There Are Too Many Babies in There, I Cannot Find the Phone : shortscarystories – Short Horror Story

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Mushrooms are a trip. Quite literally, enough psilocybin will allow you to leave consensus reality.

I was 13 years old and on three dry grams when I ran into an old lady stuck in a hole.

Now things were starting to get weird; I didn’t know what to expect.

If you know anything about classical psychedelics, then you will realize that the old lady was very real; mushrooms aren’t going to make you see people that aren’t there.

But I was thirteen and very much concerned with how much her house looked like the face of my favorite porn star; in the back of my head, I was scared that she was some kind of demon sent to tempt me into a hole of my own.

“Please help me,” she cried, “I have fallen in a hole.”

The similarities to Humpty Dumpty were not lost on me. In fact, every fairy tale flashed through my head, as though I were a dying Grimm Brother.

What if she was a witch? That’s what I asked myself as I walked towards her, shaking.

“Please call 911,” she asked.

“Uuuuuuuh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said, “Are you sure that you can’t leave the hole?”

She started fuming at that point.


Compelled and hypnotized in a way that only a 13-year-old boy on mushrooms can be, I wandered into her trailer, dead set on calling an ambulance, telling the police that I was a dirty dirty sinner and needed to be dragged to hell.

I knew they would mace me, because my brain was wrong.

That’s when the babies started.

Everywhere around me, baby dolls. Baby dolls. Ceramic, plastic, plaster of Paris, play-dough, teek-wood. Baby dolls, baby dolls, baby dolls.

In the distance (and may I remind you that this was a trailer, so there wasn’t THAT much distance), I could hear babies wailing.

“Ma’am,” I said, “There are too many babies in there, and I cannot find the phone.”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAH,” she cried. A pitch-perfect baby.

So I ran. I ran home and drank myself into a stupor for the next decade. I never wanted to think about her again.

I chalked it up to hallucinations and tried not to think too hard about it.

That is until years later when I was huffing paint in a trailer with an acquaintance that I sometimes used for benzos.He wheezed and coughed as he told me about the night his mother died.

Apparently, she had also been huffing paint, and fallen into a sinkhole. They found hundreds of tiny stab wounds on her body, as if dozens of tiny people had sunk shards of glass into her flesh.

“It was like, some gremlins shit mang,” he laughed melancholically, passing me the paper bag and silver Sherwin Williams. “Apparently there was some kid there freaking out, but he didn’t like do nothing. She was robbed, all her dolls were missing.”

“Damn, that’s crazy,” I said. “Some people suck.”

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