My dad isn’t exactly what you’d call your typical redditor. He’s more of your grizzled, mountain man type guy. Vietnam vet, constantly pissed at me for ‘wasting time on my computer’ (I’m a dev lol.)

Anyway, I saw a couple of posts pop up recently here and here that reminded me of some old scary stories he used to tell us right before bedtime (thanks, dad!) and I decided to ask him if there was any truth to them.

After the conversation started getting interesting, it occurred to me that maybe I should record it. Full disclosure: my dad believes 5G is making us sterile and Covid was a bad cold, so take the whole thing with a grain of salt. I have to admit, though, the whole thing has left me a little unsettled. Transcript below:

Dad: That thing on? You want me to start over?

Me: Nah, just keep going. Well–actually, maybe start with the baby thing again?

Dad: I mean, that’s just something that my mother told me. Back when I was born, they put me in one of those big nursery rooms with a dozen other kids. Kept wheeling them in one at a time for the dads to see through a big window. And then at one point, they wheeled one in and it dropped dead. Heart attack, so they said.

Me: Are you saying you saw the Countdown Man then? Like, when you were a day old?

Dad: How the hell would I remember? I’m just saying, it makes sense that he was there. If you kind of take that with the stuff that came later. You start looking for a pattern, you know. I’ve had a lot of years to count his visits, and if you include that one, it makes nine.

Me: What were the other encounters?

Dad: ‘Encounters.’ Jesus. You sound like a fucking– never mind. Yes, there were other encounters. I told you about the time in the movie theater when I was a kid, and then at the pool when the teenage girl slipped and knocked her head on the stone stairs.

Me: Right. So, to that point, are you saying the Countdown Man has multiple ways of killing people?

Dad: I mean, I’m not really sure he’s killing them. I’ve always seen him as more of a passive observer. Or at the very least, he’s bound to certain rules, killing people based on a numerical pattern.

Me: But what about that incident in Vietnam? That seems different than the others. Can you walk us through that?

Dad: Right. Well, that was right when we were getting resupplied. Something like summer of ‘68. We were parked pretty far north, and supply drops were a little less frequent. Anyway, we were all pumped because a new drop meant new contraband. It also meant some fresh faces, which was good and bad.

Anyway, just as the choppers were coming in, I saw him standing there, dressed in his black coat and his shiny dress shoes, right at the treeline where the open field around the base met the jungle. He was counting quietly, but somehow, I heard his voice clear as day even over the choppers. The first one landed, and guys started jumping out. And every time a new one pops out, I’m hearing ‘Ten, nine, eight.’ You get it.

I told my guys to run for fucking cover, and they did, but by then it was too late. All at once, bullets were raining out of that jungle, coming from all directions. One of the new guys got clipped first, right as I heard ‘zero.’ I figured that was the end.

But this time, the Counting Man almost seemed to get stuck like a broken record, whispering zero, zero, zero, zero, and people just kept fucking dying. Zero, zero, zero, zero. I’ll never forget it.

Me: Are you okay? You want some water or something?

Dad: I’ll take a fucking beer if that’s all right with you.

Me: What about the other times he visited, later on. Was there anything unusual about those?

Dad: I mean, they were all unusual. But other than the time in Vietnam, it followed a similar pattern. One death per visit.

At this point, my dad stopped talking for a second, and I noticed him staring down at his feet. My dad had pretty much worn cruddy tennis shoes or work boots every day of his life, but these were different. They looked brand new. Black and shiny as onyx.

Dad: You know, over the years, I’ve always wondered why it was only me who could see him. Like, what was so special about me? And I guess I’ve come to believe it’s a kind of training.

Me: Dad, where did you get those shoes?

Dad: I guess that’s the thing I haven’t told you before. The last couple visits, he’s been leaving me gifts. Back at the church picnic when he came, he stepped out of his shoes as he walked away. And I kind of got the sense he was leaving them for me? So… here they are. Perfect fit.

Me: Dad, why would you wear them?

Dad: I like them. It just sort of feels like they’re… mine, you know?

Me: What other gifts–

Dad: Look in the closet. You’ll see.

Me: Is that… is that his fucking coat? Dad, what the fuck?

At that point, I kind of figured the interview was done. Honestly, I was getting kind of freaked out, so I said a quick goodbye and headed home.

Whether the coat and the shoes actually came from the Countdown Man is highly suspect. But there’s no question that my dad is losing it.

I guess I just wanted to share this in case anyone else had any insight into what’s going on. There’s no way this story is real, right? It’s just some kind of urban legend.

Anyway, if you know anything, hit me up.