This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Arbrand on 2024-06-08 00:31:54+00:00.

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

[Part 3]

[Part 4] <- You are here.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the loose-fitting blue polo clinging to my sweat-dampened skin as I adjusted the collar for the hundredth time. Tim straightened the emergency medical badge on his chest as he wiped down the dashboard with a dirty rag. 

“This isn’t going to work,” I muttered. 

“Can you stop being a bitch, for like, five minutes...? Please...?” Tim snapped. “I’ve been doing this gig for six months. Most security booths just buzz me right through. We’ll be fine.” 

I didn’t respond. Instead, I gazed out the window, watching as the city lights of Seattle dwindled behind us, swallowed by the darkness as we ascended the winding switchbacks into the hills.

The view was almost beautiful enough to distract me from the weight of what we were about to do. Each turn of the road felt like a step closer to our doom. 

We turned onto an immaculately manicured path, the large wrought iron gates looming ahead, framed by imposing stone walls. The black veil of night surrounded us, leaving only our headlights, the guard booth, and the soft glimmer of the mansions lining the hillsides. My heart pounded in my chest as I saw an old man in the booth straighten up, set aside whatever he was eating, and approach the window. 

Tim waved and pointed to the logo on his shirt: Imperial Medical Services. He slowed the car to a crawl, his confidence seeming unshakeable. The old man stood at the window watching us as Tim slowly rolled by, expecting the gate to open. Instead, the guard held his hand up, signaling us to stop. 

“Fuck…” Tim whispered under his breath, his facade cracking ever so slightly. 

The guard motioned to roll down the window. “Evening, gentlemen. Delivery slip and IDs, please.” 

“Sure, one second,” Tim said, his voice unnaturally calm. He reached into the glovebox, and I caught a glimpse of IDs from at least four different states, all with different names but each featuring Tim’s face. He picked one and handed it over along with the papers. 

“And your friend there?” the guard asked, his gaze shifting to me. 

“He’s undocumented. Doesn’t have ID,” Tim replied smoothly. 

“Right… one minute,” the guard said as he stepped back into the booth. The minutes stretched agonizingly as he examined the ID and spoke on the phone, casting occasional glances our way. Tim’s eyes were glued forward, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel. 

“Sorry, gentlemen,” the guard finally called out. “Without two IDs, I can’t let you through.” 

“Are you joking?” Tim shouted. “I’m supposed to believe this is the only housing community on the West Coast that doesn’t have undocumented workers?” 

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Not ones that show up at eleven o'clock at night. Now leave before I involve the authorities.” 

Tim let out a defeated sigh. After a moment, he shifted the car into reverse. 

“Wait,” I interrupted, “We’re delivering insulin. Our paperwork shows that he ran out of it today. He could be having a medical emergency.” 

The guard looked at me, his expression momentarily shocked. “If that's the case, then we should call an ambulance.” 

“Why do you think we’re here?” Tim interjected. “You think they call an ambulance every time someone is low on insulin? We make short notice deliveries at least three times a week. Given how remote this place is, it’ll probably be over an hour until a city ambulance gets out here.”

“So, they’re expecting you? I’ll just give them a quick call.” he said as he turned back to his phone. I glanced at Tim with wide eyes and I noticed his hand on a pistol hidden in his waistband. 

I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the headrest, the only sound being the ringing of the speakerphone from inside the guards booth and the pounding of blood in my ears. After a few moments, the speaker clicked, asking the guard to leave a voicemail. 

“He could have passed out. We need to get him his shots. Please.” Tim pleaded. 

“Right, um,” the old man stuttered, “I want you to drive straight there. If I don’t see you back out here in thirty minutes, I’m phoning the police.” 

“Thank you, sir,” I said, trying to muster a convincing smile. 

He moved to push the gate release button but paused, his suspicion rekindled. “Wait, why don’t you have an accent?” 

A lump formed in my throat with my mind racing for an answer. 

Without missing a beat, Tim cut in. “Wow, man. Really? Why does he have to have an accent?”

The guard’s face reddened. “Oh, sorry. Really sorry. My apologies.” He fumbled with the controls, and the gate creaked open. 

We pulled forward, the tension in the car not easing until we were well past the gate and into the dark, winding streets. 

“You really should have had an accent,” Tim muttered, breaking the silence. 

“What was I supposed to do? Start speaking in broken English?” I snapped back. 

“I mean, it wouldn’t have hurt,” he shrugged. 

As we wound our way up the serpentine roads, I rechecked my pack: a length of sturdy rope, a roll of duct tape, a Glock 19 with the serial number meticulously filed off, a compact flashlight, a lock-picking set, and a first aid kit, just in case things went south. I tried to lean back and relax as I gazed out the window at the wealthy and exclusive palatial houses.  

Italianate villas with terracotta roofs stood beside sleek, ultramodern homes with glass walls that gleamed under the moonlight. Each residence was spaced far apart, separated by thick stone walls or dense hedges. Clearly whoever lived here valued their privacy. 

The estate finally came into view, light permeating up from the house and courtyard into the black night like a spotlight on the hillside. Dozens of cars lined the driveway and filled the cul-de-sac. Groups of people approached a guarded checkpoint where security personnel frisked them and scanned their invitations. Once cleared, they were handed black cloaks and masks before entering the mansion. 

“This is bad. We should turn around,” I panicked. 

“No, this is perfect,” Tim replied, a confident edge to his voice. “They’re handing out the disguises for us. We’ll blend right in. Just keep it together.” 

Every instinct screamed to run, but I knew there was no turning back. I mirrored Tim, slipping my gun into my waistband as we parked. 

I scanned the area, searching for a way to bypass security, but Tim was already out of the car, striding up the stone driveway. I hurried after him, trying to match his composure. 

As we approached, several security guards eyed us, their suspicion evident. 

“Delivery,” he announced, opening his bag to reveal it was packed with bottles and syringes.

The guard frowned. “No one mentioned a delivery.” 

Tim continued. “We have an order. I gave my delivery slip to the gate guard. Feel free to call him.” 

I gritted my teeth, waiting through the uncomfortable silence. 

“Hold on, I’ll call Mr. Voss to confirm,” the guard said, reaching for his radio. 

Before he could speak, a familiar voice interrupted. “No need, gentlemen. They’re with me.” 

Dr. Wilcox emerged from the shadows with a malicious smile. I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me.

“Glad you could make it,” he said in a sinister tone. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the party.” 

He waved us through, and a woman in an animal mask stepped forward, handing us robes and masks of our own. They confiscated Tim's bag, but left us otherwise unsearched. “Enjoy your evening,” Dr. Wilcox added before turning to the guards. “Make sure they don’t leave before meeting me in the basement after the festivities.” 

As Dr. Wilcox disappeared into the mansion, two guards moved in close behind us. Tim and I exchanged a wary glance before heading through the massive wooden doors.

The first thing that hit me was the stench—sweat, animal musk, and incense. Around the foyer, people crawled on the ground like deranged animals. Some barked, others neighed, and a few sniffed each other like dogs, their movements ridiculously exaggerated. It took a moment to realize they were imitating the creatures on their masks. 

A sharp pressure slammed into my back, forcing me to my knees. I clutched the mask in my hand—a cat. With a heavy sigh, I slipped it on and dropped to all fours. The guard's grip was unforgiving as he snapped a collar around my neck, yanking me into the writhing crowd. I lost sight of Tim, the chaotic mass swallowing him up. He couldn't be enjoying this any more than I was. 

As I descended into the rabid throng, the animal sounds grew deafening. My senses were assaulted from all directions—masked faces loomed in and out of view, their eyes wild and unhinged. The air was thick with heat and the reek of unwashed bodies, making each breath a struggle. 

Around the edges of the crowd, figures in white robes moved with calm. They held trays of hors d'oeuvres and waved ornate fans, their masks having no eyeholes leaving them presumably blind. It was obvious they were the servants, catering to the bizarre whims of the revelers. 

One servant caught my eye, towing a strange contraption behind him. It resembled an o...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1daq9vc/we_joined_a_cult_as_a_joke_part_4/