450: Where Identity Ends - Chilling Tales for Dark Nights

It's time to turn off the lights and turn on the dark. Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Good evening, and welcome to Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. I'm your host this evening, Nicholas Goroff, once again filling in for Steve Taylor, who will be back next week. Tonight's story begins the way many nightmares do. Quietly. A failed marriage. A lost job. An apartment that no longer feels like home. And then, a name appears. A therapist no one remembers recommending. An office tucked away in a building where no one else seems to work. A man who speaks gently about control being an illusion. and chaos being the path to freedom. What begins as grief spirals into something far more unsettling, with the horrifying realization that some guides don't want to heal you. They want to replace you. Settle in and dim the lights. The show is about to begin. Before we get to tonight's feature, however, we'd like to thank our dedicated supporters in the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights patrons area. For just $7.99 per month, members receive ad-free listening, early access to new episodes, exclusive content, and our complete archive, with discounted annual options available as well. Your support helps us continue producing the immersive horror experiences you've come to expect, week after week. To learn more or become a member, visit ChillingTalesForDarkNights.com. Thank you for helping us bring nightmares to life, month after month. Originally appearing on Scary Stories Told in the Dark Season 16, Episode 12, on December 15th, 2024, tonight's tale is performed by Malcolm Blackwood, the hell-raising host of that very podcast, with production by Aaron Sawicki. And now, without further delay, I present to you from author N.M. Brown, Chaos Beneath the Stars. friend trips and work obligations. I tried not to see it, to just keep going. And then one night, I came home to a note on the kitchen counter. She didn't love me anymore, she said. Simple as that. At first, I thought I'd misunderstood. I read the note three times, holding it under the kitchen light, searching for some clue that this wasn't real. But it was plain as day, and there was no ambiguity in the careful way she'd written it. No fights, no long discussions, just her absence, and those final words scrawled on cheap paper. The apartment, already quiet, became a tomb. Her toothbrush was gone, her half-empty mug wasn't on the counter anymore, and her favorite blanket didn't slump over the arm of the couch. It wasn't just the things she took, it was the way her absence rewrote the space. Every room felt hollow, like the air had been sucked out. I started sleeping on the couch because the bed didn't feel like mine anymore. Even the sound of silence changed. At night, it pressed against my ears, ringing faintly, as if trying to remind me that she wasn't there. Sometimes I thought I could still hear her humming in the kitchen, or the faint creak of her footsteps in the hall. But, of course, when I turned my head, it was just the same empty apartment. I tried to focus on work, but my thoughts followed me. Marie's absence was a hole I could have devoid falling into. My boss, Dan, called me into his office one afternoon. He said something about needing focus, but his tone made it clear. He'd noticed the drop in my performance. I nodded and promised I'd pull it together. I even believed it when I said it. Two months later, the promise didn't matter. The company was restructuring, they said. A group of executives from corporate came down and told us they'd been forced to make some tough decisions. They called it right-sizing, a phrase that sounded like a dull knife being drawn across a whetstone. By noon, half the office had packed their things and walked out. My box was sitting on my desk before I even had a chance to sit down. I made the drive home with the same sense of dread I'd had the day Marie left. My hands clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline. The world outside the car felt too big, too chaotic. I kept glancing at the empty passenger seat. Marie's coat used to hang there, the one with the small tear on the sleeve she kept promising to fix. Now, there was nothing but the faint imprint of where she'd sat, weeks ago, on the last ride we'd taken together. The box of desk supplies ended up next to the front door. I didn't bother unpacking it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd even cared about the things inside. Instead, I sank onto the couch and stared at the TV. I didn't turn it on. I just let the darkness of the screen reflect the hollow space around me. The days after that blurred together. I'd wake up late, not because I felt rested, but because there wasn't anything waiting for me. The bed remained unmade, the dishes piled up in the sink, and the mail gathered in a sad, unopened stack near the door. I stopped answering calls. Dan left a voicemail the day after the layoffs, something about networking or references. I deleted it without listening to the rest. Outside, the world kept moving, but it felt like I was standing still. The idea of stepping out of my apartment, walking through the city, being seen, it filled me with this inexplicable dread. Whenever I worked up the courage to go to the store or grab coffee, I felt exposed, like every set of eyes turned my way could see just how far I'd fallen. The city seemed colder, harder. Shadows lingered in the alleys, even in the brightest parts of the day. I started ordering delivery just to avoid leaving completely. At night, sleep offered no comfort. Dreams came in fragmented bursts, flickering like static on a broken screen. I'd see images of Marie, but her face was always turned away, and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't reach her. Sometimes I'd dream I was back at work, but the office was strange, warped somehow. Its corners stretched too far, and the windows looked out onto nothing but darkness. I'd wake up gasping, the phantom echoes of her voice or Dan's fading into the stillness of the room. That stillness, it grew louder the longer I stayed alone. There were moments when I thought I heard faint whispers. I'd be sitting on the couch, staring into the empty living room, and the air would shift just slightly, like someone was breathing in the corner of the room, just out of sight. Other times, I'd feel the hair on the back of my neck rise, as if unseen eyes were watching me. My rational mind told me it was just the stress, the isolation playing tricks on me, but it didn't make it easier to sleep. The only time I felt remotely grounded was when I started cleaning. It didn't happen often, but on the rare occasions when I'd pick up the dishes or fold laundry, I'd feel like I was clawing back a tiny piece of myself. It didn't last long. By the next morning, the apartment would look just as hollow and lifeless as before. One night, I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection. My face looked thinner, paler, with dark circles under my eyes that hadn't been there a month ago. But it wasn't just the exhaustion. I could swear my reflection wasn't moving quite right. I tilt my head, and the image in the mirror would follow just a half second too late. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but enough to make me step back from the sink, heart-pounding. I told myself it was the lack of sleep, the stress, but the feeling lingered. It was during one of those nights, sitting awake on the couch with the TV off and the shadows feeling heavier than usual, that I realized I couldn't keep going like this. I needed to talk to someone, to get help, anything to make this crushing, endless cycle stop. I don't remember exactly how I found him, Dr. Thalen Priat. The name felt familiar somehow, though I couldn't place why. I couldn't recall anyone recommending him, yet there it was, his name scribbled on a scrap of paper I didn't remember writing on. It felt like it had appeared when I needed it most. The next morning I called the number, and the receptionist scheduled me for an appointment later that week. Her voice was calm, almost soothing, as if she already knew exactly why I'd called. That's how I ended up standing in front of his office door, tucked away in a quiet building on the edge of the city. The gold letters on the frosted glass were small and unassuming. Dr. Thelen Priat, Counselor. For a moment I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I almost turned back, but something about the stillness of the hallway pushed me forward. When I stepped inside, I felt the faintest sense of relief. The waiting room was plain, almost clinical, with beige walls and a small potted plant in the corner. There were no other patients waiting, no sound except the faint hum of a desk fan. Before I could sit the door to his office opened and a tall man with sharp features stepped out Elliot he said his voice smooth and even Come in Dr. Pryat was tall, not in an exaggerated way, just enough to make you notice. His features were sharp, his cheekbones pronounced, and his dark hair combed neatly back. He moved with an unsettling kind of precision, like someone who never second-guessed a step in his life. His eyes, though, they were the kind of dark that didn't reflect light. They stayed on me a moment too long. The way he said my name gave me pause, like it wasn't the first time he'd said it. I followed him into his office anyway. The room was sparse, almost clinical. A single leather chair sat across from his desk, which was empty except for a notepad and a pen placed exactly in the center. The walls were bare, except for a clock that ticked just slightly too loudly. There was no sign of personal touches, no family photos, no degrees, not even the usual bookshelf cluttered with dusty psychology textbooks. It felt like a space that didn't belong to anyone, least of all the man sitting behind the desk. Dr. Pryor gestured for me to sit. I hesitated for half a second, then dropped into the chair. My knees felt uncomfortably close to his desk. So, Elliot, he began, folding his hands neatly in front of him. What brought you here today? I faltered, unsure of where to start. I guess I just feel like I've lost control of everything, I said finally. My wife left. My job's gone. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing anymore. He nodded, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. You've been through significant upheaval, he said. That kind of disruption often leaves us questioning our place in the world. I wasn't sure what I had expected him to say. Maybe something more reassuring, something that didn't sound like an obituary for my life. But he didn't elaborate, didn't rush to fill the silence. He just waited. His dark eyes fixed on me like he was studying something beneath my skin. I don't know how to fix it, I admitted. It's like I'm stuck. I can't move forward, and everything I try just doesn't work. Dr. Pryor leaned forward slightly. Perhaps, he said slowly, the problem isn't that you're stuck. Perhaps it's that you're resisting the natural course of things. I frowned. What do you mean? Control, he said, his voice calm but firm. We all cling to it, especially when our lives feel chaotic. But the truth is, control is an illusion. Chaos is what shapes us. Sometimes the best thing we can do is lean into it. His words unsettled me, though I couldn't quite explain why. Maybe it was the way he said them, like he wasn't offering advice but stating an undeniable fact. Still, there was something in his tone, something almost comforting, like he understood a part of me I hadn't even shared yet. We talked for nearly an hour, or rather, I talked. He didn't say much, only asking a few pointed questions that had a way of pulling more out of me than I expected. By the time I left, I felt lighter somehow, like I'd shed some of the weight I'd been carrying since Marie left. As I stepped back into the waiting room, I paused. For the first time, I realized how empty the space was. No receptionist, no ambient noise, not even the faint hum of a computer or phone. Just silence. It struck me as odd, but I brushed it off. Maybe he worked alone. Plenty of therapists did. The drive home felt different. The city, which had seemed so foreign and oppressive for weeks, looked almost normal again. I didn't feel that cloying sense of dread I'd been carrying with me everywhere. For the first time in months, I thought maybe I'd found something or someone that could help. That night I slept better than I had in weeks. The dreams came, but they didn't feel as sharp, as jagged. They were strange, sure, flashes of indistinct faces and shadowed hallways that stretched on forever. But I didn't wake up gasping. I didn't wake up at all until the sun was creeping through the blinds. That felt like progress. Over the next few days, I found myself feeling lighter. Not happy, not yet, but less burdened. I cleaned up the apartment, made a grocery run, even called an old friend just to talk. The conversation was awkward and stilted, but it felt like I was clawing my way back to something normal. I scheduled another session with Dr. Priat. The second time I walked into Dr. Priat's office, it felt less daunting. The silence of the waiting room didn't weigh on me the way it had before. It almost felt familiar, like stepping into a quiet sanctuary. He was waiting for me, standing in the doorway to his office with that same calm, unreadable expression. Elliot, he said, gesturing me in, it's good to see you again. I sat in the same chair, and we began. This time his questions were more precise, cutting closer to things I hadn't realized I'd been avoiding. When I mentioned Marie, my voice cracked unexpectedly. I hadn't talked about her with anyone since she'd left. I just keep replaying everything in my head, I admitted. Every argument, every little mistake, I feel like if I'd just done something differently, been better somehow, she wouldn't have left. Dr. Pryat studied me, his hands folded neatly on the desk. Regret is a powerful thing, he said. It has a way of tethering us to the past, convincing us we could have changed it. But what if regret wasn't something to avoid? What if it was a guide? I blinked. A guide? He nodded. Regret points to the things we value most. If you lean into it, face it fully, you may find that it holds the answers you're looking for. The way he said it made sense, in a strange, unsettling way. For the first time, I let myself think about Marie without trying to shove the feelings aside. The guilt, the sadness, the anger—they were all still there, but something about acknowledging them made them feel less suffocating. By the end of the session, I felt drained but oddly hopeful. Dr. Priat didn't offer reassurances or solutions, but his words lingered with me. It felt like I'd been given permission to stop running for myself. That night, I slept deeply. The dreams still came, fragmented and strange, but they didn't leave me gasping when I woke. I felt like I'd cracked to open some part of myself that had been sealed off for too long. Over the next few days, I started to rebuild a routine. I cleaned the apartment, folded the laundry that had been sitting in a pile for weeks, and made a point to go outside each morning. The city still felt strange, like a place I didn't quite belong, but I kept walking. I even reached out to an old friend. The conversation was awkward, full of long pauses, but it reminded me that I wasn't completely untethered. When I scheduled my next session with Dr. Priat, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't in a long time. Optimism. By the time I stepped into Dr. Priat's office for my third session, the unease I'd been initially carrying had settled into something dull, like a faint hum at the back of my mind. I told myself it was nothing, just leftover nerves. The waiting room was just as empty as before, just as silent. Only this time, it felt like the silence was holding its breath, waiting for something. When he opened the door, I froze. He was taller. I was sure of it. The first time we met, he'd been imposing, sure. but now his frame seemed stretched, his head brushing the top of the doorway as he stepped back to let me in. He was thinner, too. His cheekbones looked sharper, his skin pale enough that I could see faint veins running beneath the surface. I blinked, shook my head. It was probably just the lighting, stress playing tricks on me again. Elliot, he said, his voice smooth as ever. Come in. I hesitated for a beat before walking into the office. It was the same as always, plain, sparse, clinical. But as I sat down, I noticed the air felt heavier, the kind of weight that presses on your chest, making it harder to breathe. How are you feeling this week? he asked, leaning forward slightly. His movements were fluid, too precise. His dark eyes stayed fixed on mine, unblinking. I fumbled for words. Better, I think, but I don't know. It's like there's this pressure, like I definitely noticed the progress, but everything still feels wrong somehow. He tilted his head, studying me. Progress often brings discomfort, he said. When we begin to confront what lies beneath, it's natural to feel resistance. Chaos is not meant to be comfortable, Elliot. It's meant to transform. The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. I opened my mouth to respond, but I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Movement. Dark tendrils, thin and writhing, curling from the top of his head. They swayed gently, like smoke caught in an invisible breeze. I turned my head sharply, focusing on him. The tendrils were gone, replaced by the sharp outline of his neatly combed hair. My heart thudded against my ribs. Did you see that? I asked, my voice shaky. He raised an eyebrow, his expression calm. See what Elliot I felt my face flush Nothing It probably nothing He leaned back in his chair his gaze never leaving mine It's not uncommon to notice distortions as you go deeper into the process, he said, his voice soothing, but laced with something I couldn't place. These glimpses, whatever they are, they're part of the work. I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't ask. Something about the way he spoke made it clear I wouldn't like the answer. The rest of the session passed in a haze. His questions were sharper, more direct, digging into things I hadn't realized I'd buried. By the time I left, I felt wrung out, like something had been pulled from me that I wasn't ready to let go of. As I stepped into the hallway, I glanced back. Dr. Priat stood in the doorway, his tall, lean frame silhouetted against the dim light of his office. For a moment, I thought I saw the tendrils again, coiling above his head like smoke. But when I blinked, they were gone. The walk home felt longer than usual. The city streets seemed darker, the shadows stretching farther than they should. Every step felt like it echoed too loudly, like something was following me just out of sight. By the time I reached my apartment, my hands were shaking. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, trying to catch my breath. That night, the dreams came back stronger. Shadows loomed, twisting and crawling, whispering things I couldn't understand. And when I woke, drenched in sweat, I realized something I didn't want to admit. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back, but a part of me knew I would. By the time I returned to Dr. Priat's office for my fourth session, I experienced something darker. The waiting room's silence wasn't just oppressive, it was suffocating. The air felt dense, like stepping into a room where something terrible had just happened. but left no trace. When the door to his office opened, I couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down my spine. Dr. Priat wasn't just taller now, he was impossibly tall. His head nearly scraped the ceiling, his body stretched to an unsettling degree, his limbs seemed too long, his hands too slender, the pale skin pulled taut over his sharp bones. I tried to convince myself it was my imagination, but it was harder now. Elliot, he said, his voice is calm and measured as always. Come in. I hesitated, but his gaze held mine, drawing me forward like a thread pulling tight. His office felt different this time. The walls seemed closer, the lighting dimmer. I sat down, and for the first time I noticed his shadow. It stretched across the floor in jagged shapes, moving faintly as if alive. How have you been feeling this week? he asked, leaning forward. The way his body folded made my stomach churn, the joints bending too smoothly, like a marionette with invisible strings. I... My voice cracked. I didn't know how to answer. I didn't know how to articulate that I saw his face in the shadows now, watching me, whispering things I couldn't understand. My reflection in the mirror no longer felt like my own. I don't think I'm doing well, I admitted. It's like I don't know what's real anymore. His thin lips curled into the faintest smile. That's progress, Elliot, he said, his voice low and steady. You're breaking through. Breaking through to what? I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming. Understanding. Freedom. Chaos must dismantle the false structures you've built before you can rebuild. As he spoke, I caught it again, those tendrils curling from his head, writhing in the air like smoke. This time I didn't blink. I stared, my heart pounding as they twisted and swayed, reaching higher, darker. What is that? I whispered, unable to stop myself. My throat was dry, the words barely escaping. He leaned back, the tendrils dissolving into the shadows. What do you see, Elliot? My breath caught. I... I thought I saw something. Above you. Perhaps, he said. His voice almost amused. Or perhaps your mind is simply opening. The rest of the session blurred. His questions were sharper than ever, peeling back layers I hadn't realized I'd kept hidden. By the time I left, my chest felt hollow, as though he'd reached inside and scooped something out. I stumbled into the hallway, not daring to look back. The air outside felt heavier than before. The city darker, its edges distorted. I walked faster, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. The feeling that I was being followed clung to me all the way home. That night, the dreams consumed me. Shadows stretched long, spilling from corners where they shouldn't exist. And in every one, I saw him, taller, thinner, his dark eyes piercing through the void, pulling me deeper into the chaos. By the time I sat down to record one of our sessions, I was sure I was losing my mind. I needed proof. Proof that Dr. Priat was real, that he wasn't just some warped creation of my unravelling mind. I set my phone discreetly on the arm of the chair during my next visit, its screen black, but recording everything. My hands shook the entire session. He was taller again. His head now grazed the ceiling, and his limbs were unnaturally long, stretched to a point that seemed to defy reason. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing closer, the air heavy and stale. "'Elliott,' he said, his voice calm, deliberate. "'You seem unsettled.' "'I'm fine,' I lied, though my voice cracked. "'Just tired.' He tilted his head, the movement slow, deliberate. "'Tired, yes. You've been carrying so much, haven't you? The weight of your regret, your fear, your failure. But you're almost there.' Almost where? I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. He smiled, sharp and predatory. To the truth. I couldn't hold back anymore. What are you? The words spilled out, desperate, trembling. You're not normal. You can't be. His smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than before. What do you think I am, Elliot? it? I pointed to his head, to the dark, writhing tendrils that had become impossible to ignore. They pulsed and coiled, faintly glowing like some unholy halo. That! I see it! I know I see it! He didn't look surprised. If anything, he looked pleased. Good, he said softly. You're beginning to see clearly. My breath came in short gasps. The room felt smaller, darker. The shadows in the corner seemed to stretch toward me, alive and hungry. I don't want this, I whispered, my voice breaking. Don't you? he countered, leaning forward until his impossibly long frame loomed over me. You came to me. You sought me out. You asked for help. I didn't ask for this, I shouted, my voice echoing unnaturally in the confined space. His smile never wavered. Chaos is what you needed, Elliot, and chaos is what you found. You didn't find joy in your life anymore. You won't even know what you're missing, only what you've gained. The scalp atop his head rose, at first like a goose egg, then warping into flame-like tendrils. I bolted out of the chair, backing toward the door. His shadow stretched impossibly long, curling around my feet like it wanted to hold me in place. The tendrils above his head swayed and pulsed, and when I blinked, they seemed closer, reaching for me. You're not real, I said, my voice trembling. You're not real. He tilted his head again, his dark eyes gleaming. Aren't I? I stumbled out of the office and into the hallway, my heart hammering in my chest. The space felt wrong, like the walls were bending in on themselves. The air was thick, heavy, making it hard to breathe. I ran without looking back, bursting out of the building and into the cold night air. When I got home, I played the recording. My heart sank. There was no voice, no movement, no sound of tendrils writhing in the shadows. Just me, talking to nothing, my voice fractured and desperate. That night, the whispers didn't just come from the shadows, they came from inside my own head. I couldn't go back after that. The thought of stepping into Dr. Pryor's office again made my skin crawl. I resolved to cut him out of my life completely, no matter how strong the pull to return was. I felt like a part of me still needed to see him, but I ignored it. A week later, I worked up the nerve to call his office, thinking I'd leave a message to formally cancel. The phone rang and rang, but never went to voicemail. I hung up, then tried again later. Same result. No answer, no automated response, just endless, empty ringing. Something felt wrong. I decided to go to his office in person to make sure it was real, to prove to myself that he was real. When I arrived, the building felt different. The dim lights in the hallway cast shadows that seemed longer, stretching unnaturally toward me. I stopped in front of what should have been his door but there was nothing The gold lettering the frosted glass the faint hum of the desk fan it was all gone In its place was a blank storefront The window was solid now the room beyond completely dark. I pressed my hand to the glass, hoping to feel some faint warmth, some proof that it had been there. But it was cold, like touching the surface of a stone that had never seen sunlight. I asked the building manager, a tired man with a bored expression, if he knew what had happened to the counselor's office. He frowned at me, squinting like I'd just asked something ridiculous. Counselor? Nobody's rented that space in years. Just a storage room, he said, walking off before I could respond. The hallway felt narrower now, the air heavier. I stepped back, staring at the blank glass as if it might change, but it didn't. The silence in the building was so oppressive I could hear my own heartbeat. I left quickly, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud. By the time I reached the street, I was shaking. When I glanced back at the building, it looked smaller somehow, like it didn't belong in this world. At home, the whispers were waiting for me, louder than ever. Every shadow in the apartment felt alive, curling around me, pulling me closer. My reflection in the mirror stared back with eyes that didn't feel like my own. And somewhere in the distance, faint but unmistakable, I thought I heard his voice. You're almost there, Elliot. I stopped sleeping after that night. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw him. not in the way a memory lingers, but like he was truly there, standing at the edge of the dark, watching. His form would shift, taller, thinner, his limbs elongated into impossible shapes, and always those tendrils writhed above his head, growing darker and more vibrant, pulsing like they carried some unspeakable power. I could feel him reaching for me. But it wasn't just the nights anymore. During the day, his voice echoed in my head, soft and patient, like a whisper carried on the wind. You're almost there, Elliot. It repeated over and over, a mantra I couldn't escape. Even when I plugged my ears, it came from somewhere deeper, vibrating in my bones. I tried everything to make it stop. I turned up music until the speakers cracked. screamed into pillows, swallowed whiskey until my hands stopped shaking, but none of it worked. Dr. Pryat's voice was inside me now, etched into the cracks of my mind. One night, desperate for answers, I flipped through the notebook I kept after our sessions. It was filled with scrawled half-thoughts, fragments of what I'd taken from his words. But as I read, the phrases began to blur together, forming patterns I hadn't noticed before. There were symbols hidden in my handwriting, spirals and jagged marks that seemed to pulse on the page. They weren't mine. I didn't remember writing them. I turned the notebook over and found a single phrase scratched into the back cover, written in a jagged hand I didn't recognize. He is the chaos between stars, the last voice you will ever hear. I threw the notebook across the room and pressed my palms to my eyes, shaking. This isn't real, I muttered to myself. It can't be real. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to ripple in response. They stretched toward me, curling like the tendrils I'd seen above his head. For the first time, I noticed something else in the darkness, faint pinpricks of light, scattered like stars in the void. They pulsed, growing brighter and dimmer, as if alive. Then I felt it, his presence, not imagined, not in my mind, but truly there, standing behind me. You've finally seen it, he said, his voice so close it made my skin crawl. I turned, expecting him to be there, towering and impossible. But I was alone. The apartment was silent again, but the shadows didn't recede. They lingered, darker than before, coiling like they were waiting for something. I tried to run. I grabbed my coat, my keys, anything to get out of that suffocating space. But when I stepped into the hallway, it wasn't the hallway anymore. The air was thick, suffused with a faint hum that vibrated in my chest. The walls stretched endlessly in both directions, pulsating as though alive. And at the far end, where there should have been an elevator, there was only darkness, deep and infinite. I felt it pulling in me, dragging me forward even as my legs refused to move. Dr. Priat's voice came again, smooth and deliberate. This is what you asked for, Elliot. The truth. No, I whispered, backing away. I didn't ask for this. But you did, he said, his voice filling the space. You sought me out. You wanted freedom. And now you are free. The darkness surged toward me, spilling out of the walls like a living thing. I turned and ran, but the hallway twisted and shifted with every step. The lights above flickered, casting strange shadows that stretched and twisted, mocking me. And then, ahead of me, he appeared. Dr. Priat stood impossibly tall, his head scraping the pulsating ceiling. His face was sharper now, the skin stretched so tightly over his bones that it seemed ready to tear. His tendrils had grown, writhing wildly, their tips sparking faintly with flickers of sickly yellow light. His eyes, empty and black, locked onto mine. You were never meant to understand, he said, stepping toward me. His voice was deeper now, layered as though it carried the echoes of countless others speaking in unison. I am the last step, Elliot, the chaos that frees you from the illusion of control. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The darkness closed in, swallowing the walls, the floor, the very air around me. And then he raised a hand, long, skeletal fingers reaching out. The tendrils swirled and twisted faster, their glow growing blinding. When his hand touched my chest, I felt it all at once, the weight of the stars, the cold expanse of endless void, the laughter of something ancient and cruel. My body burned, and then it dissolved, scattering like dust into the nothingness. I woke up in my apartment gasping for air. My heart pounded as I clutched at the couch, half expecting the shadows to swallow me whole. But everything was quiet. The room was still. For a moment I thought it had been a dream. But then I saw the mirror across the room. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn't my face. It was his. Dr. Priat's sharp, angular features, his dark eyes gleaming with something I couldn't name. I stumbled back, clutching my chest, but his reflection didn't move. It just smiled. Now I understand. He never wanted to consume me. He wanted me to become him. The whispers are gone now The shadows no longer scare me And sometimes late at night I hear his voice Calm and deliberate Guiding me Not as a patient But as a successor I am finally free And I am willing You've just heard Chaos Beneath the Stars, written by N.M. Brown, performed by Malcolm Blackwood, with production by Aaron Sawicki. This story was originally featured on Scary Stories Told in the Dark, and we're proud to bring it to you again tonight to highlight Malcolm Blackwood's exceptional work as both host and narrator. If you enjoyed tonight's performance, we encourage you to explore Scary Stories Told in the Dark, now in its 19th season. New episodes premiere every Sunday on the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights YouTube channel and are available wherever your favorite podcasts can be found. Hundreds of episodes await you, including an extensive archive featuring the unforgettable performances of original host Otis Chiri, alongside Malcolm's more recent contributions. There is no shortage of terror waiting for you. Why not dive in tonight? And if you haven't already, please consider following Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, leaving us a 5-star rating or review, and sharing the show with a fellow fan of the macabre. You can even find more terrifying tales at creepypastastories.com and stay up to date with Evil Idol 2025 and all our latest releases by subscribing to our YouTube channel. Of course, be sure to check out Scary Stories Told in the Dark, now in its 19th season, with new episodes premiering every Sunday on the Chilling Tales for Dark Nights YouTube channel or wherever your favorite podcasts can be found. Hundreds of episodes await you, including an extensive archive featuring the unforgettable performances of Otis Jiri, alongside newer installments hosted by Malcolm Blackwood. memberships are available now at chillingtalesfordarknights.com offering ad-free listening early access, exclusive content and our complete archive for $7.99 per month with discounted annual options follow us on Facebook, X Instagram and TikTok and as always, keep for spending part of your night with us and now, fellow lover of the macabre I'm afraid our evening together draws to a close. You've been listening to Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Until next time, I'm your host, Nicholas Goroff, filling in for Steve Taylor, reminding you to turn off the lights and turn on the dark. Sweet dreams, listeners. Sweet dreams.