“I…well, I suppose…well, it’s a silly question, but…have you ever seen a tower, just on the north side of Sterfbed?” The chef raised an eyebrow and leaned his greasy hands on the counter in front of him. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” “You okay, Ernest?” the chef asked as he handed the plate over. The chef already had the sandwich prepared for him by the time he walked through the door.
He stopped at his favorite pub along the way home for a Reuben sandwich. He sat in the snow at her grave, talking to her for an hour (mostly about the tower), before leaving a single yellow marguerite daisy atop her tombstone, taking the one he’d left the previous day, and saying goodbye for the afternoon. He walked two miles east to the church where his wife was buried. He wasn’t going to let this interfere with his daily routine. Vanhin huffed and hobbled out into the snow. But it had never been there before, he was sure of it! It was the tallest building in town, just slightly taller than the church steeple. It didn’t take him long to see what was wrong. Slipping them on with a trembling hand, he squinted and examined the landscape more closely. But he’d gone on this walk every day for almost ten years now, he knew it very well, and something was different. It was a quiet little town, with cobblestone streets and chiseled brick houses and tiny little markets to buy fresh vegetables and meats. At 10 am, after a short nap in his favorite armchair, he grabbed his cane, put on his fleece hat, wool mittens, and a cashmere overcoat and opened his front door.
#Radio silence creepypasta full
He woke up at 5 am, said his morning prayers, and cooked himself a full breakfast, complete with fried eggs, sausages, and bacon. He woke up at 5 pm, made himself some beans for dinner, and, after washing the dishes, he said his evening prayers and went to bed. When he got home, he hung his coat, hat, and mittens up to dry, started a fire in the fireplace, and took a nap in his second-favorite armchair, enjoying the warmth of the flames. He ate his lunch leisurely, left a generous £3 tip, and finished his walk home. He sat in the snow at her grave, talking to her for an hour, before leaving a single yellow marguerite daisy atop her tombstone, taking the one he’d left the previous day and saying goodbye for the afternoon. At 10 am, after a short nap in his favorite armchair, he grabbed his cane, put on his fleece hat, wool mittens, and a cashmere overcoat, and opened his front door.
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