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Baby Talk
Let your baby side show.
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I hope Paul and Andy become besties! 🙈 -
I'm not commenting because English is not my native language. But I like the story and I'm just really curious to know who is telling the truth and who is Lying. I don't have any feedback to the writing of anything else. Just enjoying the story. -
Echoes of Ward 4B Chapter 1: The Descent The beam of my flashlight flickered against peeling, sea-foam green paint. I swept it across the subterranean corridor of St. Jude’s Sanatorium, watching the shadows recoil before slinking back into place. The air was thick enough to choke on—damp concrete, rusted iron, the sweet cloying rot of insulation that had been soaking up moisture for thirty years. My boots crunched through layers of debris: shattered safety glass, chunks of fallen plaster that crumbled to dust under my weight, the spongy remains of floorboards that had long ago surrendered to gravity and moisture. I’d been exploring abandoned institutions for six years. I’d written three books on the subject, built a modest following of readers who were fascinated by the decay of forgotten places. I knew the rhythms of these places—the way the silence suffocates, the way the darkness seems to breathe. But St. Jude’s was different. The silence here wasn’t empty—it was listening. The shadows pushed back against my flashlight beam like a living thing, heavy and hungry, and the air carried a faint, almost imperceptible whisper of something else beneath the rot. Something sweet. Something wrong. My wife’s voice echoed in my memory. “Please don’t go there. That place isn’t just abandoned—it’s wrong. People who go in don’t come back the same.” I’d kissed her forehead, promised I’d be careful, promised I’d text when I was inside and when I was out. She’d held my gaze a beat too long, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a soft, steady pressure. “Take care of yourself, my brave explorer. Just relax and come back to me.” Now, standing in the damp darkness, I wondered if she’d been right. The corridor stretched ahead, a throat of cracked linoleum and rusted pipes. Water dripped somewhere distant—plink… plink… plink—the sound impossibly loud in the oppressive quiet. The walls were slick, moisture beading on the peeling paint like cold sweat on fevered skin. I passed a rusted doorway labeled WARD 4B: ADOLESCENT CARE, the letters faded but legible. Beneath it, someone had scrawled in chipped marker: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. I almost laughed. Almost. But the sound caught in my throat, swallowed by the darkness. The beam of my flashlight caught something half-buried under a collapsed pile of plaster. Something that didn’t belong in a place sealed for thirty years. Something that glittered faintly in the yellow light, smooth and unnatural against the rough debris. I knelt, my knees popping in the cold, and kicked away the debris. The object emerged slowly, and my stomach did a slow, queasy turn. It was a diaper. A vintage Tena from the 1990s. Smooth, crinkly, pale-green plastic backing. Thick white adhesive tapes that had yellowed with age. But the plastic was bulging. Heavy. Visibly soiled. As if it had been discarded only moments ago instead of rotting for decades. There was no dust on its surface, no mildew, no decay. The faint, acrid scent of urine still clung to it, fresh and unmistakable, cutting through the rot of the ruins like a knife. Who wore this? The thought surfaced unbidden. And why is it still fresh? I knew better than to touch biohazards in a place like this. My rational mind screamed at me to step back, but a strange, heavy compulsion seized my arms. Moving against my own will, I reached down and picked it up. The cold, damp weight settled heavily in my palms. The plastic crinkled under my grip, a sound that was disturbingly loud in the dead silence. I could feel the moisture through the shell, seeping into my gloves, chilling my skin. I should have dropped it. I should have thrown it and run. I didn’t. And then the ringing started. It wasn’t a sound—it was a pressure, a sharp metallic vibration that seemed to originate from inside my own skull. It built and built, a rising tide of noise that drowned out everything else until I couldn’t tell if the ringing was coming from the corridor or from the space behind my eyes. A violent surge of heat hit my chest, spreading outward like molten lead through my veins. I gasped, finally dropping the flashlight. It clattered to the floor but didn’t go out—the beam wobbled wildly, painting fractured shapes across the walls as the darkness itself seemed to writhe. The air changed. One breath, damp rot and mildew, thick and cold. The next, something scalding and sterile—industrial bleach so sharp it burned my nostrils, floor wax that coated my tongue with a bitter chemical film, the dry, hot scent of cotton that had been pressed and folded a thousand times. It was suffocating, invasive, the smell of a place that had been scrubbed clean of humanity and replaced with something else entirely. The vertigo hit. My stomach lurched. The heavy leather of my boots shrank around my feet. My spine compressed, vertebrae grinding together as my height dropped by a foot, then another. My jeans pooled around ankles suddenly too small to fill them. My belt cinched tight—then loosened, useless, as my hips narrowed and my shoulders folded inward. My stubble retracted into my skin like needles pulling back, each hair withdrawing with a faint, prickling sensation. My jaw rounded, the bone reshaping with a dull ache. My cheeks filled, losing the hollows I’d had since my twenties. My voice box shrank until my Adam’s apple retreated into my throat. My hands—broad, calloused, a man’s hands—softened, smoothed, the knuckles disappearing beneath baby-soft skin. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a thin, reedy whimper came out. The beam of my fallen flashlight vanished—swallowed by the blinding, uniform glare of overhead fluorescent tubes reflecting off freshly waxed linoleum. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the light pressed through my eyelids, relentless and white, staining the darkness behind my eyes a painful, burning red. When I opened them, the decaying hallway was gone. Polished chrome cots in neat rows, the metal cold and gleaming. Thick, reinforced wire glass in unbroken windows, the surface scratched and pitted from years of cleaning. Gleaming floors stretching away in both directions, reflecting the fluorescent lights above like a frozen lake. The walls were painted a bureaucratic beige, interrupted at intervals by heavy steel doors with small, wire-reinforced windows. Each door bore a painted number in faded black stencil. I looked down at my hands. They were small. Soft. The hands of a twelve-year-old child. The blue hospital gown I was wearing was rough against my skin, the fabric stiff and scratchy, draping loosely off my narrow shoulders. My bare legs were pale and thin, the skin smooth and unblemished. I was lighter, smaller, diminished in every dimension. And then came the sensation between my thighs. Heavy. Snug. Thick. Crinkly plastic and swollen padding suspended against my skin, held firm by four broad tapes across my hips. Warm and damp. Unmistakably wet. The padding pressed against my thighs, bulky and inescapable, forcing my legs apart with every subtle movement. My hand trembled as I pulled up the hem of the gown. Peeking out from my waist was the smooth, crinkly top margin of the same green plastic Tena diaper. The same pale-green backing. The same thick white tapes. But this one wasn’t old or dusty or waiting to be found. It was on me. A sharp clatter made me jump. Down the hall, a nurse in a crisp, white vintage uniform stepped out of a duty station, rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the polished floor. She held a metal clipboard, her face stern but routine. She looked right at me. Right at the child in the wet diaper. And her expression didn’t flicker—not surprise, not disgust, just the bland, routine assessment of someone who had seen it all before. “Back to your room, young man,” she said, her voice echoing down the corridor. The words were calm, even, but carried the weight of absolute authority. “Dr. Vance will be making rounds for morning check-in shortly, and we need to get you changed before group session.” I stood frozen in the middle of the ward, completely trapped in the past. -
By CuriousForPadding · Posted
Ha, this is something that I knew intellectually from reading threads like yours, but it still hit me hard when I “realized” it in real life. That first surprise sog when you thought you were probably pretty dry is a little bit of a head trip. And then you realize it’s what you were signing up for, and it’s even more surreal, but also kinda magical.
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