3 reactions
ripbud2006
In the summer of 2023, I found a strange obituary online that really caught my attention. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and it ended up taking over my life in the weirdest, scariest way possible.
The site is down now (I've tried going back to it on 5 different browsers for crying out loud), but the obituary was for a man named Bud L. Hill, who supposedly died in 2006. I found it while looking through a forum about weird local stories, think like a website where people would talk about local crazies in their area. I found the obituary pretty funny and over-the-top, describing Bud as a rude but lovable guy who was obsessed with Wisconsin sports. It said he once drank a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi all at once, peed his pants on purpose at a Packers game, and told his bookie to "go fuck himself." In revenge, the bookie filled Bud's car with rotten fish, or something? The obituary ended by saying, and I remember this line verbatim, "Instead of flowers, have a drink and make a toast to a man who gave zero shits."
I thought it was hilarious - the kind of obituary I would want for myself someday. I shared a screenshot of it on Twitter, and it quickly became fairly viral. Soon, the internet was full of memes about this larger-than-life character named Bud. People made fan art, wrote funny fake obituaries, and even made TikTok videos acting out Bud's crazy stories. It seemed like everyone wanted to be part of the joke, and it created a big community. I started feeling a weird connection to Bud too.
A few days later, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel wrote an article about the meme and how popular it had become. They said they had found and interviewed the person who was supposed to be behind it - a guy named Mike Koenen, who was known for posting a lot about Wisconsin sports and making memes. But Koenen denied that he had made the meme, even though his name and phone number were on the obituary submission. But a week later the newspaper put out a really fucking bizarre correction saying they might have talked to an "imposter" and couldn't prove if Koenen was really who they thought he was. The article itself became a big deal, and people started wondering if the whole thing was a huge prank, a case of stolen identity, or something even stranger.
As all of this unfolded, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to know more. Something about Bud Hill and Mike Koenen seemed off in a way that I couldn't put my finger on. I started reaching out to people who had claimed to know Koenen in the past. I spent upwards of $40 for subscriptions in people search websites, that's how dedicated I was. Many of them seemed genuinely confused when I brought up his name, saying they hadn't heard from him in years or that their interactions had always been minimal. It almost felt like Koenen was a ghost, someone who had existed but left no real trace behind.
The deeper I dug, the more inconsistencies I found. My first Google search yield a lot of results for 'Michael Koenen', but I quickly came to the conclusion it couldn't have been the former Atlanta Falcons punter who was born in Washington. The few public records I could track down for a Mike Koenen (god bless FOIA and info aggregator websites) were fragmented. There were some vague mentions of a Mike Koenen living in Wisconsin, but no consistent history. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere. I even tried contacting the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reporter who had written the article, hoping they could provide some context or insight into the interview. The reporter responded, but their answer was unsettling: they had conducted the interview over the phone, but afterward, all attempts to reconnect with Koenen failed. I asked the reporter for the phone number, but he refused and just told me he'll "look it up". It turned out to have been a pre-paid.
Then, something even stranger happened. One evening, while browsing through some old archived forums, I came across a post from 2005. It was from a user named "ripbud2006" and it caught my eye immediately. The post was simple, just a few sentences about an upcoming Packers game, but the username gave me chills. Was it a coincidence? Why in the fuck would someone name themselves "RIP", what seemed to be their name, and then a date that was a year in the future? I clicked on the user profile, but there wasn't much information—just a handful of posts, all from 2005 to early 2006, mostly about local sports events and trivial small-town news. What stood out, though, was that the posts ended abruptly in April 2006, the same time Bud Hill was said to have passed away.
The idea that someone had predicted—or even orchestrated—Bud Hill's death started to feel more real. I tracked down another user from that same forum who had interacted with "ripbud2006". The user, who went by the name "PackFan42," still posted occasionally, so I reached out. After a few days, I got a response. The person behind PackFan42 remembered interacting with ripbud2006 but said they had always found the user "a little odd." They mentioned that ripbud2006 had made some strange comments about "leaving soon" and needing to "tie up loose ends." At the time, PackFan42 thought they were just talking about moving away or something mundane, but looking back, it seemed much more ominous, to me atleast.
Anyway! By this point, I was becoming obsessed. I spent hours every night scouring old message boards (those which were around, that is), trying to piece together any information I could find on Bud Hill and Mike Koenen. My friends told me I was going too far, that it was just a meme, but I couldn't let it go. There was something real here, something hidden beneath all the jokes and internet hype. I felt like I was getting closer to an answer, but at the same time, the more I uncovered, the more questions I had.
One night, I found an old news article from 2006, buried deep in a Internet Archive capture of a small local paper. For reference, it was one out of \~150 for that month alone, and this was one of 3 of those captures to even have contained the article. It was a brief piece about a man named Mike Koenen who had been reported missing. The date matched up with when Koenen's online activity had stopped. The article mentioned that he was last seen leaving a bar in Milwaukee, and that friends said he had been acting strangely in the weeks leading up to his disappearance. There was no follow-up article, no conclusion. It was like the story had just been forgotten.
I knew I had to go to Milwaukee. I needed to see for myself where all of this had happened. When I got there, I visited the bar mentioned in the article. It was still open, though it had changed ownership a few times. I asked the bartender if they knew anything about a guy named Mike Koenen who had gone missing years ago. The bartender, an older man who looked like he'd been around for a while, paused for a moment before nodding. He said he remembered the story, that Koenen had been a regular for a while, always talking about sports and making everyone laugh. But toward the end, he said, Koenen started getting paranoid, talking about someone following him, saying he had made a mistake and needed to fix it.
The bartender didn't know what happened to Koenen, but he paused for a long moment before speaking, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to decide whether or not to share what he knew. He leaned in closer, and told me something that sent a chill down my spine. A few weeks after Koenen disappeared, someone had left a note on the bar counter. It was written in messy handwriting and simply said, "I'm sorry for everything. ripbud2006." The bartender had kept it, thinking it was just some strange prank, but now, seeing my reaction, he realized it might have meant more.
I left Milwaukee feeling more uneasy than ever. I still didn't have all the answers, but one thing was clear: Bud Hill and Mike Koenen were connected in ways that went far beyond all this. Whatever had happened in 2006, it wasn't just a funny story. It was real, and somehow, it had reached out across the years to pull me in. And now, I wasn't sure if I could ever get out.
After returning home, I decided to shift my focus from the obituary itself to the places connected to Bud Hill and Mike Koenen's lives. I began investigating local landmarks and small businesses that appeared in both Bud's story and Koenen's last known movements. One name came up repeatedly: "Hill's Market," a small family-owned grocery store on the outskirts of town, owned by the Hill family since the 1960s.
The store was still open, run by Bud's niece, Cathy. When I visited, it felt like stepping back in time—dusty shelves, faded signs, and a musty smell that hinted at years of history. Cathy was friendly, but as soon as I brought up Bud, her demeanor shifted. Her smile stiffened, and she seemed wary. She said Bud was a character, all right, and that most of the stories in the obituary were true, though exaggerated. But when I mentioned Mike Koenen, her face turned pale. She looked over her shoulder before leaning in close and whispering, "You shouldn't be asking about Mike."
She wouldn't say more, but she told me to come back after closing time if I really wanted answers. That night, I returned, and Cathy let me in through the back door. She led me to a small office in the back of the store, cluttered with old paperwork and dusty memorabilia. Cathy took out a worn ledger and opened it to a page from 2006. The entries were mostly mundane—deliveries, sales, employee hours—but one entry stood out. It was a payment to "M. Koenen," dated just a few days before Bud's death. Next to it, in black pen ink, were the words: "Final favor."
Cathy told me that Mike had been around the store a lot in those days, running errands for Bud and helping out with odd jobs. She said Bud had trusted Mike, but toward the end, things had gotten weird. Bud had become secretive, always talking to Mike in hushed tones. Cathy remembered the last time she saw Mike—he had looked scared, like he was in over his head. She had asked him if everything was okay, and he had just shaken his head and said, "Some things you can't take back."
Cathy handed me an old photo of Bud and Mike together, standing in front of the store. They looked happy, but there was something unsettling about it. Behind them, in the reflection of the store window, there was a figure—a blurry shape that didn't match anything else in the photo. If you squinted enough you could maybe make out a face, but I thought that was too much of a stretch. Cathy said she hadn't noticed it before.
As I left that night, Cathy made me promise not to dig any further. "Some things are better left buried," she said. But I couldn't stop. I felt like I was on the edge of understanding something terrible, something that had been hidden for years. The more I learned, the more I realized that Bud Hill wasn't just a funny story—he was part of something much darker, something that had pulled Mike Koenen in and was now coming for me.
I knew that if I wanted answers, I had to be ready for whatever was waiting. And deep down, I understood that once I crossed that line, there would be no going back.
After my conversation with Cathy, I found myself constantly rethinking the events that had led me to this point. There were moments in the middle of the night when I would wake up, heart pounding, as if I could feel someone watching me. I knew I had to keep going, but the fear of what I might find made every step heavier.
I decided to revisit the archives, but this time, I focused on old town records. I managed to find some blueprints of Hill's Market, dating back to the 1960s when it was first built. There was something curious—a section labeled "basement storage" that seemed to be larger than the basement I had seen during my visit. I called Cathy and asked if the market had ever been renovated or if there were parts of the building that were closed off. She hesitated before answering, saying that the basement was mostly unused now, except for storage, and that the layout had always been the same, at least as far as she knew.
The next day, I returned to Hill's Market. Cathy looked visibly uncomfortable seeing me again, but I insisted on checking out the basement. Reluctantly, she led me downstairs. The basement was dimly lit, with shelves full of old inventory, dusty crates, and cobwebs. I noticed a door on the far side, partially obscured by a stack of boxes. When I asked about it, Cathy grew tense and said it was just an old supply room.
After some persuading, she moved the boxes aside and opened the door. The room beyond was small and empty, but the air felt different—heavier, colder. The floor was concrete, but in the corner, I noticed a patch that looked newer than the rest, as if it had been redone recently. I asked Cathy if she knew anything about it, but she just shook her head. She looked genuinely scared, and I could see her hands trembling.
I couldn't get that room out of my mind. Something about it seemed wrong. The next day, I decided to visit the local historical society to see if they had any additional information about the market. The society's archives contained old photographs and documents related to the town's history, including a few images of Hill's Market from the 1970s. One photograph, in particular, caught my attention. It showed the basement, but there was no door in the spot where I had seen it. Instead, there was a large metal hatch in the floor—something that clearly wasn't there anymore.
I knew I needed to find out what was beneath that patch of concrete. That night, I returned to Hill's Market, this time with a crowbar. I waited until after closing, watching from a distance until the lights went out and Cathy left. I slipped in through the back door, my heart pounding in my ears as I made my way to the basement. The door to the small room was still open, and I stepped inside, the air growing colder with each breath I took.
I pried at the edge of the concrete patch, the crowbar scraping against the floor. It took longer than I expected, but finally, the slab came loose, revealing a dark hole beneath. The smell that rose from the opening was foul, a mix of damp earth and something metallic. I shone my flashlight down, revealing a narrow set of stairs leading into darkness.
I hesitated, every instinct telling me to turn back, but I had come too far. Slowly, I descended the stairs. The walls were lined with old brick, and the air was thick and heavy. At the bottom, the space opened up into a small chamber. The flashlight flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room. In the center was an old wooden chair, and next to it, a small metal box.
I opened the box, my hands trembling. Inside, there were photographs—pictures of Bud, Mike, and other people I didn't recognize. They were all taken in the basement, each person sitting in the chair, looking terrified. My stomach turned as I realized what I was seeing. These weren't just photographs—they were records, documenting something that had happened here, something sinister.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from above—a creaking, like someone walking across the floor. I turned off my flashlight, holding my breath. The footsteps grew louder, stopping right at the top of the stairs. I could feel my heart pounding, my entire body frozen in fear. Whoever—or whatever—was up there just stood there, waiting. I don't know how long I stood in the darkness, barely breathing, but eventually, the footsteps moved away, and the room above fell silent.
I didn't waste any time. I grabbed a few of the photographs, shoved them in my bag, and climbed back up the stairs. The basement was empty, but I could feel that I wasn't alone. I left Hill's Market as quietly as I could.
When I got home, I spread the photographs out on my table. There were dates written on the back of each one, all from 2006. One of the photos showed Mike, his face washed out and his eyes staring straight at the camera, like he was caught off guard. The light in the room looked harsh, like an old fluorescent bulb, making everything feel unnatural and washed in a sickly green hue. Another showed Bud, sitting in the same chair, his expression tired and resigned. The lighting gave everything a strange, almost nostalgic look, like an old 90s Polaroid that had faded over time. But it was the last photograph that made my blood run cold. It was a picture of me, standing in front of Hill's Market, taken just a few days ago.
I don't know who took it, or how they knew I would be there. I hadn't noticed anyone near or next to me. But one thing was clear—whatever had happened to Bud and Mike, it wasn't over. It had reached out to me, and now, I was part of it. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, the sense that I was being watched, that I was being drawn into something I couldn't escape.
I don't know what comes next. But I know that once you've been touched by whatever this is, there's no going back. The story of Bud Hill, Mike Koenen, and now me—it isn't just a meme or a funny obituary. It's something dark, something that won't let go. And I have the sinking feeling that it's only just beginning.
#entertainment
source
In the summer of 2023, I found a strange obituary online that really caught my attention. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and it ended up taking over my life in the weirdest, scariest way possible.
The site is down now (I've tried going back to it on 5 different browsers for crying out loud), but the obituary was for a man named Bud L. Hill, who supposedly died in 2006. I found it while looking through a forum about weird local stories, think like a website where people would talk about local crazies in their area. I found the obituary pretty funny and over-the-top, describing Bud as a rude but lovable guy who was obsessed with Wisconsin sports. It said he once drank a 12-pack of Diet Pepsi all at once, peed his pants on purpose at a Packers game, and told his bookie to "go fuck himself." In revenge, the bookie filled Bud's car with rotten fish, or something? The obituary ended by saying, and I remember this line verbatim, "Instead of flowers, have a drink and make a toast to a man who gave zero shits."
I thought it was hilarious - the kind of obituary I would want for myself someday. I shared a screenshot of it on Twitter, and it quickly became fairly viral. Soon, the internet was full of memes about this larger-than-life character named Bud. People made fan art, wrote funny fake obituaries, and even made TikTok videos acting out Bud's crazy stories. It seemed like everyone wanted to be part of the joke, and it created a big community. I started feeling a weird connection to Bud too.
A few days later, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel wrote an article about the meme and how popular it had become. They said they had found and interviewed the person who was supposed to be behind it - a guy named Mike Koenen, who was known for posting a lot about Wisconsin sports and making memes. But Koenen denied that he had made the meme, even though his name and phone number were on the obituary submission. But a week later the newspaper put out a really fucking bizarre correction saying they might have talked to an "imposter" and couldn't prove if Koenen was really who they thought he was. The article itself became a big deal, and people started wondering if the whole thing was a huge prank, a case of stolen identity, or something even stranger.
As all of this unfolded, I couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to know more. Something about Bud Hill and Mike Koenen seemed off in a way that I couldn't put my finger on. I started reaching out to people who had claimed to know Koenen in the past. I spent upwards of $40 for subscriptions in people search websites, that's how dedicated I was. Many of them seemed genuinely confused when I brought up his name, saying they hadn't heard from him in years or that their interactions had always been minimal. It almost felt like Koenen was a ghost, someone who had existed but left no real trace behind.
The deeper I dug, the more inconsistencies I found. My first Google search yield a lot of results for 'Michael Koenen', but I quickly came to the conclusion it couldn't have been the former Atlanta Falcons punter who was born in Washington. The few public records I could track down for a Mike Koenen (god bless FOIA and info aggregator websites) were fragmented. There were some vague mentions of a Mike Koenen living in Wisconsin, but no consistent history. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere. I even tried contacting the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reporter who had written the article, hoping they could provide some context or insight into the interview. The reporter responded, but their answer was unsettling: they had conducted the interview over the phone, but afterward, all attempts to reconnect with Koenen failed. I asked the reporter for the phone number, but he refused and just told me he'll "look it up". It turned out to have been a pre-paid.
Then, something even stranger happened. One evening, while browsing through some old archived forums, I came across a post from 2005. It was from a user named "ripbud2006" and it caught my eye immediately. The post was simple, just a few sentences about an upcoming Packers game, but the username gave me chills. Was it a coincidence? Why in the fuck would someone name themselves "RIP", what seemed to be their name, and then a date that was a year in the future? I clicked on the user profile, but there wasn't much information—just a handful of posts, all from 2005 to early 2006, mostly about local sports events and trivial small-town news. What stood out, though, was that the posts ended abruptly in April 2006, the same time Bud Hill was said to have passed away.
The idea that someone had predicted—or even orchestrated—Bud Hill's death started to feel more real. I tracked down another user from that same forum who had interacted with "ripbud2006". The user, who went by the name "PackFan42," still posted occasionally, so I reached out. After a few days, I got a response. The person behind PackFan42 remembered interacting with ripbud2006 but said they had always found the user "a little odd." They mentioned that ripbud2006 had made some strange comments about "leaving soon" and needing to "tie up loose ends." At the time, PackFan42 thought they were just talking about moving away or something mundane, but looking back, it seemed much more ominous, to me atleast.
Anyway! By this point, I was becoming obsessed. I spent hours every night scouring old message boards (those which were around, that is), trying to piece together any information I could find on Bud Hill and Mike Koenen. My friends told me I was going too far, that it was just a meme, but I couldn't let it go. There was something real here, something hidden beneath all the jokes and internet hype. I felt like I was getting closer to an answer, but at the same time, the more I uncovered, the more questions I had.
One night, I found an old news article from 2006, buried deep in a Internet Archive capture of a small local paper. For reference, it was one out of \~150 for that month alone, and this was one of 3 of those captures to even have contained the article. It was a brief piece about a man named Mike Koenen who had been reported missing. The date matched up with when Koenen's online activity had stopped. The article mentioned that he was last seen leaving a bar in Milwaukee, and that friends said he had been acting strangely in the weeks leading up to his disappearance. There was no follow-up article, no conclusion. It was like the story had just been forgotten.
I knew I had to go to Milwaukee. I needed to see for myself where all of this had happened. When I got there, I visited the bar mentioned in the article. It was still open, though it had changed ownership a few times. I asked the bartender if they knew anything about a guy named Mike Koenen who had gone missing years ago. The bartender, an older man who looked like he'd been around for a while, paused for a moment before nodding. He said he remembered the story, that Koenen had been a regular for a while, always talking about sports and making everyone laugh. But toward the end, he said, Koenen started getting paranoid, talking about someone following him, saying he had made a mistake and needed to fix it.
The bartender didn't know what happened to Koenen, but he paused for a long moment before speaking, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to decide whether or not to share what he knew. He leaned in closer, and told me something that sent a chill down my spine. A few weeks after Koenen disappeared, someone had left a note on the bar counter. It was written in messy handwriting and simply said, "I'm sorry for everything. ripbud2006." The bartender had kept it, thinking it was just some strange prank, but now, seeing my reaction, he realized it might have meant more.
I left Milwaukee feeling more uneasy than ever. I still didn't have all the answers, but one thing was clear: Bud Hill and Mike Koenen were connected in ways that went far beyond all this. Whatever had happened in 2006, it wasn't just a funny story. It was real, and somehow, it had reached out across the years to pull me in. And now, I wasn't sure if I could ever get out.
After returning home, I decided to shift my focus from the obituary itself to the places connected to Bud Hill and Mike Koenen's lives. I began investigating local landmarks and small businesses that appeared in both Bud's story and Koenen's last known movements. One name came up repeatedly: "Hill's Market," a small family-owned grocery store on the outskirts of town, owned by the Hill family since the 1960s.
The store was still open, run by Bud's niece, Cathy. When I visited, it felt like stepping back in time—dusty shelves, faded signs, and a musty smell that hinted at years of history. Cathy was friendly, but as soon as I brought up Bud, her demeanor shifted. Her smile stiffened, and she seemed wary. She said Bud was a character, all right, and that most of the stories in the obituary were true, though exaggerated. But when I mentioned Mike Koenen, her face turned pale. She looked over her shoulder before leaning in close and whispering, "You shouldn't be asking about Mike."
She wouldn't say more, but she told me to come back after closing time if I really wanted answers. That night, I returned, and Cathy let me in through the back door. She led me to a small office in the back of the store, cluttered with old paperwork and dusty memorabilia. Cathy took out a worn ledger and opened it to a page from 2006. The entries were mostly mundane—deliveries, sales, employee hours—but one entry stood out. It was a payment to "M. Koenen," dated just a few days before Bud's death. Next to it, in black pen ink, were the words: "Final favor."
Cathy told me that Mike had been around the store a lot in those days, running errands for Bud and helping out with odd jobs. She said Bud had trusted Mike, but toward the end, things had gotten weird. Bud had become secretive, always talking to Mike in hushed tones. Cathy remembered the last time she saw Mike—he had looked scared, like he was in over his head. She had asked him if everything was okay, and he had just shaken his head and said, "Some things you can't take back."
Cathy handed me an old photo of Bud and Mike together, standing in front of the store. They looked happy, but there was something unsettling about it. Behind them, in the reflection of the store window, there was a figure—a blurry shape that didn't match anything else in the photo. If you squinted enough you could maybe make out a face, but I thought that was too much of a stretch. Cathy said she hadn't noticed it before.
As I left that night, Cathy made me promise not to dig any further. "Some things are better left buried," she said. But I couldn't stop. I felt like I was on the edge of understanding something terrible, something that had been hidden for years. The more I learned, the more I realized that Bud Hill wasn't just a funny story—he was part of something much darker, something that had pulled Mike Koenen in and was now coming for me.
I knew that if I wanted answers, I had to be ready for whatever was waiting. And deep down, I understood that once I crossed that line, there would be no going back.
After my conversation with Cathy, I found myself constantly rethinking the events that had led me to this point. There were moments in the middle of the night when I would wake up, heart pounding, as if I could feel someone watching me. I knew I had to keep going, but the fear of what I might find made every step heavier.
I decided to revisit the archives, but this time, I focused on old town records. I managed to find some blueprints of Hill's Market, dating back to the 1960s when it was first built. There was something curious—a section labeled "basement storage" that seemed to be larger than the basement I had seen during my visit. I called Cathy and asked if the market had ever been renovated or if there were parts of the building that were closed off. She hesitated before answering, saying that the basement was mostly unused now, except for storage, and that the layout had always been the same, at least as far as she knew.
The next day, I returned to Hill's Market. Cathy looked visibly uncomfortable seeing me again, but I insisted on checking out the basement. Reluctantly, she led me downstairs. The basement was dimly lit, with shelves full of old inventory, dusty crates, and cobwebs. I noticed a door on the far side, partially obscured by a stack of boxes. When I asked about it, Cathy grew tense and said it was just an old supply room.
After some persuading, she moved the boxes aside and opened the door. The room beyond was small and empty, but the air felt different—heavier, colder. The floor was concrete, but in the corner, I noticed a patch that looked newer than the rest, as if it had been redone recently. I asked Cathy if she knew anything about it, but she just shook her head. She looked genuinely scared, and I could see her hands trembling.
I couldn't get that room out of my mind. Something about it seemed wrong. The next day, I decided to visit the local historical society to see if they had any additional information about the market. The society's archives contained old photographs and documents related to the town's history, including a few images of Hill's Market from the 1970s. One photograph, in particular, caught my attention. It showed the basement, but there was no door in the spot where I had seen it. Instead, there was a large metal hatch in the floor—something that clearly wasn't there anymore.
I knew I needed to find out what was beneath that patch of concrete. That night, I returned to Hill's Market, this time with a crowbar. I waited until after closing, watching from a distance until the lights went out and Cathy left. I slipped in through the back door, my heart pounding in my ears as I made my way to the basement. The door to the small room was still open, and I stepped inside, the air growing colder with each breath I took.
I pried at the edge of the concrete patch, the crowbar scraping against the floor. It took longer than I expected, but finally, the slab came loose, revealing a dark hole beneath. The smell that rose from the opening was foul, a mix of damp earth and something metallic. I shone my flashlight down, revealing a narrow set of stairs leading into darkness.
I hesitated, every instinct telling me to turn back, but I had come too far. Slowly, I descended the stairs. The walls were lined with old brick, and the air was thick and heavy. At the bottom, the space opened up into a small chamber. The flashlight flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room. In the center was an old wooden chair, and next to it, a small metal box.
I opened the box, my hands trembling. Inside, there were photographs—pictures of Bud, Mike, and other people I didn't recognize. They were all taken in the basement, each person sitting in the chair, looking terrified. My stomach turned as I realized what I was seeing. These weren't just photographs—they were records, documenting something that had happened here, something sinister.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from above—a creaking, like someone walking across the floor. I turned off my flashlight, holding my breath. The footsteps grew louder, stopping right at the top of the stairs. I could feel my heart pounding, my entire body frozen in fear. Whoever—or whatever—was up there just stood there, waiting. I don't know how long I stood in the darkness, barely breathing, but eventually, the footsteps moved away, and the room above fell silent.
I didn't waste any time. I grabbed a few of the photographs, shoved them in my bag, and climbed back up the stairs. The basement was empty, but I could feel that I wasn't alone. I left Hill's Market as quietly as I could.
When I got home, I spread the photographs out on my table. There were dates written on the back of each one, all from 2006. One of the photos showed Mike, his face washed out and his eyes staring straight at the camera, like he was caught off guard. The light in the room looked harsh, like an old fluorescent bulb, making everything feel unnatural and washed in a sickly green hue. Another showed Bud, sitting in the same chair, his expression tired and resigned. The lighting gave everything a strange, almost nostalgic look, like an old 90s Polaroid that had faded over time. But it was the last photograph that made my blood run cold. It was a picture of me, standing in front of Hill's Market, taken just a few days ago.
I don't know who took it, or how they knew I would be there. I hadn't noticed anyone near or next to me. But one thing was clear—whatever had happened to Bud and Mike, it wasn't over. It had reached out to me, and now, I was part of it. I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me, the sense that I was being watched, that I was being drawn into something I couldn't escape.
I don't know what comes next. But I know that once you've been touched by whatever this is, there's no going back. The story of Bud Hill, Mike Koenen, and now me—it isn't just a meme or a funny obituary. It's something dark, something that won't let go. And I have the sinking feeling that it's only just beginning.
#entertainment
source
| 15,000 mlx | |
| 13 | |
| 3 |