came and went in a way that made it easy to ignore.
Until it didn’t.
The second time, it lingered.
Thin. Warped. Dragging under the weight of the rain.
A scream.
Muffled, like it was being forced through water. High and stretched in a way that made my teeth hurt just listening to it. It didn’t echo like normal sound. It didn’t bounce. It just… bled. Into the rain, into the walls, into me.
I remember leaning closer to the window, pressing my ear against the cold glass.
“Hello?” I said.
Like someone out there could hear me.
For a second, there was nothing but the rain.
Then something came back.
Not words. Not exactly. But it wasn’t random either. There was intent in it. A shape trying to form.
Someone trying to be heard.
I pulled back slowly, heart doing something strange in my chest. Not quite fear. Not yet.
Confusion.
I was alone most of the time back then. My dad worked nights. Slept through most of the day, when he wasn’t down in the basement working on… something. I never really knew what. He never explained, and I never asked.
So there was no one to check with. No one to tell me I was imagining things.
When the rain stopped, the sound stopped with it.
Just… gone.
Like it had never been there.
I told myself that’s all it was. Noise. A trick of it. A kid’s brain filling in gaps where it shouldn’t.
Then the rain came back.
And so did the screaming.
Not the same voice. Not exactly. But the same feeling. Panic. Pain. That stretched, tearing kind of desperation that makes your chest tighten just listening to it.
I tried to block it out.
Pillows over my ears. Blankets over my head. I’d curl up with whatever stuffed animal I still had left and whisper, “Stop. Please stop.”
It never did.
After a while, I did something I almost never did back then.
I talked to my dad.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, half a bottle already gone. Rain tapping against the walls like fingers trying to get in.
“Dad,” I said.
“Yeah?”
He didn’t look at me right away. Just kept staring at the window over the sink. Watching the rain.
“I… I hear things. When it rains.”
That got his attention.
Not all at once. Slowly.
He turned his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye. “What kind of things?”
“Voices,” I said. “People. They sound… hurt.”
For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. Or tell me to go back to my room.
Instead, he set the bottle down a little too carefully.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
He pulled a chair across from me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Up close, I could see the way his jaw was set. Tight.
“You ever hear of the weeping angels of Los Haven?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“They’re trapped,” he said. “Between Heaven and Earth. Can’t go up. Can’t come down.”
Another glance at the window.
“The rain?” he went on, quieter now. “That’s them crying. They want to go home, but they can’t. So they just… weep.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Those voices you hear?” he added. “That’s them. Calling out.”
“Can we help them?” I asked.
Something flickered across his face. Gone almost immediately.
“No,” he said. Too fast. “No, you can’t help them. Best thing you can do is ignore it.”
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
If anything, it made it worse.
Because now I wasn’t afraid anymore.
I felt sorry for them.
So when the rain came, I’d sit by the window and talk back.
“It’s okay,” I’d say quietly. “You’ll get home eventually.”
“I hear you.”
“You’re not alone.”
The screaming never stopped.
If anything, it got louder over the years. More voices sometimes. Overlapping. Tangled together in a way that made it hard to separate one from the other.
Four years went by like that.
And things… changed.
Not all at once.
At first it was small. Better food in the fridge. Clothes that actually fit. A new TV that didn’t buzz when it turned on.
Then it got harder to ignore.
My father started coming home later. Sometimes soaked, even on nights when it hadn’t rained yet. Sometimes carrying things he wouldn’t let me see. Bags he took straight to the basement.
The basement door stayed locked. Always.
Five locks.
I counted once.
And he started spending more time down there. Hours. Whole nights sometimes.
I’d hear things through the floor every now and then.
Not clear.
Just… movement.
A dull thud. A scrape. Once, something that almost sounded like a voice—cut off too quickly to be sure.
When I asked, he’d just say, “Work.”
Then one day, he came home in a car I’d never seen before. Black. Polished. Too clean for our street.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Work’s been good,” he said.
Didn’t look at me.
The strange part was… nothing else changed.
We didn’t move. Didn’t fix the house. The window still didn’t shut. The walls still sweated when it rained.
And the screams didn’t change either.
They just got worse.
One night, during one of the heavier storms, something broke through.
Not just noise.
Words.
Faint. Torn apart by the rain, but there.
“—please—”
That was enough.
I couldn’t sit there anymore pretending I couldn’t hear it.
I wanted to help.
So I did something my dad had told me, very clearly, never to do.
I went outside during the rain.
The rain hit like a wall. Cold and heavy, soaking through my clothes in seconds. Breathing felt wrong, like I was pulling water into my lungs instead of air.
I forced myself to listen.
Really listen.
At first, it was chaos. Sound flattening everything, bending it, smearing it across itself.
Then something started to stand out.
A direction.
I turned slowly, following it.
That’s when I saw it.
A metal hatch in the ground, half-hidden near the side of the house. A pipe fed into it, catching rainwater and funneling it down.
The sound was strongest there.
Loudest.
Closest.
“Hey!” I shouted, dropping to my knees. “I hear you!”
The screaming didn’t stop.
“Hold on,” I said, hands shaking. “I’m gonna help you, okay? Just—just wait!”
I ran back inside.
My dad was asleep. I could hear him through the door, slow and heavy.
The key.
He always kept it on a chain around his neck.
I crept into his room. Every step measured. The floorboards still creaked, but quieter this time. Or maybe the rain was just louder.
“Easy,” I whispered.
My fingers found the chain.
Cold metal.
I lifted it slowly. Carefully. Up and over his head.
He shifted.
Mumbled something.
I froze, barely breathing.
Then he settled again.
I didn’t move for a long second. Maybe longer.
Then I stepped back.
Out of the room.
The basement door waited at the end of the hall.
Five locks.
Five chances to make noise.
My hands shook so badly I had to try each key twice. Metal scraping. Clicking too loud in the quiet.
“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on…”
One by one, they gave.
The last lock clicked louder than the others.
I stopped.
Listened.
Nothing.
I opened the door.
The air that came up from below was wrong.
Damp. Metallic. Thick enough it felt like it stuck to the back of my throat.
The stairs creaked under my weight as I went down.
Halfway, I heard it.
Not from outside.
From below.
Muffled.
Warped.
But unmistakable.
Screaming.
The basement opened up further than I expected. The usual clutter was there—tools, boxes, things I didn’t recognize—but it didn’t matter.
Everything pointed forward.
Five cameras. Set up on tripods. All aimed at the same place.
A glass cube.
Big.
Sealed.
A pipe ran into it from above, pouring rainwater inside in a steady stream.
It was full.
All the way to the top.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Shapes in the water. Pale. Still.
Then one of them moved.
Not on its own.
Just drifting slightly with the current.
Hair spreading out like ink.
Eyes open.
Two women floated inside.
Their skin had that waxy look you only see on things that aren’t alive anymore. Mouths slightly open, like they’d tried to scream and ran out of time.
I took a step closer without meaning to.
Behind me, something flickered.
I turned.
A laptop sat open on a table behind the cameras. The screen was alive with movement. Lines of text stacking over each other too fast to read. Usernames. Comments. Reactions.
I read some of the words.
„DREAD.IT“
“LIVE”
“KEEP GOING”
“TURN THE FLOW UP”
Numbers scrolling. Donations.
My stomach twisted.
The pipe.
The rain.
The screams.
I looked back at the tank.
Then up at the pipe feeding it.
And something in my head finally… lined up.
There were never angels down here.
Only the devil.
I don’t know how many victims my father had.
Four years.
One storm a week.
You can do the math.
I’m choosing not to.
I backed out of that room without turning around. I don’t remember climbing the stairs. Don’t remember putting the locks back.
But I remember the phone.
And I remember what I said when someone answered.
“My dad,” I told them. “He’s hurting people. Please… just come.”
They did.
He was taken away.
I didn’t see him again after that.
I heard things, though.
You always do in a place like Los Haven.
Rumors stick. They spread. Especially the ugly ones.
He died a few years later.
Prison incident.
Turns out even in there, the audience doesn’t disappear.
The prison warden also happened to be a Dread.it tp://Dread.it user and the prisoners were the subjects of the entertainment he so graciously provided.
Donations.
Votes.
Subjects.
Methods.
Audience participation.
My dad got the lucky pick
Awfully poetic that the very same money dad got for countless murders he commited, eventually paid for his very own.
I stayed in Los Haven.
Never really felt the urge to leave.
These days, I’ve got better things to do than sit by the window waiting for the rain.
Anyway.
That’s the story.
My therapist says it’s good to share. Get it out there. Process it.
Hope this posts right. He uses a different operating system than I do, so formatting might be little off.
Oh.
Right.
That part.
I didn’t pick Dr. Thomson to be my therapist at random.
No.
I found him the same way I find anyone.
Patterns.
Habits.
He posted more than he should have. Little slips. Repeated phrasing. Timing that lined up too neatly with missing persons cases if you knew where to look.
Different niche.
Same audience.
He preyed on his patients. Built trust. Let them open up. Then used it.
Posted their stories before they disappeared.
I watched for a while.
Made sure.
Then I scheduled an appointment.
“You’re safe here,” he told me during the first session.
I almost laughed.
You won’t have to worry about him anymore.
Shame, really.
He was actually pretty good at his job.
Just not as good as I am at mine.
#entertainment
source ht
I’ve been carrying this around for fourteen years.
Didn’t think I’d ever actually say it out loud. Put it somewhere permanent. But my therapist kept circling back to it—same calm voice, same patient smile—telling me burying things doesn’t make them go away. Just makes them rot slower.
So… this is me digging it up.
I was eight the first time it happened.
For context, I’ve lived my entire life in the city of Los Haven. If you’ve never heard of it, that’s probably for the best. It’s… wrong, geographically speaking. An island in the middle of the mainland USA, stitched to everything else by a handful of long, narrow bridges. No one ever really explains it properly. They just accept it.
Like the rain.
It doesn’t stop here. Not really. We get breaks, sure, but they never last. And at least once a week—sometimes more—the sky just… opens. Not a drizzle. Not even a storm, not in the normal sense. Something heavier. Like the air itself is being poured down on you.
I grew up on the outskirts. The bad part, if you want to simplify it. Our house was small, damp, and always smelled faintly of rust. My room barely fit a bed and a dresser. The window didn’t shut all the way—never had—so when it rained, the sound got in with a vengeance.
Not just loud.
Close.
Like it was happening inside the room with me.
I used to sit there for hours, just watching it run down the glass. Had nothing better to do.
That’s when I first heard it.
At first I thought it was just the storm shifting. Wind changing direction, pipes rattling, something in the walls. It came and went in a way that made it easy to ignore.
Until it didn’t.
The second time, it lingered.
Thin. Warped. Dragging under the weight of the rain.
A scream.
Muffled, like it was being forced through water. High and stretched in a way that made my teeth hurt just listening to it. It didn’t echo like normal sound. It didn’t bounce. It just… bled. Into the rain, into the walls, into me.
I remember leaning closer to the window, pressing my ear against the cold glass.
“Hello?” I said.
Like someone out there could hear me.
For a second, there was nothing but the rain.
Then something came back.
Not words. Not exactly. But it wasn’t random either. There was intent in it. A shape trying to form.
Someone trying to be heard.
I pulled back slowly, heart doing something strange in my chest. Not quite fear. Not yet.
Confusion.
I was alone most of the time back then. My dad worked nights. Slept through most of the day, when he wasn’t down in the basement working on… something. I never really knew what. He never explained, and I never asked.
So there was no one to check with. No one to tell me I was imagining things.
When the rain stopped, the sound stopped with it.
Just… gone.
Like it had never been there.
I told myself that’s all it was. Noise. A trick of it. A kid’s brain filling in gaps where it shouldn’t.
Then the rain came back.
And so did the screaming.
Not the same voice. Not exactly. But the same feeling. Panic. Pain. That stretched, tearing kind of desperation that makes your chest tighten just listening to it.
I tried to block it out.
Pillows over my ears. Blankets over my head. I’d curl up with whatever stuffed animal I still had left and whisper, “Stop. Please stop.”
It never did.
After a while, I did something I almost never did back then.
I talked to my dad.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, half a bottle already gone. Rain tapping against the walls like fingers trying to get in.
“Dad,” I said.
“Yeah?”
He didn’t look at me right away. Just kept staring at the window over the sink. Watching the rain.
“I… I hear things. When it rains.”
That got his attention.
Not all at once. Slowly.
He turned his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye. “What kind of things?”
“Voices,” I said. “People. They sound… hurt.”
For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. Or tell me to go back to my room.
Instead, he set the bottle down a little too carefully.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
He pulled a chair across from me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Up close, I could see the way his jaw was set. Tight.
“You ever hear of the weeping angels of Los Haven?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“They’re trapped,” he said. “Between Heaven and Earth. Can’t go up. Can’t come down.”
Another glance at the window.
“The rain?” he went on, quieter now. “That’s them crying. They want to go home, but they can’t. So they just… weep.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Those voices you hear?” he added. “That’s them. Calling out.”
“Can we help them?” I asked.
Something flickered across his face. Gone almost immediately.
“No,” he said. Too fast. “No, you can’t help them. Best thing you can do is ignore it.”
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
If anything, it made it worse.
Because now I wasn’t afraid anymore.
I felt sorry for them.
So when the rain came, I’d sit by the window and talk back.
“It’s okay,” I’d say quietly. “You’ll get home eventually.”
“I hear you.”
“You’re not alone.”
The screaming never stopped.
If anything, it got louder over the years. More voices sometimes. Overlapping. Tangled together in a way that made it hard to separate one from the other.
Four years went by like that.
And things… changed.
Not all at once.
At first it was small. Better food in the fridge. Clothes that actually fit. A new TV that didn’t buzz when it turned on.
Then it got harder to ignore.
My father started coming home later. Sometimes soaked, even on nights when it hadn’t rained yet. Sometimes carrying things he wouldn’t let me see. Bags he took straight to the basement.
The basement door stayed locked. Always.
Five locks.
I counted once.
And he started spending more time down there. Hours. Whole nights sometimes.
I’d hear things through the floor every now and then.
Not clear.
Just… movement.
A dull thud. A scrape. Once, something that almost sounded like a voice—cut off too quickly to be sure.
When I asked, he’d just say, “Work.”
Then one day, he came home in a car I’d never seen before. Black. Polished. Too clean for our street.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Work’s been good,” he said.
Didn’t look at me.
The strange part was… nothing else changed.
We didn’t move. Didn’t fix the house. The window still didn’t shut. The walls still sweated when it rained.
And the screams didn’t change either.
They just got worse.
One night, during one of the heavier storms, something broke through.
Not just noise.
Words.
Faint. Torn apart by the rain, but there.
“—please—”
That was enough.
I couldn’t sit there anymore pretending I couldn’t hear it.
I wanted to help.
So I did something my dad had told me, very clearly, never to do.
I went outside during the rain.
The rain hit like a wall. Cold and heavy, soaking through my clothes in seconds. Breathing felt wrong, like I was pulling water into my lungs instead of air.
I forced myself to listen.
Really listen.
At first, it was chaos. Sound flattening everything, bending it, smearing it across itself.
Then something started to stand out.
A direction.
I turned slowly, following it.
That’s when I saw it.
A metal hatch in the ground, half-hidden near the side of the house. A pipe fed into it, catching rainwater and funneling it down.
The sound was strongest there.
Loudest.
Closest.
“Hey!” I shouted, dropping to my knees. “I hear you!”
The screaming didn’t stop.
“Hold on,” I said, hands shaking. “I’m gonna help you, okay? Just—just wait!”
I ran back inside.
My dad was asleep. I could hear him through the door, slow and heavy.
The key.
He always kept it on a chain around his neck.
I crept into his room. Every step measured. The floorboards still creaked, but quieter this time. Or maybe the rain was just louder.
“Easy,” I whispered.
My fingers found the chain.
Cold metal.
I lifted it slowly. Carefully. Up and over his head.
He shifted.
Mumbled something.
I froze, barely breathing.
Then he settled again.
I didn’t move for a long second. Maybe longer.
Then I stepped back.
Out of the room.
The basement door waited at the end of the hall.
Five locks.
Five chances to make noise.
My hands shook so badly I had to try each key twice. Metal scraping. Clicking too loud in the quiet.
“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on…”
One by one, they gave.
The last lock clicked louder than the others.
I stopped.
Listened.
Nothing.
I opened the door.
The air that came up from below was wrong.
Damp. Metallic. Thick enough it felt like it stuck to the back of my throat.
The stairs creaked under my weight as I went down.
Halfway, I heard it.
Not from outside.
From below.
Muffled.
Warped.
But unmistakable.
Screaming.
The basement opened up further than I expected. The usual clutter was there—tools, boxes, things I didn’t recognize—but it didn’t matter.
Everything pointed forward.
Five cameras. Set up on tripods. All aimed at the same place.
A glass cube.
Big.
Sealed.
A pipe ran into it from above, pouring rainwater inside in a steady stream.
It was full.
All the way to the top.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Shapes in the water. Pale. Still.
Then one of them moved.
Not on its own.
Just drifting slightly with the current.
Hair spreading out like ink.
Eyes open.
Two women floated inside.
Their skin had that waxy look you only see on things that aren’t alive anymore. Mouths slightly open, like they’d tried to scream and ran out of time.
I took a step closer without meaning to.
Behind me, something flickered.
I turned.
A laptop sat open on a table behind the cameras. The screen was alive with movement. Lines of text stacking over each other too fast to read. Usernames. Comments. Reactions.
I read some of the words.
„DREAD.IT“
“LIVE”
“KEEP GOING”
“TURN THE FLOW UP”
Numbers scrolling. Donations.
My stomach twisted.
The pipe.
The rain.
The screams.
I looked back at the tank.
Then up at the pipe feeding it.
And something in my head finally… lined up.
There were never angels down here.
Only the devil.
I don’t know how many victims my father had.
Four years.
One storm a week.
You can do the math.
I’m choosing not to.
I backed out of that room without turning around. I don’t remember climbing the stairs. Don’t remember putting the locks back.
But I remember the phone.
And I remember what I said when someone answered.
“My dad,” I told them. “He’s hurting people. Please… just come.”
They did.
He was taken away.
I didn’t see him again after that.
I heard things, though.
You always do in a place like Los Haven.
Rumors stick. They spread. Especially the ugly ones.
He died a few years later.
Prison incident.
Turns out even in there, the audience doesn’t disappear.
The prison warden also happened to be a Dread.it tp://Dread.it user and the prisoners were the subjects of the entertainment he so graciously provided.
Donations.
Votes.
Subjects.
Methods.
Audience participation.
My dad got the lucky pick
Awfully poetic that the very same money dad got for countless murders he commited, eventually paid for his very own.
I stayed in Los Haven.
Never really felt the urge to leave.
These days, I’ve got better things to do than sit by the window waiting for the rain.
Anyway.
That’s the story.
My therapist says it’s good to share. Get it out there. Process it.
Hope this posts right. He uses a different operating system than I do, so formatting might be little off.
Oh.
Right.
That part.
I didn’t pick Dr. Thomson to be my therapist at random.
No.
I found him the same way I find anyone.
Patterns.
Habits.
He posted more than he should have. Little slips. Repeated phrasing. Timing that lined up too neatly with missing persons cases if you knew where to look.
Different niche.
Same audience.
He preyed on his patients. Built trust. Let them open up. Then used it.
Posted their stories before they disappeared.
I watched for a while.
Made sure.
Then I scheduled an appointment.
“You’re safe here,” he told me during the first session.
I almost laughed.
You won’t have to worry about him anymore.
Shame, really.
He was actually pretty good at his job.
Just not as good as I am at mine.
#entertainment
source ht
| 2,000 mlx | |
| 4 | |
| 0 |