The Suff

2028 AD

Nov 15, 2023

The Suff has become an urban legend on SubStack, one which many writers have joined in with (link at the end for others stories). It all started with

Jeff Kinnard

and a persistent Google docs file.

Here is my first take on The Suff.

Mark switched on his work computer. The familiar low screech came from the screen as it flashed on with a thin white loading bar in the centre. He sat and waited for a few seconds, typed in his password, and the machine did the rest. A colourful ball spun as it connected to the VPN. Email pings were already bursting from the tinny speakers. He kept a meticulous desktop, clear of everything, so he could admire the background image at times of high stress. The calming sight of a white sand beach, clear blue sky, and the endless sea. He didn't know where the beach was in the world, it could have been AI generated for all he cared, what mattered was the calm it gave him.

Right in the middle of the sand, almost hidden for the paleness, was a document. A white page with the words “The_Suff.txt” underneath. Mark failed to remember the last time he'd used a .txt file and promptly right clicked the file and deleted it. He started his day like every other, by checking his emails, quickly sorting into 'Ignore' and 'Emergency', there were no other categories. If 'Ignore' became 'Emergency' someone would call him. His method saved time, and more, importantly, his sanity.

Emails sorted he minimised the application to re-centre himself. Yet there was a jolt of annoyance. The file was back.

“The_Suff.txt” taunted him upon the pristine white sand of his 4K background. If this was someone's idea of circumventing his sorting system they were about to receive a strongly worded email. No 'kind regards' no 'hope you had a nice weekend', just a firm 'Stop it!' Mark deleted the file a second time and got up to fetch a coffee.

He returned refreshed and smiling from a cordial conversation with Kristine while the coffee brewed, he refused to drink the instant stuff. Downright vile what the company expected them to drink. Setting the coffee down on his cat coaster he began to tackle the first task of his day but there it sat. The file. Back for a third time. That stern email would write itself, but first he needed to know who was depositing this file on his desktop (and how). With a swift double click “The_Suff.txt” opened.

Utter nonsense filled his screen.

A jumble of letters, numbers, and symbols that meant less than nothing, at a glance he failed to identify any words at all within the jumbled mess. There was no author data either, no traceable link to a colleague's profile. The stern email would remain a draft until he knew where to send it. He deleted the file for a third time and got to work, hackles raised and a petulant rage bubbling deep down. Mark spent the day avoiding his desktop, the little minutes of calm shattered so thoroughly he left work early in the sourest mood he could remember.

After an uneventful evening of a microwave meal and three beers Mark fell into bed at the ripe time of 09:00 PM. Exhausted without reason and the stuffiness of a cold beginning to form in his nose. He slept heavy with a single dream to entertain him.

Mark stood surrounded by white bedsheets hanging from a plethora of washing lines. Ahead and behind, left and right, all he could see where fluttering sheets yet he felt no wind, no chill breeze. A shadow bled through the rippling bedsheet ahead of him, a dark human shaped figure. Mark reached out, he didn't know why, and ducked beneath the sheet but there was no one there and the shadow was now on the next bedsheet swaying from its line. He snatched the next sheet off the line, snapping the plastic pegs holding it in place, and darted forward. Still no one. On and on he went, diving through the bedsheets chasing a long limbed shadow through his dream.

He awoke in a cold sweat, congestion plaguing him along with a splitting headache. Rolling over he checked his phone, 06:18AM, and sneezed. He typed an email to his boss saying he was taking a sick day, not that she'd see it given the state of her inbox. The headache scuppered his chances at more sleep so he rose and figured he'd spend the day watching whatever new season had just launched. For that he'd have to get up. He sneezed again and a pain bulged behind his eyes. Groaning he crawled out of bed, found his dressing gown and slippers, and slid to the living room to fall on the sofa.

Moments later his TV flashed to life straight to the streaming home page showing one show on every title card. “The Suff” with a picture of a man in layered black robes, too long arms outstretched. Maybe the file was a marketing campaign, he thought and pressed play.

The television went black.

Mark switched it back on and tried again.

Blank.

He groaned, sneezed, and tried a third time. His nose ran fierce and he wondered if he had any tissues in the flat. The screen cut to black and in the reflection was a man dressed in long dark robes, his arms by his sides, hands down by his knees, staring at him from beneath rippling cloth. Mark screamed and flinched to look behind him.

Nothing.

He sighed, this is a bad cold, and turned back to the TV. The robed man leaned over him, arms spread and reaching. The rippling black cloth ensnared Mark. Too long arms cocooned him and pulled him close.

'… suff... suff... suff,' the thing whispered, each word followed by a croak, and embraced Mark. The arms locked him in place and tightened. A rib cracked. Mark screamed and felt himself melting into the monster, his face slipped. His vision sagged and blurred. He tried to scream but his throat had dissolved.

'Suff... ering', the remote fell to the carpet, only silence remained.