nosleep

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-10-31 23:28:10+00:00.

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My younger brother wanted to visit a haunted school for Halloween. He recently fell in love with ghost-hunting YouTube channels but wasn’t ready to buy all the equipment to go on a hunt himself. But he wanted to still go to any haunted locations. I didn’t exactly have the time to drive him around. I kept putting off hanging out with him until now. At first, the plan was to just drop him off at the school and pick him up later. Ben was fifteen after all. The principal refused to let him explore the school alone which I understood. I traded my shift and packed up my sibling for a boring day out.  

“Sorry, you’re stuck with me for a few hours. Wouldn’t you rather go to a Halloween party instead of hanging out with me?” I joked to him on the drive to the school.  

He didn’t look as excited as I expected when he got into the car. Maybe he was a bit nervous.   

“I wasn’t invited to one.” He said in an even voice but I could tell he was upset.  

I shouldn’t have brought up his lack of social life. He was a shy and nerdy kid. It’s not as if he didn’t have any friends. They just preferred to play games online rather than hang out together.  

“Well, I bet they’re all lame parties anyway. Who cares about drunk people dressed in skimpy costumes when you could explore a haunted school?” I said trying to lighten the mood.  

He smiled and I relaxed a little.   

“Sorry, you gave up a shift for me.” Ben commented and the mood shifted again.  

I shook my head not wanting to have this sort of conversation.  

“I traded a shift, not gave it away. Don’t worry about it.”  

Money has been tight for us the past few years. We all made sure Ben got what he needed and some of what what he wanted. I got a job early to help pay for things. He wasn’t a dumb kid. He noticed the extra shifts and penny-pinching. I think he felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to find a side hustle that brought in money aside from mowing lawns in the summertime.  

We arrived at the school after nearly an hour of driving. The light of the afternoon was orange due to the season. I didn’t know how long Benny wanted to stay here. An hour? Two? Until nighttime? The building didn’t appear special. It was older. Ben told me it was built in the 60’s. And it was still in use aside from some rooms being off limits.  

A man met us at the front doors inside. He was tall and thin with tied-back black hair. I didn’t expect the principal to look like him. Instead of a balding middle-aged plump man, he was a handsome slightly older man with hints of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.  

“Thank you for sharing your time and letting us explode tonight.” I said to the man and shook his hand.  

Ben awkwardly did the same, nodding and acting nervous around a stranger. Normally he wasn’t this shy.  

“This is Ben. He was the one who asked permission right Mr...?” I trailed off not remembering his name.  

“Chambers.” The principle was helpfully added. “I don’t mind giving up my Halloween to help a young man with a report. It's not often students are interested in the history of this building.” He explained.  

Report? I glanced at my brother and he looked away. So that’s why he was acting weird. He lied to be able to hang around this building tonight. It was a harmless white lie but I decided to make my brother actually do a report and send it to Mr. Chambers as a thank you for his time.  

A gust of wind rattled the front doors. I looked over my shoulder to see the sky suddenly grey. I didn’t remember seeing dark clouds when we walked inside. A small rumble came under our feet. It wasn’t as loud as thunder but what else would it be? No one else seemed to notice. Mr. Chambers gestured for us to start walking down the hallway as he started to go into details of the school. I only half paid attention.  

I had graduated high school a year ago. Since then, I worked my butt off to save up for college. I was accepted into a course and would start next fall. Being inside a high school felt odd. I never expected to be back in one.  

We stopped in front of a long line of lockers but oddly enough a door had been removed from one. The metal was dusty from years of neglect.  

“In 1971 six students and a staff member went missing. There had been rumors they found the head of one student inside this locker. However, there are no official reports detailing such events. The idea remained causing any student to be assigned the locker to be tormented by their classmates. We removed the door years ago to avoid such bullying.” Mr. Chambers said in a calm voice.  

He was a good speaker. His tone was even and easy to follow. I hadn’t looked into any history of the place beforehand. All I knew was the it might be haunted thing. I stood behind Ben and placed a hand on his shoulder causing him to slightly flinch. I liked teasing him and didn’t get to do it very often now. 

Ben wrote a few things down and took a photo of the locker with his phone.  

“Sorry, I don’t know much about this place. Were the students ever found?” I asked the principal as we walked down the hallway to the next location.  

“Not all of them.” He answered with a slight shrug.  

“So, they found at least one of them alive or...?” I said following behind Ben and the man.  

“Oh, no I meant they found some parts of them.” Mr. Chambers corrected himself.  

Normally I wasn’t affected by ghost stories but the casual way he spoke about such a gruesome crime made my skin crawl. It bothered Ben as well. Reaching down, I grabbed his sides and made a noise at the same time to make him jump. His face flushed red as his leg kicked out trying to get me. Mr. Chambers smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes making him appear older for a moment.  

We finally stopped in front of a locked classroom. A sign had been taped to the door warning people to stay out. Our guide stepped next to the door ready to dump more information before unlocking it.  

“All photos and reports of the event have been destroyed or lost. All we have left are second-hand accounts of the people who witnessed the gruesome sight that was found on Halloween night in 1972.” Mr. Chambers started.  

“Wasn’t it 1971?” I spoke up unable to help myself.   

Ben glanced at me. The principal didn’t appear offended but was glad to see I had been paying attention.  

“Yes, the seven people went missing in 1971. Their bodies only appeared a year later. Pieces of the six students were found inside this classroom arranged in a way people described to be a part of a ritual. All the heads were missing. They all appeared healthy before their deaths as if they were taken care of over the year they went missing. Since there are no photos and sparse eyewitness accounts, no official details of the ritual-like crime are available.”  

Benny appeared interested. He was so engrossed in the story I bet he would jump out of his skin if I grabbed him again. I held off crossing my arms. This all felt like a weak story to me.  

“Did the ritual thing even happen? Or do you think stories got exaggerated over time?” I suggested only to have Ben kick my shin.  

Mr. Chambers softly laughed at us and nodded his head.  

“That’s entirely possible.” He agreed which disappointed my little brother. “There are simply not enough facts in this case. What is known for certain is the seven people disappeared. Six students were found inside this classroom a year later with pieces missing. The staff member was never found. Due to the lack of information countless rumors spread. A few stuck. Most claimed the staff member killed the students in some sort of Satanic ritual. The police handling the case was a small inexperienced department and never solved the case. That added to the rumors.”  

“It was a long time ago. They didn’t have computers and all that back then so I don’t blame them for losing records. I heard there had never been a murder in this area, let alone six. I think I read one of the students was a deputy’s niece. He killed himself years later because he could never find her murdered.” Ben said showing off just how much he researched this crime. 

I wish he put the same kind of effort into his math homework. Mr. Chambers was nodding along but he looked a little concerned over something.  

“Was 1971 really that long ago?” He asked mostly to himself.  

He didn’t look to be in his 50s until I squinted a little. I bet he was having the same kind of crisis I did whenever I heard kids speaking in newer slang. I understood the feeling of suddenly being aware of your graying hair.  

“Anyway, you’ll be able to take photos for your report. I just ask you to not enter the room.” Mr. Chambers said then reached over to unlock the classroom door.  

For some reason, I felt my heart start beating faster. I unconsciously held my breath almost expecting to see the still dead bodies of the students trapped inside. It was a silly idea and yet, the mental image didn’t leave.   

A burst of cold dry air came from the room when the door was opened. Just before Mr. Chambers let go of the handle a sound echoed down the hallway causing all of us to jump. A phone rang loud and angry. The older man chuckled over his reaction and told us he needed to answer the phone or call the person back. We assured him we would be fine alone for a few minutes and let him rush down the hallway.  

Ben raised his phone and carefully started to take photos of the dark classroom. He needed to put his flash on to s...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ChronicAwesome15 on 2024-10-31 23:19:51+00:00.

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I'll be censoring all names for privacy. You'll understand why.

For context, I come from a fairly rich family. Not uber LA rich, but rich enough that we had a small place in the mountains where we'd vacation for the summer. I genuinely loved that place, always did; the huge forest and sounds of nature were a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of the city. There was even a basement that had been converted into a sort of lounge, with a big TV, a movie and games collection, and a pool table. We'd go out there, my brother, father, and mother, and we'd have an amazing summer every time.

However, I learned when I was about six that we had only started going to this place after my grandfather died. I was one and my brother was two when it happened, so we didn't remember him at all, but apparently he inherited it from his father sometime in the 1960s, but once he moved to the city and made it at some hedge fund he had turned it into a vacation home. Then he retired to live there full time when my dad was in his 20s, and then he'd passed it on to him when he passed away.

There was really nothing amiss about it. It was a log cabin that had been built out rather than up, high up in the mountains of a state I won't name. It really was the perfect getaway. But when I was 17, the summer before I left for college, I overheard a strange argument between my mother and father.

It was the dead of night, and I had gotten up to go get a snack after a bad nightmare. As I walked down one of the long hallways towards the kitchen, I happened to pass by the bedroom my parents were sleeping in. However, I could see light shining from below the door, and I could just make out their hushed yet passionate voices.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" my mother said.

"XXXXXX, listen to me-" My father said

'No, no, no!" she said. "I don't know if this is some out of season April Fools prank, but I refuse to believe that you're part of this!"

"My father and his father did this so that we could enjoy the fruits of their labor!"

"Labor? Labor? They've done something awful, and you're part of it!"

"I didn't ask for this, it was forced on me! And if I'm stuck with it, why not benefit from it?"

"I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"I'll show you-"

"No. No. We will go back to sleep, and we will never speak of this again."

"Honey-"

"Don't call me that."

That was that. I heard them get back into bed, and I crept back to my own bedroom, my appetite gone.

Dad and Mom's relationship was rocky form that point on. They stayed together, but Mom grew cold and distant from him. I left for college, and I got a phone call from my mother that we wouldn't be going to the cabin next year. At the time I thought nothing of it. But my mind began to turn over with the possibilities of that argument I had heard the last summer. Grandpa had been in finance; maybe his fortune had been made by less than legal means, and my mom was mad about that. But it wasn't as if my dad would be responsible for that. Maybe it had something to do with something at dad's company? No matter how I approached it I just couldn't figure out what they could have been arguing about.

But when summer came around I got a call from my dad.

"Hey Dad, what's up?" I asked.

"Hey, XXXXX." He said. "How would you feel about coming up to the cabin again?"

"Wait, really?" I said. "I though Mom didn't want us to go up there anymore."

"Oh, it took a lot of haggling, but I got her to see things my way." He said. "We'll be heading up there next Monday. I'm thinking you can pick up your brother on your way north from his school and meet us there."

"Yeah, that sounds good." I said. "We'll talk it over."

"Oh, this is gonna be great." Dad said. "I got something special planned for all of us. It's gonna be a treat!"

After that I called my brother. We worked out a plan where I'd do as Dad said, drive north and then grab my brother from his school, then head north to meet up with Dad. My brother had finals a week later then me, so I told Dad that we'd meet him at the cabin the Friday of the week he and Mom would arrive. He agreed and that was that.

I packed my things and headed up towards the cabin. I picked up my bro and we made it there just as the sun was beginning to set. We saw Dad's car in the driveway of the house, but there weren't any lights on in the cabin. We thought this was weird, so we walked up to the door and knocked.

No answer.

I found a key under a nearby rock and we let ourselves inside. The place was dark and quiet. Our footsteps echoed through the long hallways as we searched for our mom and dad, but there was no one there.

"I'm gonna try calling them." my brother said. He called Dad's phone, and we heard a ringtone from somewhere deeper into the house.

We walked until we came to an open doorway that lead into what my dad had called the study, but was really more of a bedroom that happened to have a desk and a bookshelf. Dad's phone was ringing on the desk next to what looked like an old leatherbound journal. That's when I noticed that the bookshelf had been pulled from the wall. I walked over a looked behind it. There was an empty alcove behind the shelkf that had been carved out of the wall. It looked just big enough to fit the journal that was now laying on the desk.

I walked over to it and picked it up. I flipped through it to the first entry. My brother came to stand beside me and we read it together.

May 24th, 1924

I had the most incredible experience in the nearby city of XXXXX this last week.

I went to visit XXXX at his family's home. He's an old friend of mine who'd just gone abroad on his parent's money. He returned to the States with a jar and a tale to go with it. He told me that he found himself in the bazaars of Cairo, and he stopped in front of a man selling jars of confectionaries However, there was one jar that was ludicrously priced; a hundred American dollars. My friend inquired about the jar's contents, and the seller said "Aw, these are most precious sweets of all; pieces of a mellified man. You see, beyond the desert, there are elders who will decide to become mellified men. They begin to eat nothing but honey. Soon, they begin to smell like honey, they begin to sweat honey, and finally they bleed honey. And once they have passed on, they are sealed away for a hundred years, and when their coffins are reopened, they have dissolved into a honey that can heal any wound, cure any sickness, and some whisper that it can even grant eternal life. Of course, such men willing to sacrifice themselves have grown rare in our time, and so these sweets have become all the more precious."

"And then," my friend said, "he showed me something that made me believe him."

"What's that?" I asked.

He produced a knife from his coat pocket and stabbed it straight through his hand, then pulled it back out, causing the wound to gush blood. I feel back and became nauseous at the sight, but my friend remained calm and relaxed, as if it were only as bad as a mosquito bite. Then he opened his jar and pulled out a golden sweet that looked like a clear type of toffee, and he bit off a small piece. At once the wound began to close, and soon there was nothing to indicate he'd ever been hurt at all.

"You see?" my friend said.

I was stupefied. I had just witnessed a miracle before my very eyes. I begged my friend for a sweet, and he gave me only one. One! Out of a jar full to bursting with them!

We argued passionately over the matter for an hour before I stormed out and returned to the inn I was staying at. The next morning I tried to return to my friend's house to discuss the matter further but found that he had gone somewhere in the middle of the night. i now believe he thought my fury over the sweets would lead me to do something irrational.

Turns out he was right.

For as I rode the train back to my town, I began to form a plan in my mind. There was a logging camp near my cabin. Accidents happened there all the time. Would anyone miss a logger?

How much did honey cost these days?

These questions have spun around in my mind over and over since I've returned. I know now what I must do.

May 27th, 1924

I have done it. I snuck into the camp int the middle of the night, incapacitated one of the workers, and brought him home. He is now locked up in my storm cellar. When I first laid the bowl of honey in front of him he tried to attack me. The chains stopped him, but it gave me a scare. He refuse to eat for a while, but eventually he caved and ate the honey.

June 1st, 1924

Today he smelled of honey before I even brought him any.

June 12th, 1924.

It's over. Today I went down to feed the man and he would not get up. I unlocked his chains and picked up his corpse, now slick with honey, and stuffed him into a barrel I had previously used to age beer. I sealed it as tight as I could and set it aside in a corner.

I know I will not live to enjoy the fruits of my struggle. But my children and my children's children shall. This will be my sacrifice to them.

"Oh my god..." I said. My brother made a sound like he was going to retch.

That's when we heard a thump from somewhere else in the house. We both froze.

"What was that?" I whispered.

"Stay here." My brother said as he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to do something right now or I feel like I'll b...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StrangeAccounts on 2024-10-31 23:11:23+00:00.

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I know this sounds strange, maybe even ridiculous to some of you. But I’m desperate for an answer, so bear with me. Has anyone here, at any point in their lives, ever dreamed of something… or someone… called the Inside-Out Man? If that name triggers anything, even a faint sense of déjà vu, I need to know. 

For years, I thought the nightmares I had as a kid were just that—nightmares. My mind's way of twisting childhood fears into something grotesque, something awful, something somewhat tangible. But every fall, when Halloween passes and the air grows colder, he slips back into my mind. 

I thought I was the only one who remembered him for a while. He was only around for a few weeks in the fall nearly two decades ago. And my inner rationality kept reassuring me that I had made him up since no one ever spoke about him after middle-school. But that got crushed a few days ago when my friend from seventh grade, Melissa, reached out to me. Her message was short, just a single line: "Do you still think about him?" 

She didn’t need to say who. November is here. It’s his month.

So, because of that, I have to ask, has anyone ever dreamed about the Inside-Out Man?

Everything started back in 2005. I was in seventh grade and it was moving into the late-fall season. November 1st.

I walked into school that day to find something off about the place. It was subtle at first, an undercurrent that rippled through the halls. I noticed it in the eyes of my classmates, a strange look of exhaustion I hadn’t seen before, as if they hadn’t slept. Their faces were pale, their movements were slow, lethargic and heavy. And there was something else too. Fear. 

In our homeroom, I sat next to Melissa. Usually, she’d be chatting up a storm about her costume, her plans for next year's Halloween season, and the extent of her candy haul. But that morning, she was silent, her hands folded on her desk, her eyes fixed on the floor. When I nudged her, she flinched, and I saw that her knuckles were bone-white. They were clenched so tightly her hands shook.

“Hey,” I whispered, leaning over towards her. “Are you alright?”

Melissa didn’t look at me, she just nodded vaguely in an empty motion. Her gaze was distant, somewhere else, as though she was watching something play out behind her eyes. I could tell that the words she needed to say were hidden just past her lips but her teeth were clenched so hard her jaw wouldn’t let her speak.

By lunchtime, I started noticing it wasn’t just Melissa and a few others. The broken kids were everywhere—the same kids who had come in laughing the day before, vibrant and excited, were slumped against their seats, staring blankly at their food, flinching at sudden sounds. A handful of them looked like they’d been crying. I remember feeling awkward, I was just a kid like them. So even though I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what to do.

Eventually, when the lunch-bell rang, I made the choice to pull Melissa aside. She didn’t resist, just followed me wordlessly deeper into the hallway. I looked at her face, really looked at it. There was this shimmer in her eyes, a certain wetness. I asked her again if she was okay, but this time, I pressed harder. I didn’t let her shake it off. After a long, tense silence, she spoke, her voice so soft it almost came out as just an exhale.

“You ever have a dream that doesn’t feel like a dream?” she asked, her eyes finally meeting mine. Her pupils were huge, swallowing the color of her irises. She looked like a wounded deer about to give up on life.

“Yeah,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I really understood. But I still wanted to know. The more I looked at her, the more I sensed that whatever she was about to tell me was something that I didn’t want to hear. Or maybe, something I shouldn't hear.

“It… it wasn’t just a nightmare,” she said, her voice trembling. “He was there. In my room. And I know it was a dream, but it was… it was like he was real.”

“Who was?”

She swallowed hard, and in a voice barely above a murmur, she said, “The Inside-Out Man.”

The name sent a jolt of nervousness through me, though I didn’t know why. I had no memory of anything like it, yet it felt familiar, as if something deep within me had always known that name. I asked her who he was, and her eyes went unfocused, as though she were slipping back into her dreams. It was the same look she had at her desk a few hours earlier.

“He… he crawls,” she whispered. “He drags himself into the room, all wet and… and wrong. Like he’s inside out. You can see everything—the muscles, the bones moving under them, his veins. There’s no skin, just… rawness.” She hugged herself tightly, shivering. “And he moves like… like he doesn’t have bones, or he can take them out if he wants. I saw him crawl through the crack under my door, just squeeze himself in.”

She paused, her breath coming in shallow gasps. I wanted to tell her to stop, to say it was just a dream, but something inside me kept me quiet. I needed to hear it all, I needed to know what she had seen.

“His tongue is the worst,” she said finally. “It’s… it’s long, too long. It comes out of his mouth like a rope. It’s wet and thick, like it could wrap around you a hundred times, and he uses it to reach you, to pull you toward him.”

I watched her relive it, watched her arms wrap around her torso as though trying to shield herself from the memory. Her face had gone pale, her breathing shallow. And as much as I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. I was frozen, captivated by the horror of it.

“He likes it when you’re scared,” she continued. “He just… watches you. Watches you squirm. Last night, he was… he crawled under my bed. I could feel him, just inches away. His tongue wrapped around my leg, and he pulled, but… but I woke up.”

The last words left her lips in a broken whisper, and she began to cry, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. I felt paralyzed, unable to comfort her, unable to make any of this make sense.

“It’s okay Melissa. It was just a bad dream.” I said to her.

“No it wasn’t, Alex. My ankle was wet when I woke up. I know he was there.”

I didn’t know what else to say. I kept her company for the rest of the school day and eventually went back home.

But something was off that night. I laid in bed, eyes glued to the dark ceiling, replaying Melissa’s story over and over in my head. Her story had lodged itself somewhere deep in my mind, like a splinter that wouldn't come out. 

I kept gazing at my bedroom door. The Inside-Out Man had crawled into her room by pulling himself through that tiny little crack under her door. It was a visual I kept replaying in my head. It paired well with the memory of her face when she told me about it, I had never seen her that terrified before, her eyes were huge and panicked, like she was staring at something only she could see. And now, lying in the dark, I couldn't shake the feeling that she’d handed me some sort of invitation, that by hearing her story, I’d be able to see the monsters too.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day had finally pulled me under. I was only 12 after all, I couldn’t hang on forever. Eventually I had to slip into sleep.

When I opened my eyes, I was no longer laying down on my bed. I was laying down on the floor of somewhere else, a place that felt twisted, wrong, familiar yet distorted in every way. 

The walls around me reminded me of my Grandma’s house. They were eggshell white with high ceilings. They seemed to breathe. All four walls expanded and contracted just enough to be noticeable, like the whole room was alive. 

It was then that I noticed the shadows strewn about from old furniture that had clung to the corners of the room. The shadows were thick and sticky, as if they’d been painted on with tar. The air had a sour, metallic stench that filled my nostrils. It was sickly sweet and dense, like rotting meat. I covered my mouth, trying not to gag, but the smell only grew stronger, coating my tongue, clinging to my throat.

I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy, as if invisible hands were pressing down on my legs and chest. I struggled, trying to stand, to get my bearings but the only things I could move were my arms and my head. I felt my heart begin to quicken as a certain awful feeling began to come over me.

That was when I heard it—the wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across a damp floor. It came from somewhere behind me, slow and deliberate, and with each sickening scrape, I felt my already throbbing pulse quicken.

I didn’t want to turn around. Every instinct screamed at me to stay still, to pretend I didn’t hear it, to make myself small and invisible. But slowly, against my better judgment, I craned my neck towards the noise.

At first, I thought the shape was just a shadow, something my mind had conjured up in the dim light of the room. But as my eyes adjusted, I began to piece the shape together. It was crouched low, it's body sprawled across the floor like it was prostrating. The skinless form glistened in the faint light. Muscles and tendons were exposed, raw and pulsating, veins throbbing in sync with some horrible, unnatural heartbeat. It's bones jutted out at odd angles, as if his joints had been twisted and broken, and it was dragging itself toward me on limbs that should have been rendered useless.

He was smiling—or at least, I think he was trying to. His mouth stretched too wide, his lips nonexist...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MJRednour on 2024-10-31 23:01:30+00:00.

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My grandfather was a big part of my life. Once every week or so, my parents and I would visit him. In that long wooden shack with the rusted metal roof, he would be waiting for us. While my parents were usually busy talking with my aunt, my grandpa and I would be in his living room. Playing board games and card games that I rarely understood.

But I only spent the night there once, when I was eleven years old.

On an October night that turned out to be a lot colder than anyone expected. I remember this night more than I remember most of the years of my life.

I was sitting next to Grandpa's basset hound, Chip. We were warming each other up as the sun slowly set behind the trees and under the mountains that dotted the horizon.

Grandpa called me inside before ushering Chip into a small doghouse on his porch. I asked him if he would get cold out here, but Grandpa told me he would be fine.

By the time I had sat on the red cotton couch in his living room, he had already struck a match and thrown it onto the wood in his fireplace. It would eventually grow into a roaring fire that slowly gave light to Grandpa's face. But without any other light, all I could see from my angle was his dark silhouette.

Usually, by now, Grandpa would have suggested a game for us to play, for me to watch something on TV, or at least made some joke about my Dad.

But right now, he just sat there and stared at the fire.

Suddenly, Grandpa's arm crashed into my chest. I was pinned against the couch by his arm and as I whipped my head towards him I could see his eyes were wide and he appeared to be reaching for something behind the couch.

But just as suddenly as it had started, his panic ceased and he let out a warm sigh as he sat back against the couch cushions.

"Sorry, Maggie...I thought there...I thought a rat was over there."

One time, my Dad told me a story about how my aunt found a rat in her bedroom and how Grandpa had teased her and chased her around with it.

I knew grandparents were usually sweeter with their grandkids, but it was still suspicious.

When I pointed this out to him, he seemed to shut down again. He stared into the fire once again. For a while, I did too. Until I heard him mutter something under his breath.

"What?" I asked him.

"I'm asking if you've ever seen something that...just didn't look right? Like...you're looking at a door. And...you know that there's something there that wants to...do something bad to you?"

"Sometimes. When it's real dark and I haven't slept yet."

"It doesn't even have to be dark, you know. Because sometimes they'll just show up anyway. Things that wait by doors. Things you can't see or hear or touch. Things that you can only feel. And that if you walk through their door, there will be no other side."

I looked at the doorway to the room Grandpa and I sat in. I could only see the rusted hinges of the door from where I was sitting. Besides that, the door was wide open. I couldn't see anything beyond it. But I knew that to the left of that door was the hallway that led to the kitchen and the front door. And going forward would lead you to Grandpa's bedroom. But to the right of that door, you could only take about four steps before it led you face first into a wall.

I wondered if there were just enough space for something to hide in. Just standing there, waiting to grab you by the neck and drag you into the bottom of the world.

I nodded my head up and down.

"There's only one way to be sure, you know." Grandpa told me. "Get out that thing you showed me last week."

I had showed my Grandpa my new video camera last week. He had looked at it keenly, and I only now knew why. This was before smartphones, so I had been gifted a grey, bulky camcorder to take photos or video with. Grandpa looked at the camcorder closely before telling me a story.

"When I was a kid, I figured it out through paper and pencil. When I was even younger than you are now. Just doodling in math class. I was just dragging my pencil back and forth. And before I knew it, my hand was dragging itself up and down faster and faster. My hand stopped and started at certain points, and by the time it was done I could see what he was trying to tell me.

DON'T WALK HOME. CALL MOM.

I knew it was my older brother. I had never met him, but he had known me for quite some time. Later that day, I asked the teacher to call my Momma to come pick me up. Later that night, my Daddy showed up. And sadly, your great-grandpa was not a good man. He beat Momma, and he would have beat me if she didn't know how to use a pistol. He sent him away again with the same gun.

I knew that if my brother wasn't there, he would have taken me."

Grandpa slowly opened the articulating screen on the side of the camcorder and scooted across the couch so that I could see the live image onscreen. Because of the dim light in the room, the screen was pitch black. It felt like another doorway to me.

"I'm not trying to scare you, Maggie. I'm just telling you what to be scared of. And there's a lot of scary places and people out there. This is a gift we've got to get ahead of them. You're a lot luckier than I was. Now you can see them whenever you want. But you should be careful not to let them see you back. You take too many pictures, Maggie."

Grandpa didn't know a lot about technology, but he knew that the red button on top let you take a picture. A bright light lit up an empty doorway, and a wooden rocking chair right next to it.

The picture came on screen. Sure enough, there was nothing but a bright light shining onto an empty chair and a doorway with nothing in it.

I smirked as I looked at Grandpa. This had all been another spooky story. Some odd prank on me.

His eyes were wide as he looked at the screen, and he let out a small gasp. I saw it when I looked back.

The long brown hair sprawled across the seat of the rocking chair, and the pale face it was attached to. She seemed to be a younger woman, maybe just over nineteen. I could see one of her large green eyes and thin eyebrows. The rest of her was out of view, seemingly sprawled across the floor. The only other thing was the tip of the nail of an index finger, painted bright red.

It was pointing up towards the doorway.

"That's what I thought. Get those blankets off the couch. We're going to sleep right here."

I did so, but I couldn't help but ask him so many questions. Who was that? What was that? What was she pointing to? I don't think I articulated myself very well in that moment, but I only remembered what he responded to me with.

"Don't worry about the fire just...lay down close to me. Try to sleep, and if you can't, act like you are."

After I wrapped myself in blankets, I lied down on the couch. Grandpa put his finger over his mouth and laid flat on his back on the floor.

My eyes locked onto the ceiling. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that my grandfather must have known what he was talking about more than I ever could have.

It seemed as if as soon as I had laid down, Grandpa had fallen asleep.

Now, the only sound I could hear was the slow breathing of my grandfather and the crackle of the flame in his fireplace. My mind was running rampant. I didn't know what was in my head, what was real, and what was in between.

I imagined something running out from the doorway. Or slowly sneaking past my grandfather and looming over me.

Any small bump could have been it's footsteps. Any faint shape I saw as my eyes closed could have been it's arms.

My rapid breathing stopped as I heard the crackle of the nearby fireplace stop. The fire glowed brightly before disappearing altogether.

My eyes closed, not that the view from under my eyelids was anything different from when I opened them.

They were shut as tight as I could when I heard it. The small groan of whatever was waiting for me. A licking of lips. The gnashing of teeth. And then silence.

I told myself it was just Chip. He had snuck in to get away from the cold. My soul knew that it was a lie. It waited for me. And it only needed me to see it for me to be seen.

My eyes shot open to the morning light in my window. My eyes ran down to the camcorder below, and I sat up straight away as I remembered the previous night as something more than a nightmare. I panicked as I realized Grandpa wasn't lying next to me.

Thankfully, he was sitting across from me. He was looking down at the rocking chair he sat on before he looked to me and smiled. I noticed he had a pencil in one hand, and a notebook in the other.

"I was waiting for you to wake up before I showed you this. A quicker way to know for sure."

He began to quickly move the pencil across the paper, sketching many little lines across the paper. When he was done, he showed it to me. It was just a vague black shape.

"It's gone. Must have gotten bored and trotted back down."

"W-will it come back?"

"Not unless you want it to."

The rest of the day was more of the same. A few board games before my parents picked me up. Not a word about last night obviously, not as if they would believe either of us.

Instead, me and my Mom looked at old scrapbooks that she wanted to take back to our house. There, I saw the brown-haired woman again. She was sitting next to my grandfather, holding my mother as a baby.

I've seen a lot more since then. There are more photos than ever now to see through. In the background of an Instagram post, a sever...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ChickenJeff on 2024-10-31 17:37:11+00:00.

---

Part 1 | Part 2

A wave of shock shot through me. It was our knock. I didn’t dare respond. If that isn’t her… That means whoever it is has been listening to us. Now they’re reaching out to me. They know I can hear them... But what if it’s just her? She came back and was trying to see if I’m still awake. The thoughts whirled around like a hurricane. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear the silence. I couldn’t bear the uncertainty. It was all too much.

 

I got up, I grabbed my keys, and I left. As I walked out into the hallway, I saw her door. It looked the same as it always has; but to me, right now, it was a portal to hell. Someone… or something… was on the other side of that door. It might be pressed up against it. It might be looking out the peephole at me. I darted away. I simply couldn’t be here anymore.

 

I got outside and suddenly I could breathe again. The noise of the bustling city greeted me like an old friend. I never thought I would find such comfort in it. I sat down on a bench in front of my building. I wasn’t going to go back. Not while the sun was down.

 

I knew where my window was, so I knew where 402’s window was. I didn’t want to look at it but I had to… It was completely black. I couldn’t see anything inside. That was good, I thought. But that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was being watched. I felt eyes up there looming over me. I couldn’t rationalize it, but something inside was telling me that whatever was in 402 wasn’t a person. I fought against that thought for a long time, but I was starting to accept it.

 

I tried my best to ignore it all. It wasn’t easy. Eventually I laid down on the hard wooden slats and was able to some much-needed shut eye. I slept better than the last few nights.

 

I called in sick to work the next morning. I wanted to be here when Jane got home… Or to see if she was already home and last night was a massive overreaction.

 

I felt safer seeing the sunlight beaming through my windows when I got back inside. I tried to occupy myself by catching up on some household chores, as the back of my mind waited anxiously for the next sound.

 

I heard nothing all day. The longer it went on, the more sure I became that Jane wasn’t home. As the sun set, it was apparent that she decided to stay with her sister for another night. Meaning that yesterday night… definitely wasn’t her. Also meaning that I was here alone for another night.

 

I tried calling again… I don’t know why I expected the outcome to be different. Still wasn’t in service. I made extra sure I got the number right. It was exactly the number she said. Why would she give me the wrong number? Was it a new phone and she got it wrong by accident? Or did what I said to her really freak her out and… Maybe she thinks I’m not to be trusted. She placated me with a false number and then got the hell away from me. That outcome would’ve hurt the most. But a third idea crept into my mind too… The idea that maybe SHE couldn’t be trusted. I vehemently resisted that idea.

 

Night fell and the dread came with it. Part of me wanted to go outside to the bench again, but another part of me had to hear it one more time first. One more time to confirm that it was still in there, and then I could call the cops, because this needed to end.

 

I don’t know why the noises always seemed to start at 2:00, but that’s what I was waiting for. As 1:59 turned over, my senses sharpened. I waited, and I waited, expecting that sit-up sound. Only it didn’t come.

 

I had hoped that not hearing it would put my mind at ease… But that was not the case. It only put me more on edge. I felt like I was being watched. I felt like the thing on the other side knew I was listening.

 

I couldn’t hear anything… But I could feel the presence. It was there. I knew it. I just needed confirmation. The longer the silence went on, the more doubt began to creep in. The doubt infuriated me. All of this was doubt. Every second of this nightmare was doubt, and possibility, and “maybe.” I knew nothing. Nothing made sense. I was afraid, and I was frustrated. So… I made a decision.

 

I stood facing the wall, carefully picking up my phone in one hand and my keys in the other. Ready to run and dial 911 at a moment’s notice. I gathered up all the courage I had, and prepared to speak. I had to call out to it. I had to know that I wasn’t crazy. I opened my mouth, but before the words could escape…

 

“Leigh.” A soft voice whispered through the wall… It was… Jane. She sounded further away and her voice had a slight echo to it but… It was unmistakably her voice.

 

“Jane?” The word fell out. My voice cracked.

 

“Help me.” She sounded afraid. Hushed. Like she didn’t want to wake something.

 

“Jane, what’s going on?” I had a million questions, I was frantic, but I quieted my voice to match her’s. Suddenly I was afraid to wake it up too.

 

“Please help me, Leigh.”

 

“How are you there? When did you get back?” I whispered, not covering my desperation.

 

“I see it.” She continued. A shiver went down my spine.

 

“I’m going to call the cops right now. They’ll be right there.” It was the only solution I had.

 

“I don’t want to die.”

 

She fell silent after that, but I heard the breathing against the wall again. The hair on my arms stood on end. I was too scared to think straight, but I knew this wasn’t right… It was her voice but… It can’t have been her.

 

Knock Knock.

 

Knock Knock.

 

Knock Knock.

 

I had enough. I ran out into the hallway and dialed 911. I told them there was an intruder. I kept it vague because vague is all I had. As I spoke, I kept my eyes on her door. I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. If it left, I would see it. If it stayed, they would catch it… I hoped. They advised me to stay in my apartment and lock the door. I didn’t listen.

 

It took around 40 minutes for them to arrive. Two officers arrived on my floor and the building manager was with them with keys to let them into her unit. I think his name was Larry. Like I said, I forgot a lot of names and faces. He shot me a brief glare when he saw me standing there. I probably woke him up with all this.

 

I wanted to get a glimpse into the room but I was ushered away, back into my unit. My stomach was in knots with stress, I just wanted this to be over. I didn’t know what to expect. Would there be shouting? Would I hear a fight? Would there be gunshots? A part of me had a feeling… A dreadful feeling… That they would get in there and they wouldn’t find anything.

 

Minutes passed. I waited and waited, but I couldn’t hear anything from the wall. Not a peep. “Why aren’t they going inside?” I thought out loud. Suddenly there was a knock at my door. I opened the door and sure enough it was the officers, flanked by Larry.

 

They told me what I was afraid of, “We searched the apartment, and we couldn’t find any signs of someone living in there.”

 

“You WENT inside?” I questioned. I knew they didn’t go inside.

 

“We searched the entire unit, up and down. There was no one in there. But if you hear anything again-“ After that point I tuned out. I exchanged the default pleasantries and they went on their way. I couldn’t find a shit to give in any of their words, and I was too frustrated and exhausted to search for it.

 

I tried to get answers. Instead, I ended up with yet another question atop the pile. Why wouldn’t they go inside? What did Larry tell them?

 

I knew I wasn’t getting any sleep that night. All I could do was sit on the bed and overthink. This was all bigger than I thought it was. Jane could have been in on it. Larry could have been in on it. The police could have been in on it for all I knew... I really didn’t want to believe that Jane was in on it…

 

The way Larry glared at me… Maybe it wasn’t “screw you for waking me up in the middle of the night.” Maybe I stirred something up that I wasn’t supposed to. Maybe the problem wasn’t with Jane. Maybe there wasn’t an intruder, a creature, or even a ghost. Maybe it was the room itself.

 

As I sat and drove myself crazy with these theories, a new sound shot into my ear and sent my heart up into my throat. Some kind of rapid clacking sound. Almost sounded like someone button mashing a controller, but not as plastic-y. I jumped off the bed, and the sound stopped. The room wasn’t done with me yet.

 

I had never heard this sound before. I couldn’t place it at first, but once the initial shock wore off I knew exactly what it sounded like. It sounded like teeth chattering. I didn’t want to believe that’s what it was. There are lots of things that sound similar to teeth chattering. If it was any other circumstance, I could easily debunk it as the place settling. Little rhythmic cracking of hard materials rubbing together, bending. But this isn’t any other circumstance.

 

I was frozen in fear once again. The images my mind involuntarily conjured up were instantly traumatizing. A wide, chattering, horse-like, bloody mouth upon a gaunt, sunken face. A naked man with hungry mouths strewn all over his body. A zipper made of teeth going all the way down a human head so it can open like a ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-10-31 20:06:51+00:00.

---

And if that glyph means nothing to you, count your blessings.

This language is not some virulent new strain of Gen Alpha slang, but something worse, believe it or not. And I don’t know who created /, but it’s more than symbols and sounds. It’s a language from some other world. Trying to pronounce its native name would leave both your throat and mind sore.

It would invite something dark inside.

Amongst English speakers, /\ has no fixed name. I’ve seen Apex, Concordia, and The Language of Peace, but I call it Palx. That name came to my mind from nowhere, like some parasitic horror. Made me hot and clammy. But the nightmare, I would learn, had only just begun.

Palx. From the very first time the sound slid off my tongue, I hated it. Hated that it had such a wonderful mouthfeel — sweet and milky. I never knew a word could taste of anything. Every time I utter that name, or even think it, something triggers my tongue’s receptors. Leaves a lingering flavour of euphoria in my mouth. The promise of nothing ever being bad again.

/\ seeks, then spreads from platform to platform. Morphs into a new name and a new taste for each individual. Does whatever it must to avoid detection. Whatever it must to infect more minds until we all speak it. But you don’t need its name. You’ll know its face when you see it. The selling point is always the same:

Learn this language, and know peace for the rest of your life.

That is a lie. There’s something intoxicating about that idea of the world before the Tower of Babel. A single language. No danger of misunderstanding one another ever again. Palx presents itself as a cure for war, poverty, and even civilisation’s stagnation. But it isn’t that. It affects the mind in ways I still don’t understand. If you become fluent, you’ll turn into something wretched.

Something far from peaceful.

I’m aware that language has always determined the way we think. Your tongue is fastened to your brain, whether you like it or not. You see the world through your wordstock. And that used to fascinate me. If French had been my native language, would I have become the same Wyatt?

I did actually learn French when I was a teenager. But I just don’t think a second language, learned after our formative years, really shape the mind in the same way. When I speak French, I am aware that I’m speaking French. I don’t hear words. I hear sounds to translate.

I’m sure multi-lingual children, exposed to many cultures from birth, have broader experiences. Have a better idea of the way in which words shape a person’s sense of self. But no language alters the mind like Palx.

I suppose I should tell you how I fit into all of this.

In August, I downloaded TikTok. I didn’t really want to do so. Something drove me to do it. Something other than AI-voiced Reddit stories and cringeworthy sketches. It was that voice. The same horrid voice which filled my mind with the word ‘Palx’ moments before a twenty-second clip appeared on my screen.

The video depicted an ethereal woman sitting cross-legged in a dandelion field. A white shawl encompassed most of her body, and a whiter smile encompassed most of her face. Her long, blonde hair was bound by a tight band of freshly-picked flowers from her surroundings.

“One month ago, I was an investment banker,” she softly said, flicking a golden strand out of one eye. “Today, I have only one job: to spread words that will heal the world. This language is Apex. And one day, when we all speak it, we will never need our old words again. Rotten words of hatred and greed. We will unite.”

And then the woman started grunting gutturally. She offered a definition for each word, but those low, monstrous sounds cut deeply into my mind. These words weren’t like ‘Palx’. They tasted sour. Each fresh one stung my grey matter and worsened a burgeoning rage beneath the surface of my mind. Yet, I did not stop watching. Did not stop listening. It was only after I summoned the urge to thumb the screen that I woke from the trance.

Now, anyone else might’ve dismissed that woman’s language lesson as an odd video from an odd TikToker, but I wasn’t so quick to push my feelings aside. I promptly deleted the app and found myself praying to never hear a word of those ancient, inhuman noises again. Of course, I would not be so fortunate.

Palx found me in the real world. It always finds its students. I dreamt of sounds and symbols. Dreamt of translations. And, again, I’m sure some would’ve dismissed the nightmares as nonsense. An overstimulated brain, perhaps. But I knew better. And there was no denying the terror I experienced during my waking hours.

After two or three weeks of bad dreams, those foreign symbols started to appear in the real world. Glyphs had been etched into bus stop adverts, my company desk, and even my apartment’s front door — which caused hostility between my flatmate and me. He didn’t believe that I had nothing to do with it, but at least that proved the horrible truth.

I had not gone insane. This was all real.

A virus within my mind was teaching me the otherworldly language. But I did not feel enlightened as the spiritual TikToker had promised. I felt threatened. Frightened. From the very beginning, I sensed that Palx did not intend to bring peace.

“You okay, Wyatt?” Bradley asked as he entered my office cubicle.

I looked up and tried to focus my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You sure don’t look it,” my co-worker said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

Bradley sighed. “You’re still thinking about that video, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I pleaded.

“It’s just a strange online trend, Wyatt,” my friend said. “It’s not a real language.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeated.

“Sorry,” he replied. “Have you spoken to the man?”

I frowned. “The man?”

Bradley nodded. “The one who asked for you at the front desk. Didn’t Lynn call you?”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t seem that way.”

“Ah,” my friend replied. “Well, someone wants to see you.”

“Does this ‘someone’ have a name?” I asked.

Bradley shook his head. “Nope. He gave Lynn and me the creeps. I was just down there with her, and she said she’d give you a quick call.”

I rubbed my eyes sleepily. “When was this?”

“About ten minutes ago,” he said. “I told her that I didn’t mind relaying the message… I would’ve come straight to you, but there were a few emails I needed to send first.”

“Lynn probably just got distracted,” I replied. “I’ll head down now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bradley said as he followed me out of the cubicle.

“I’m still wondering who’d even be here to see me,” I said. “You really don’t have to come with me, Brad.”

My friend shook his head. “I didn’t like that man’s vibe. Besides, Bill’s not here yet. Let me waste a little of the morning, won’t you?”

I smiled and nodded as we entered the lift, then I buzzed the G button.

But when we stepped out into the lobby, I immediately felt out of place. Immediately felt isolated, even with Bradley’s company. It wasn’t just the strange man standing in the centre of the deserted room. Wasn’t even Lynn’s absence behind the reception desk. It was the silence of the room. A silence too weighty to be natural. That blanket of nothingness buried dark noises beneath. The buzzing grunts of words from a language that shouldn’t exist.

“Hello, Wyatt Lewis,” said the stranger coldly.

He was an unassuming figure. Five-six with a beige bomber jacket, faded jeans, and polished shoes. The visitor had the appearance of a man younger than this years. But his smooth, rosy-cheeked complexion was a false one. That good health was an illusion.

“How may I help you?” I asked, assuming the stranger to be a client I’d slighted somehow.

“By letting me fill in the gaps,” he answered. “By completing yourself.”

I paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re nearly there, Wyatt,” the man softly said. “After all, you know that the…”

The next words out of his mouth were alien sounds which caused Bradley to scream in pain — caused his knees to buckle and slam into the floor.

“WHAT?” my friend screamed. “WHAT IS THAT? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”

I didn’t quite understand the words either, but I was close. Closer than Bradley. Fluent enough to remain on my feet — to not be left in a state of agony. My kneeling friend and I locked eyes, sharing the same petrified expression. Bradley’s ears canals were dribbling lines of blood, but I didn’t do a thing to help him. I watched in frozen terror.

The stranger smiled. “It’s not for you, Bradley. You don’t have the capacity for peace. You don’t fit.”

Then this man, neither young nor old, scurried towards us on feet that, when hitting the tiles, barely produced sounds. I felt unable to intervene as the stranger seized my friend’s throat and continued to speak words which very nearly made sense — which tasted sweeter by the second.

“Wait,” Bradley choked, eyes wide as if he’d finally comprehended something. “I hear what you’re saying…”

I heard it too. A beastly voice which spoke of things that I’m too afraid to put in writing. Most horrifyingly, the stranger’s lips weren’t moving. Whatever was speaking to us in that alien tongue, it wasn’t him. It was something else. Something nearby.

It spoke of things which sounded so lovely and tranquil, yet blinkered and inflexible. A language that was willing to hammer triangles and squares into round holes, but not pentagons like Bradley. Some shapes would never “fit”.

And I felt the haunting beginnings of a smile on my l...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ursaM4xima on 2024-10-31 19:39:23+00:00.

---

Jenna Swanson told me that my "sexy vampire" costume was trashy, but I could hear her screaming even from where I'm sitting in the living room, so like, who's laughing now?

Well, I mean, actually none of us. Or at least, none of my classmates are. I'm smiling and nodding like a maniac, which is, I assume, why I'm the only one still alive. Everyone else that was originally at this party is either dead, or dying, and I'm not fully sure that the people who showed up are...alive, in the strictest sense of the word?

So I'm just sitting, pretending to sip on what I think might be an IV pack, plastering on my best customer service smile and trying to make a sound when everyone else laughs at the jokes the guy in the cape keeps making.

I'm not a monster, I just want to say that. I didn't choose this. And I tried, I really tried, to get out, or to call someone, or anything. I didn't just leave everyone to their fate.

But I can't do it. I'm stuck in this house, just like they are. The only difference between me and the rest of the kids here is that I'm not 100% sure I'm going to die.

The living room is slowly emptying out, but it's still pretty crowded. The house isn't actually that big. But it was big enough - and abandoned enough - for some of the popular kids to plan a rager big enough for everyone in my high school. That probably sounds like a lot of people, but there aren't that many students. Or there weren't. I guess there are even fewer now. Just me and whichever nerds figured they'd sit this one out and get ahead on their AP studying or whatever the shit they thought they were going to do instead of going to a Halloween party with actual liquor.

God, I wish I was at home right now.

It's a huge relief when Cape Guy tells another ~hilarious story and I can tilt my head back like I'm laughing, but actually pinch my nose. I've already had one nosebleed tonight, and I really don't want to be bleeding around these folks.

Although, I think the first nosebleed might have been what saved me?

I'm not...good with stress, honestly. And I guess I'm not usually very good with parties. It's not like I have a whole lot of experience with them. The diner pays better for late shifts, and my parents are pretty strict otherwise. And like, sure, it would be nice to be invited from time to time, but like...whatever. Everyone in my grade knew about this one, so I didn't need an invitation, and I figured I'd cancel one stupid shift and try being a normal teenager for one night of my life. That's going great, obviously.

Anyway, I get nosebleeds. It's embarrassing, and it sucks living in a town small enough that everyone remembers all the worst times it happened in middle school. These days, if I feel it coming on, I just sneak off and deal with it. Take a minute to sit in a closet or whatever, calm myself down, and then come back, hopefully without using up half a box of kleenex first.

The party music was a little overwhelming, honestly, and the drinks smelled like paint thinner, and it was all just a lot. So I just stepped away, for a minute. Or ten. Or thirty. When the shit hit the fan downstairs, I was in the furthest, darkest, moldiest room I could find, hoping that it was gross enough that no one would try to come in and have sex because of the smell. Most of the other rooms were already "occupied". Between the bass and the scream-singing and the extremely questionable wailing from the other bedrooms, I couldn't tell you when the second wave of guests arrived.

I hadn't really clocked a change in the shouting when I heard someone heavy thud up the stairs and try to kick down the door of one of the other bedrooms. There was a splintering sound, and I guess they got their foot stuck in the door? The couple that was in there started shouting and screaming, but the person didn't say anything to them, just hopped around, trying to get their foot out of the door, I guess. Then they ran further into and across the room, and I heard the shattering of glass.

What was left of the glass in the window of my room exploded inward as a huge guy crashed through it. He hit the floor pretty hard, on top of all the shards of glass and everything. He just lay there for a moment, confused, stunned maybe. It was kind of like those birds that fly into the window and just sit around, all spacey, until either they fly away or they run out of luck and get eaten by a cat.

I crawled over toward him, trying not to touch any of the broken glass. His neck was cut up pretty badly, and I tried to remember the first aid training I'd taken so that I could charge more for babysitting. This hadn't been on the course, somehow. My nose had started gushing, but I figured he was already so bloody that he didn't really have room to criticize. So I bent down to check if I could hear him breathing, hoping he wasn't dead.

"Naughty," said, apparently, Morticia Addams from the doorway.

I turned and gaped. Shit, we were all in so much trouble. That was a bona fide adult, and we were a bunch of asshole teenagers drinking underage in a certified fire hazard. The guy next to me definitely needed to go to the hospital, and I probably looked as if I was involved in whatever stupid shit he'd been trying to do when he...jumped through a second-story window? My parents would ground me until I went to college. Wait, was this going to impact my college applications?

It's funny, you know? That was a few hours ago. I still remember the flavor of that panic, and thinking that only getting into my backup college was the worst thing in the world that could happen to me.

This beautiful, ethereal grownup slunk across the disgusting, slightly squishy carpet to kneel across from me, on the other side of the linebacker-type. Her eyeliner was inhumanly perfect. She looked at me, and I sheepishly tried to wipe away the blood that was running down my chin.

"No respect for seniority," she said, shaking her head. "Well, I think you're finished with the real thing for tonight, dear. Please try to behave better next time."

And then she bent and sunk her teeth into his neck.

The fight went out of him almost immediately. Between the blow to the head and the rapid blood loss, maybe he didn't even really understand what was happening. Like, he definitely made a noise that will feature in all of my nightmares (if I live long enough to have nightmares), but it was pretty quick, all in all? Over before I could process what was happening.

We left him there, pale and still and cold. I touched the window before I followed her - she told me to follow her, and there's something about their voices that makes it super hard not to listen - and there's no sky. There's nothing out there, just a weird gray static. It hurt my eyes to look at it too long, and I couldn't get out into it anyway. So in the end, I followed her.

I don't know how many vampires are here. Maybe two dozen? Enough that they didn't pay too much attention to me. The Morticia-looking one shoved the IV bag of blood into my hand and told me that because I'd started without everyone, I had to wait on the couch until the others had "made their selections". All around us, the rest of my school is still standing, drooling, their eyes glassy, waiting for someone to lead them away to die. They all seem to snap out of the weird trance just before it happens. Maybe that's more fun for the vampires? Maybe they just like the screaming?

It feels late, now, but I don't know how long I've been here. Hours, I'm sure. I offered to grab everyone some more blood packs from the kitchen while we waited, and I tried the kitchen door while I was there - but it's still the same static, and when I try to run out into it, I just wind up in another doorway in the house. There's an old sun room with the glass all broken, but whenever I try to go in there, I find myself in the same doorway, just facing the opposite direction. I tried to call someone, anyone, but my phone won't connect to a network. There's no way out.

So in the end, I just brought some more blood packs from the big insulated bag that they'd left in the kitchen. They have one of those heating packs in there, to keep everything warm, I guess. I handed them out to everyone else on the couches like a pro, experiencing the only flash of gratitude I've ever felt towards my worst diner customers, because despite it all, my apology-smile stayed on.

They're all pretty tipsy at this point. They've gone through everyone else, and I think the alcohol in the blood they're drinking is finally getting to them.

Everyone else has left the living room to go "feed", and I've moved back into the kitchen. I've been typing this out on my phone so that it looks as if I have something to do. I think the vampires know that's what I'm doing, but they just think I'm a loser at a party. I don't mind being a loser, but I don't want to be food. I'm keeping the blood coming, but we're down to the last few packs, and I don't know what will happen when it runs out.

I'm so scared, and I don't know what to do.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BlairDaniels on 2024-10-31 17:03:17+00:00.

---

It was the first Saturday of October, and my boyfriend and I found ourselves at the entrance to Twilight Creek Farm’s A-MAZE-ING CORN MAZE!

It was around 4 pm, and the sun had begun to dip towards the horizon. The air had that crisp autumn chill, hinting at a cold night. A cardboard cut-out stood at the entrance of a cartoony ear of corn, grinning widely.

Yes, it was clear that the intended demographic for this maze was about two decades younger than us.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tyler asked.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” I replied, grabbing a map from the anthropomorphized corn. Then I linked my arm with his, and the two of us walked into the maze.

The corn rose up all around us, about seven feet tall—maybe taller. Our feet sunk slightly into the muddy ground. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t a great idea to go corn maze-ing after such a heavy rain. But whatever. We were here now.

The corn quickly swallowed us up. Within a minute, I could no longer see the entrance. Just corn stretching in every direction, a dense forest, choking out all else.

As we rounded the bend, the path ended in a T. There was a metal sign, eroded at the edges, planted firmly in the muddy soil, featuring the cartoon corn again:

Remember these tips to ensure a fun time at our A-MAZE-ING CORN MAZE!

First—Ssshhh, don’t tell secrets in the maze! The corn has ears! ;)

Second—Don’t stay in the maze after dark!

Third—If you’re under 13 years old, stay with your parent or caregiver at all times, please.

And finally: remember, there are no mirrors in the corn maze!

At the bottom of the sign, there were two arrows, and it read:

<-- EASY KIDS’ MAZE (EST. 20 MINS) … CHALLENGING MAZE (EST. 1 HOUR) -->

“Can we just do the kids’ maze?” Tyler asked. “It’s kind of cold.”

“Yeah, but it’s so lame,” I replied, looking over the map. “It’s like, literally a straight line.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

So we turned right, following the path into the corn. Our footsteps squelched softly in the mud. “So no mirrors in the corn maze?” I asked, trying to start conversation. “What do you think that’s supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “Maybe they want to make it clear it’s not like, one of those haunted funhouse things? Like if you see a path, it’s real, and not a reflection?”

“I guess.”

As we walked down the path, an awkward silence fell over us.

Okay—I’ll admit it. I had an ulterior motive for this trip.

Tyler and I had been fighting on and off all week. Just little things, here and there, sniping at each other. It was like something in the air had changed between us. Little things were annoying him, and me, constantly. Maybe it was the shorter days, the lack of sunlight getting to us. Maybe, at almost a year of dating, we were finally coming out of the honeymoon phase. Whatever it was, I felt like a change of scenery would do us some good.

Of course, I was starting to regret that now, with the chill creeping into the air, and the mud sticking to my sneakers. We probably should’ve just postponed to next weekend, when it wasn’t after a heavy rain.

But I felt like I couldn’t take one more minute in that apartment.

“Which way now?”

Tyler’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts.

I looked up.

Ahead of us, the path split into three—each path considerably narrower than the one we were on.

I looked down at the map.

But I didn’t see any places where the path split in three.

“Uh… I don’t know.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “We’re lost already?”

“Uh…” I looked down at the map again, scanning the schematic. The cartoony ear of corn smiled up at me from the paper, and I wanted to punch it in the face. “I don’t see any places where it splits in three,” I said, handing him the map.

“Huh,” he said, looking over it. “Maybe that’s part of the challenge. The map is wrong.”

“That’d be kind of interesting.”

“Don’t they say, if you want to get out of a maze, stick to one side? Like keep your hand touching one wall?” He stretched his arm out and touched the corn on the right.

“Yeah.”

I followed him down the rightmost path. It suddenly seemed darker—probably because the path was only about half the width of the previous one, and we were deep in the shadows of the corn. Dry leaves brushed against my arms, feeling more like rough claws, raking against my skin. I felt the cold of the mud permeating through my shoes with each step.

We passed an intersection, and for a split second—out of the corner of my eye—I thought I saw someone walking in the other direction. But when I turned my head, nothing was there.

“I thought I…” I started to Tyler. Then I shook my head. “Nevermind.”

Probably just my hair, falling into my line of vision.

Still—I was starting to really not like this.

We made another right, and another, following the wall. But we didn’t find an exit. More layers of mud caked onto my shoes. I was so tired.

“Maybe we should just turn around and go home,” I called out behind him.

He turned around, his eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Should be easy enough to backtrack. We can follow our footprints.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied.

We turned around and began to follow our footprints back.

But fifteen or twenty minutes later, we still hadn’t found the entrance. We haven’t been here that long. We should be out by now. “Are you sure we came this way?” I called out, as I followed Tyler down a sharp right turn I didn’t remember taking.

“Has to be,” he replied, gesturing to our footprints.

But when we turned the corner, we found not one set of our prints, but two.

We were going in circles.

“This is ridiculous,” Tyler huffed.

“Maybe we should call someone.” I pulled out my phone—and my heart dropped. It was 5:23 PM. Over an hour since we’d entered the maze.

“What?” Tyler asked, seeing my face drop.

I held up my phone. “We haven’t been here this long… have we?”

He paused for a second, then shook his head. “We have to follow our footprints out. We’ll get out eventually. And if we’re really lost, we can call 911, or something.”

“Okay, so which way?” I asked.

One set of footprints went down each path.

“Left. We were making all rights before, so it should be lefts to get out.”

We veered left. The corn seemed to squeeze in on us, the path growing narrower with each step. Like the field of corn was some kind of monster, ready to engulf us at any second. I shook my head and continued forward. There’s nothing wrong here. We’re just lost in a challenging maze—that’s all.

But when the path widened, I realized how wrong I was.

We were standing in a clearing, about the size of my kitchen. There was a sign, the same battered thin metal as before, in the middle. I froze as I began to read:

There are two ways out of this maze!

You can either find the way out on your own,

Or you can choose to leave behind one person in your party, and the exit will make itself known to you.

Either way… make sure you’re out of the maze by nightfall! Because then, nobody makes it out. :)

The cartoon corn-man was painted on the bottom of the sign, grinning up at us. This time, there was a bit of… rust or red paint… around his mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not. My heart began to pound, I felt like I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, like a panic attack was about to start—

Tyler burst into laughter behind me.

“What?”

“They’re trying so hard to make this, like, a scary ARG or something,” he said, laughing. “So lame.”

I whipped around, arms crossed.

“… You don’t actually believe it, do you?”

“All I know is we’ve been walking around this maze for an hour, but it’s only felt like twenty minutes, and the map doesn’t match the maze, and I don’t remember parts of the maze that we’ve clearly been to because our footprints are there!” I said, all in one breath. I stared at him, panting, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Kate… I’m sorry… you’re really scared, huh?”

“And so are you! I saw how scared you looked when you realized we were going in circles. But now you’re just going to pass it off and pretend it’s all a game?!”

“Kate…”

“I want to get out of here!” I shouted. “Whatever this is, game or not, I hate it and I want to go home!”

Tyler put up his hands defensively. “Woah, okay, I’m sorry. Let’s just keep going left. We’ll get out. I promise.”

Huffing, I cut in front of him and veered down the left path, leading the way. My shoes squelched loudly. The path narrowed again, corn clawing at my shoulders and hips. We curved left and right—and then, to my relief, the path opened up wider in front of us.

We’re out. We’re—

The hope leaked out of me like a deflating balloon.

The path did open up into a much larger area. A clearing, like the last one. But I hadn’t remembered seeing the clearing—despite footprints trailing all over it.

Our footprints. Crisscrossing, frantic, some clearly made by us running. The depressions in the mud deep and smudged. I turned around—

No.

Tyler wasn’t behind me.

My legs went weak underneath me. “Tyler!” I shouted.

The path curved behind me, disappearing into the darkness. No sign of Tyler. I scanned the corn surrounding the clearing—but it was dark and shadowy and infinite, stretching in every direction.

“Tyler!”

The corn rustled, somewhere to my left. I glanced over—but I couldn’t see anything. The corn was too dense. The shadows too dark. The sky was darkening now, threatening dusk. It was nearly pitch black in the shadows of the cornfie...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/adorabletapeworm on 2024-10-31 16:59:29+00:00.

---

Previous case

We had all the preparations in place, but I still didn't feel ready when the sun got low in the sky.

(If you're not familiar with what Orion Pest Control's services are, it may help to start here.)

Crows had been stalking Wes all day, trailing him like a hungry, sentient shadow. Their calls were haunting. It sounded like they were mocking us.

An hour before sunset, he joined us as we built up the bonfire. In the distance, excited barks could be heard in the woods. The only time Wes reacted to any of the Hunt’s scouts was to nonchalantly flip off one of the crows that got a little too close. The birds merely cackled.

As someone that has seen what Hunters can do when they're angry, his brashness made me nervous.

“I wouldn't have done that.” I told him.

“I figure the more I annoy them, the less likely they are to come after the rest of you.” He explained, eyes shining menacingly at the remaining birds.

Wes kept watching the sun’s progress in the sky, seemingly eager for it to disappear behind the horizon. Meanwhile, Reyna and Cerri were silent, Reyna's eyes shifting towards the crows surrounding us anxiously. Cerri just wordlessly watched as the lamb that had been donated for this Halloween burned. Victor was also watching the sun’s descent, but unlike Wes, he seemed tense.

The last of our preparations were completed mere hours before the bonfire, one of them came from Wes, who had shown up with a cutlass. That was unexpected. I didn't realize he knew how to use a sword.

“It’s not iron, unfortunately,” He informed us, producing a water bottle. “So the plan is to coat it in saltwater. As long as I can break some skin, it should still mess a few of ‘em up.”

Not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.

The other last minute thing was that a few hours ago, the boss handed me a gold necklace, saying, “Don't ask how I got this.”

I stared at him, trying not to smile, “Did a cat wander into a jewelry store?”

I’m sure yinz can guess what face he made. “I told you not to ask. And I'll have it back before they ever realize it's gone, so please try not to lose it.”

I heard Cerri mutter under her breath, “Cat burglar.”

So that was that. Presumably, we had all that we needed. Just had to survive until sunrise.

The very moment that the last rays of the sun died, a chorus of howls arose from the woods, making my heart beat faster. That was our cue to part ways. Before doing so, we wished each other luck. I hoped it wouldn't be for the last time.

Once Wes and Victor departed with their escort of crows following them, I pulled my mask over my face, securing it with the same spiked collar that I'd made for the viscera-eater. My costume was nothing special. Just a burlap scarecrow mask and a thick flannel. Admittedly, the mask was somewhat scratchy, but still more tolerable to me than cheap latex. At least I could breathe in it. And it would at least keep my face and hair covered.

The next step was to find the Dullahan. Unfortunately, I had no information about where or who it intended to take. However, I did have an educated guess as to where to start.

Generally speaking, the Neighbors all seem to have a chip on their shoulder when it comes to the ‘burbs, considering that it had been constructed right over where a decent chunk of the forest once stood. There were also more people there for it to hunt than out in farm country. To top it off, far too many of those suburbanites prefer to live in denial about our ‘small town superstitions,’ thus making them easier targets.

As I drove towards the housing development, I also kept my eye out for any stray crows or dogs. I didn't see any, but with it being dark, spotting those birds would be harder than ever. To say I was becoming increasingly paranoid would be an understatement.

What can I say? The mechanic cheerfully telling me that he knew my other fake name had shaken me up. Just as he knew it would.

I reassured myself that I had my hagstone. I had Ratcatcher. And at the very least, I didn't have to worry about Iolo being the one to seek me out. Just had to pray and hope that the White Son of Mist wouldn't decide to wander off after me instead. On that note, I prayed for my coworkers as well. Hoping that they'd beat the odds and find some way to escape the Wild Hunt.

And just for good measure, I prayed that Gwyn ap Nudd wouldn't be the god that answered me.

The suburb was lively when I got there. Trick or treat was ending, the cul-de-sac bustling with tired kids following equally exhausted parents to get the last of what was in the homeowners’ candy bowls. Toilet paper hung from the trees of one house, flowing gently in the wind. Clearly, that person didn't get the memo about raisins.

I parked on one of the side streets; with how many people were walking around, I determined it would be quicker on foot.

After a while, the crowds began to dwindle. Kids cried, some not wanting the night to end, others simply because it was way past their bedtime and every inconvenience felt like the end of the world to them. Soon, I noticed that only a few others were walking around.

Hooves clopped on the payment. My heart began to beat faster. This was it.

A little girl’s voice caught my attention, “Wow! Mom, look at that costume!”

In response, a booming voice announced, “A costume, you say? ‘Tis no disguise, fair maiden!”

What?!

I whirled around to see exactly what I feared. What appeared to be a large man clad in shining black armor sat astride a massive black horse. This armor was lined with silver, a crest featuring a horse's head emblazoned on his chest. The rider had no head. Not where it should've been, anyway.

The Dullahan's head was attached to the saddle by a thick chain, secured right at the bottom of what was left of the Dullahan's neck. To my horror, four more heads rested next to it, their eyes wide open in frozen terror, mouths agape. Blood dripped from their necks.

The horse pawed at the ground impatiently, snorting and shaking its head as the little girl's excited parent gushed, “That looks so realistic, man! How did you do that?”

“Pon my word, good fellow!” The gargantuan rider replied as he raised the reins to guide the horse forward. “There is no trickery afoot!”

No. Fucking. Way. It's got to be one of the equestrian people around here, right? There's no way this could be the Dullahan. Right?!

While the rider was distracted, I edged closer with the intent to get a closer look at the head. The skin was loose over its skull, looking as if it was waterlogged. As I got closer, a terrible smell could be detected. Like moldy cheese and rotten meat.

The Dullahan's dark eyes turned to look at me. When it opened its mouth to speak, I could see that its black gums held sharp, brown teeth.

As the horse walked past me, the head smiled and politely said, “Good evening, scarecrow!”

Am I dreaming?

“Uh,” I stammered. “Good evening.”

The horse began to quicken its pace into a trot.

“Wait!” I shouted before the Dullahan could disappear, then quickly added. “Please!”

The horse stopped, its rider guiding it to turn so that the side that the head was secured on was facing me. “Yes?”

I'd anticipated for this meeting to go completely differently. I'd thought that I'd be running for my life, at this point. I had no idea how to proceed at all. Despite his knightly mannerisms, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that the Dullahan was dangerous. Those poor souls it had taken could attest to that.

The Dullahan waited patiently.

Eventually, I asked, “May I accompany you? This is Wild Hunt territory, after all. I feel rather unsafe walking alone.”

“I could think of no greater dishonor than to leave a frightened thing such as yourself to your fate. Come along! Time is short!”

What the fuck am I doing?

I toddled along beside him and his horse, trying my best not to stare directly at the Dullahan’s head. I was only a few feet away, now. Strange. Neither the horse nor its headless rider were reacting to my hagstone. That wasn't promising.

The sour smell of its head made me gag, though I tried to conceal it. Maggots squirmed around his wide eyes. He didn't seem to mind, only occasionally blinking when they got too obnoxious. They had appeared to have eaten away at his lips and cheeks as well, making his smile look much wider than it should've been.

My eyes trailed up, noticing that at the rider's hip was a grotesque weapon. A whip appearing to be made out of someone's spine. I didn't want to imagine how it would feel to be flogged by that thing.

Of course, I would know all too well soon enough.

Naturally, I was shaking. My throat was tight, partially from fear, partially from trying to suppress nausea. What the fuck was I doing?!

“Madam Scarecrow!” I don't think I've mentioned yet that he practically shouted every word he spoke in his thick Irish accent. I flinched when he addressed me again, “What brings you out at such an hour? And flying solo, no less!”

“I was… I got off of work late.”

The Dullahan then began to ramble about the dangers of traveling alone for a ‘lady such as myself,’ warning me about the desires of men and the even crueler desires of Huntsmen. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out how to proceed. I had the necklace Vic gave me in my pocket. The head was within re...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/likeeyedid on 2024-10-31 15:40:34+00:00.

---

I live in a small studio apartment. Bedroom and kitchen all in one, with the only other room being my bathroom. Not really the kind of space where you'd get a roommate, right? 

Right. But Jimmy thinks it's the perfect living condition for the two of us. He's happy and as long as he's happy, he is staying.

Jimmy came out of nowhere a few days ago. He woke me in the middle of the night when he plastered his damp hand over my mouth and shut my nose close with his other. 

"Don't scream," he whispered.

My eyes widened in panic as I struggled to breathe. If you live alone you often wonder what you would do if someone broke into your home, but at that moment my mind was blank. I couldn't get a weapon. I couldn't even move. 

He removed his hand and I tried to take a deep breath, but it didn't fill my lungs with enough air, turning more into a panic attack than anything.

"I'm just kidding. You can scream if you want, but it won't do anything. Nobody can hear you. Not anymore."

He grinned widely, his teeth so white and shiny that they were the only thing I could really recognize in the dark. 

"Are you always this quiet?" He continued without a hint of care. "Let me turn on some lights so we can get to know each other." 

He jumped up and turned on the light switch and that was the moment my fight response finally kicked in. I grabbed the blankets and threw them over him as I ran towards my door, struggling with the locks while the stranger only laughed. He didn't even move closer or try to stop me. Finally, I unlocked the door but as much as I tried it wouldn't open, so I started banging against it shouting for help first and then screaming fire, but nothing happened. I couldn't even hear anything on the outside. 

So I finally turned around and looked at the stranger. He was still standing next to the light switch across the room, tilting his head slightly. His eyes were the brightest green I'd ever seen on a human, almost neon. He wore a loose hanging suit and had one of those hair circlets with little red devil horns on his head. 

"Are you gonna go through a whole crisis now? Trying everything to survive and all that blabla?" When I stayed silent, he just nodded. "Alrighty, let's fast forward a bit then."

He took a few steps to get to the kitchen part of my studio and pulled out a large knife. 

"Now check this out." He moved closer, showing me the knife from all sides before he turned it around and rammed it right inside his stomach.

He giggled before pulling it back out, leaving a red stain on his white shirt. 

"What?" I whispered.

"Oh look, you can talk!"

He proceeded to use the knife to cut right across his throat as well before dropping it to the ground and shrugging his shoulders.

"See, can't be killed before you try to get creative."

Then he walked up to the window and tried to pull it open.

"Stuck, hehe, just like the door. Can't break them either." He waved through the window and turned to me. "Nobody outside can see or hear us. It's just you and me, buddy, for as long as I want."

"What are you?" I spat out.

"Oh, shut up. You sound like some character in a shitty movie. I'm Jimmy. Just Jimmy."

He left the knife on the ground and walked up to my bed, sitting down and bouncing on the mattress a few times. "Hmm, comfy. Are you gonna stand there all night? Come on," he patted the mattress with his hand, gesturing to me to come closer but I was still glued to the door that wouldn't budge. 

The carefree look on his face vanished, and his eyes turned two shades darker.

"I can't be killed, but you can, so come here and spend time with me, Joe."

I didn't even question how he knew my name.

When I still wouldn't move, he got up and trudged closer, his mouth forming into a wicked grin. He grabbed my arm and an excruciating pain went through my entire body. My hand started feeling numb, like when you sit on it for a while and when I looked at it I saw that the skin was shrivelling and turning green, life slowly drifting from it. 

He let go and it became normal again. I gasped, and Jimmy chuckled.

"I can do that with your entire body. Slowly drain you and hang you up to dry so I can make jerky out of you. Or you can decide to be a decent roommate and have fun with me. I think we could become the bestest of friends if you only give me a chance."

I nodded.

"Okay, yes. Let's be friends," I whispered.

He moved back to the bed with a skip in his step and I reluctantly followed.

We sat next to each other, our backs leaning against the headboard. I had a television right in front of my bed so I asked if he wanted to watch something, which he thought was a great idea. So I turned on some cartoons and Jimmy kept completely silent, simply staring ahead.

When enough time passed, I dared to speak again.

"Do you mind if I go to the bathroom?"

"What? Of course not! When nature calls, you answer, Joe. Go right ahead."

I locked myself inside the bathroom and just sat there, panting and wondering what to do. I spent so much time there that I almost convinced myself that I'd imagined it all, so I finally unlocked the door and walked out. At first there was no sign of Jimmy and I almost let the feeling of relief go through until I found him crouching on the kitchen floor. There were scissors and tape on the floor next to him and it seemed like he was making some kind of collage but he was leaning over his supplies so I couldn't see much.

"What are you doing there, Jimmy?" I asked in a shaky voice.

"Crafting. You were in there so long I thought you'd fallen into the toilet," he snorted.

"What are you crafting?" 

This was absurd, the absolute definition of insanity, but what could I do? There was no way out, no way to kill this thing and at least so far, he seemed mostly friendly as long as I didn't say no to things. So I had to at least try to keep him that way, and apparently it worked best if I showed interest in some kind of friendship. 

"I brought all these pictures I took from old friends and I thought it would be nice if I made them into one big poster and then we can hang it up on the wall because right now this only looks like your home but it's mine too."

"Yes, uhm, good idea," I mumbled. "Can I help?"

His eyes started shining and he smiled at me genuinely.

"That would be most fantastic, Joe. Oh I like you already. Alright, sit down." When I did so he continued, "So I have these photos and I'm taping them together to become one big one and then maybe if you have glitter we can add that too." 

He got up on his feet and started rummaging through my drawers and leaving me alone with the pile of photographs. 

Bile made its way to my throat as I looked at all the photos, picturing different people massacred in the same gory way. 

He had cut their eyes out of their sockets and slashed across them. Chunks of hair were ripped out of their scalps, leaving their hair patchy. Someone had sewn their mouths shut.

And they were all wearing Jimmy's little devil horns. 

I turned the pictures around and found names on each of them. Jay, Juan, Jack Jordyn and so on.

I'd already learned that he didn't like it when I acted helpless or afraid, so I decided to act as if this was completely normal.

"All their names start with J," I said as calmly as I could manage.

"Yeah, I like alliterations. Dammit Joe, where's your glitter? Jarrett had a bunch of glitter."

"I don't have any, but hey, Jimmy. Are you planning to take a picture of me as well?" I asked carefully.

"I don't have my camera, sorry, buddy."

"That's okay," I whispered. I slowly got back f to my feet and went to the bathroom to throw up until there was nothing left inside my stomach.

--

When I dared to get back out, Jimmy had finished his project and the grotesque collection of his victims was hanging right beside my bed.

"Looks great," I muttered and he beamed with pride.

"I heard you puking, Joe. Are you ill?"

I only shrugged because I didn't know what he wanted to hear. 

"I can make you some soup." 

"Okay."

I'm not sure what that concoction was that he made, but I ate it all the same. It smelled like sweat and tasted like vinegar, but there were crunchy pieces in it that I tried not to think about. Jimmy joined me and when he finished his bowl, he kicked it clean with his tongue. A tongue that had little suction cups all over it but I decided not to comment on that.

It took the last of my willpower not to throw the soup back up again. Some time passed and I seemed to be fine so at least he hadn't poisoned me. Quite the opposite actually, I felt pretty good. Not mentally, of course, but physically I was doing quite well. My panic had receded and I was fully awake. 

Luckily though, the soup was the only food Jimmy made. He left me in charge of our other meals, when we ran out of something, he left for a while and came back with food. I had to make specific lists, however. If I didn't, he just came back with rocks or pieces of skin that I didn't want to know where he got. 

Jimmy was able to come and go as he wanted but I was stuck the entire time. During the few times that he left, I looked for ways to get out but so far I haven't found any. I keep wondering if anybody misses me. My parents or friends. But nobody has tried to come for me. I'm not sure if they haven't noticed or if they aren't able to. I've tried texting and calling but nothing will go through.

I'm truly stuck here but as long as I keep my roomma...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Super-Distance-2457 on 2024-10-31 13:29:49+00:00.

---

It started as a prank.

Three friends and I were hanging out one night, bored and restless, when someone brought up an old urban legend—a game where you could see your “final five seconds.” The legend said if you closed your eyes at exactly midnight, held your breath, and counted to five, you’d get a flash of your last five seconds alive. Just five seconds. A small glimpse into your end.

None of us believed it. But when midnight hit, we decided to try it for a laugh. I remember rolling my eyes and thinking how ridiculous it was. We closed our eyes, took a deep breath, and counted down in unison: five… four… three… two… one.

Nothing happened. We laughed it off and went on with our night. But then… we started seeing things.

The first time it happened, I was brushing my teeth. Out of nowhere, I was somewhere else—standing on a desolate road under a blackened sky. An overwhelming dread filled me, but I couldn’t move. Something was coming toward me, something fast and heavy, and then—

I was back in my bathroom, shaking. My heart pounded, and I could feel the taste of copper in my mouth. I tried to laugh it off as a daydream, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been real.

The next morning, my friend Dave looked like he hadn’t slept. His skin was pale, eyes wide and darting. When I asked him what was wrong, he just muttered, “I saw it.” When I pressed him, he said he’d had a vision too: standing in a pitch-black room, a sense of suffocating dread pressing in on him, and something slowly scraping along the walls, drawing closer with each second.

It didn’t stop. Over the next few days, the visions became more intense. Each time, they lasted exactly five seconds, and each time, the terror grew. We saw flashes of different places—abandoned rooms, darkened hallways, empty roads—places we’d never been. And each time, there was something horrifyingly close. I’d hear footsteps or feel a presence I couldn’t see, breathing on the back of my neck, lingering at the edge of my vision.

One by one, we all became wrecks. Sleepless, jumpy, always looking over our shoulders. We’d call each other late at night, desperate to understand what was happening. Dave was the first to say it: “I think we saw our deaths.”

It sounded absurd, but deep down, I knew he was right. We’d caught glimpses of our last moments, and now they were creeping closer, coming to claim us. The visions became more frequent, and every time, they’d change, like they were updating, getting closer to where we were in real life.

Two weeks in, Dave stopped answering his phone. I went to his place to check on him, and his roommate said he hadn’t come home the night before. They found him two days later, his car abandoned on a lonely road, the exact spot I’d seen in my first vision. His cause of death? A hit-and-run, on an empty stretch with no witnesses.

One by one, my friends vanished after that. Each of them was found in a place that had appeared in their visions. They’d seen it coming, just as I had, and they couldn’t stop it. They couldn’t run from their final five seconds.

Now, I’m the last one left. Every night, the visions come stronger, clearer. I know exactly where it’s going to happen—a place I’ve never been, but a place I feel drawn to every time I close my eyes. And I can’t fight the pull. Every night, the urge to go there grows stronger, and I know that one day soon, I won’t be able to resist.

So, if you ever hear about the game where you can see your last five seconds, I beg you: don’t play it. Those five seconds aren’t a warning; they’re a promise. And when you’ve seen them, they’ll come for you.

Because in the end, you can’t outrun what’s already written.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/WarFrequent on 2024-10-30 15:19:38+00:00.

---

I noticed this perhaps three weeks ago while brushing my teeth. My reflection was out of sync. Not by a massive amount, but enough to be noticeable.

I had just had a long day at work and simply thought my brain didn’t work. But it kept up the next morning. Same situation: teeth brushing, out of sync. 

I attempted to use the mirror in the downstairs bathroom. But here, when I smiled, I noticed my reflection took that extra half second for the lips to move. When I frowned, it was not quite right, as if this person frowning was not me, but another version of me.

This problem did not persist at work. At work the mirrors were functioning as usual. No delay. Nothing. So it is specific to my house.

It became a problem for me when I noticed a certain malicious glint in my reflection’s eye. It is hard to describe how a mirror image of you can be malicious, especially when they are ‘mirroring’ your expression, but it was as if the image were taunting me, as if it were playing a game and I was the victim.

I immediately went out and purchased new mirrors. While removing the mirrors and placing them beside the bin, I tried not to look, but I did catch a glimpse, just before they were taken away. They were smiling, the reflections, with teeth that were not my own.

The new mirrors did not improve my situation. If anything, the out-of-syncness, the delay, whatever you would call it, got worse. Now it was clear they were mocking my movements, almost as if they were pantomiming my life.

One evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took a hammer to my mirrors. I don’t know what took over me, but I went from room to room, smashing my mirrors, screaming at the top of my lungs. When the shards fell I got a true glimpse of them. A glimpse I do not want to describe here, but it terrified me. I collected the shards in a black bin bag, drove to the river and tossed it in. My heart was hammering when I returned home, but I slept that night better than I’d slept in days.

I thought then that I had rid myself of them. But this was not the case. They only became more ambitious, if that is the right word. I saw them in the reflections of my window panes or in the steel pans I use to cook. They are smiling there, of course, with the same rotten teeth. They know they’ve got me, I suspect. That the joke they’re playing is in full effect.

I’m writing this on my laptop. I went to the bathroom just now and when I came back, the screen reflected a pair of ugly gray hands perched upon my keys. As such, I can’t bring myself to write anymore. Please, if anybody else has ever suffered from this problem, can you write with advice. I think if it persists, I may go mad.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BadandyTheRed on 2024-10-31 02:51:41+00:00.

---

Nothing is working, I can’t get out. Every time I try it's the same. I never should have been fooled by that damn flyer. Treasure, yeah right, I will be lucky to get out of this alive.

It started with that weird paper I found on my car in the parking lot earlier today. It was some sort of flyer advertising,

“Trick or treat for treasure! Real gold, precious gems and more. All yours for the taking, if you are brave enough. Join us tonight at 5:00 pm 10/30/2024 at the Center Street Mall, if you dare. (Costumes mandatory)”

It seemed like some sort of event or contest. I started to wonder if there was a legitimate prize or if this was some sort of scam. If it was some sort of Halloween contest and they were giving out actual treasure I might be in for it. I was getting kind of crappy hours this time of year at work, so I would not turn down the prospect of a big prize. I had no plans for Halloween eve anyway so I thought, what the hell, why not?

As I was reading the flyer and making my decision, my friend and coworker Scott clapped me on the back and asked,

“What are ya reading?” I regarded him and showed him the flyer.

“Some kind of contest, check it out. There might be a legit prize or something, we should go.” He raised an eyebrow but did not hesitate too long before responding,

“Yeah, let’s do it, Nicole might want to go too. She is always down to check out Halloween decorations and spooky shit, so she would love an excuse to go trick or treating. I will call her now.”

It was decided and we went home to get ready. I got a blue jumpsuit and Michael Myers mask and took an empty pillow case like I used to when I was a kid going trick or treating. I figured if they really did give out valuables to the winners it might be a take all the loot you can carry and I would need something to haul it in. I felt a bit silly, but if it was real I wanted to be ready.

I got in my car and drove off to pick up Scott and Nicole. Scott was dressed as a pirate and Nicole was dressed as a witch. We regarded each other's costumes and enjoyed the nostalgic feeling of getting ready to go trick or treating.

We arrived at the location at 4:50 pm and got out. I thought it was a bit strange since the Central Street Mall had been closed down due to a fire that destroyed much of the building. It had never reopened but I guess somehow these people got a permit to host an event here.

We found a few other people waiting there in costume, so at least we were not alone. I was looking around for some sort of event official, to see if we should wait in a specific area. Scott and Nicole had struck up a conversation with two people wearing a ghost face and zombie getup.

I waited and watched my phone and at 5pm on the dot, a large black van pulled into the parking lot. It had tinted windows and a small logo on the side that said, “Trick or Treat”.

It parked nearby and a tall man in a large white sheet that made him look like a cheap ghost stepped out. He spoke very curtly saying,

“Is this everyone?” I looked around and saw decent group of other people and we all nodded in unison.

He clapped his hands together and proclaimed,

“Good, very good. Now a few ground rules about how this is going to work. The old stores in this mall have been converted into a haunted village. So, we have a large group of makeshift houses with real hardwood doors, decorations and everything. Besides the eye candy of our authentic set, they have something I know you will all be interested in. You are allowed and encouraged to knock at every door and trick or treat as normal. The gifts these tenants give out will run the gambit from cash, to valuable gems, gold and silver. All of this treasure is real, I assure you. You are of course allowed to keep whatever you can take out.”

The group seemed excited and were about to cheer at the declaration, but the man in the ghost costume interrupted and held out his arm in a flourish and continued,

“Now you might be thinking, what’s the catch? Well, I am glad you asked. Once you are in there you will not be allowed out until you can find the main doors release switch. But I must warn you it is well hidden. On top of whatever you can get with your trick or treating, if you are able to make it out you will win a prize of $100,000.”

We all gasped when we heard the crazy amount of prize money. If they were willing to shell out that much to the winners, I was thinking that this was going to be tougher than I expected. The man in the ghost costume resumed his explanation,

“Now you will not be alone in there, besides the villagers there is something else that stalks the shadows. This other visitor is there for treats of its own and if it catch's you........Well let’s just say you will be out of the contest.”

I heard a grim chuckle coming from underneath the cheap sheet and figured he was trying to play up the scary angle to this event. He continued with his instructions,

“Now the people in the village are there to help, but only if you follow their rules,

You are to remain in costume at all times.

You are to say trick or treat at every door.

You are not to try and enter their houses no matter how desperate you are.

You are to say thank you after visiting each house.

You are not to try and sneak out through any other means.

If for any reason you do not abide these rules, the villager who catches you is authorized to ring the disqualification bell which will see you removed.......... from play.

Occasionally the villagers will ring a town bell and lock their doors. This is the only warning alarm you will get when danger is near. And you should indeed be careful, danger stalks the shadows. You will have to run or hide, though I would not advise the former, it.....is very fast.” He did his best ominous laugh as he finished up and waved us toward the entrance.

We looked at each other, everyone was a little unsure. What exactly was the danger stalking the shadows?

I was wondering myself if they were really giving out valuables or if this was some sort of trick. I also wondered what the alarm was for. I wondered if the danger was a person in costume trying to scare us like a haunted house. It seemed like if you broke the rules or got caught you would lose your loot. As I was contemplating the rules, Nicole asked a question,

“What happens if we need to leave early? Like for a legitimate emergency? Is there some sort of emergency exit?” We saw the man under the sheet shake his head and respond,

“No, I am afraid you will have to exit like everyone else. If you are unable to continue then I would suggest finding a good hiding spot and waiting for your fellow participants to open the door. Once you are in, the front door will be the only way back out. Also, cell phones must be checked at the door, you will be able to retrieve them when you leave. Don’t try to sneak them in, that will be considered a violation of the rules, no unfair advantages. If anything is not agreeable and you do not wish to participate let us know now, otherwise enter and conquer your fears. Good luck.”

He waved his hand and it seemed he was departing before answering any other questions people had. There was some sort of staged fog or smokescreen and he had suddenly vanished. The little magic act elicited a few cheers of awe for the stunt, but I wondered what we were supposed to do to get in.

As if on cue, there was a loud rumbling sound and the heavy-duty doors on the entrance swung slowly open. Next to the door we saw a small lock box with an aperture wide enough for our phones, one by one we dropped them in. I did not feel great about doing so and I was even more paranoid this was a scam and we were going to come back and they would be gone. Scott and Nicole dropped their phones in and moved on, so I just did the same.

We moved beyond the threshold with our small group. There were fifteen people when we had arrived. Yet when I looked around before stepping through the door it seemed we had lost three. A dozen players in total moved into the darkness and braced ourselves for the challenge.

The main door lead through a narrow hall that was dimly lit. I could barely see in front of myself and Scott and Nicole huddled close to try and not get separated. We were positioned around the middle of the row of players. The person in front was dressed as a Jedi and had a light-saber that conveniently lit up at least some of the dark hall.

We followed the narrow tunnel-like path and as we all moved further inside, we heard the heavy entrance doors slam shut behind us. They were not joking, we really were locked in.

I felt bad since someone near the back of the line heard the same sound and started panicking and saying he did not know there would be the dark tunnel and such confined space; he said he had claustrophobia and needed to get out. Another player stayed behind with him and his pleas for help and knocking on the door faded as the rest of us moved further in.

Fortunately we soon saw a much stronger source of light. We had arrived in the so-called village. The area which I think used to be the mall's food court, had been transformed into a dark ages style town square. The light was emanating from a large bonfire in the center of the square. The smoke wafted up into an open skylight that allowed for some ventilation. There were huddles of small houses that looked handmade and very authentic to the...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Trash_Tia on 2024-10-30 22:52:04+00:00.

---

Please help me.

I’m stuck in my room, months after surviving the most traumatic experience of my life, and according to my doctor, I’m developing agoraphobia.

But I don't think he or my family understand that I’m in literal, fucking danger. I haven’t slept in—what, three days? I can't eat, and I’ve locked myself in here for my own safety, as well as my father’s and brother’s.

I have no clue what to tell them.

Fuck. I don’t even know where to start.

I try to explain, but the words get tangled in my throat, like I’m choking on a tongue twister. And I won’t tell you why my hands are slick with blood—sticky, wet, and fucking vile. I can still feel it, like there’s something lodged deep inside me.

So deep, not even my dad’s penknife can reach it.

I’ve spent most of the week hunched over the bathroom sink, watching dried blood swirl down the drain like tea leaves.

I’ve carved into my ear so many times the sting of the blade doesn’t even register anymore. But you have to understand—if I don’t get this thing out of me, they’ll find me again. And this time, I’m not sure I’ll survive. First, let me make this clear:

This isn’t some attention-seeking bullshit.

I know what I went through seriously fucked with my head, but like I keep telling everyone, I know they’re not done with us.

My doctor thinks I’m crazy, and my dad is considering sending me to a psych ward.

Mom is different. She’s been on the other side of my bedroom door all day, guarding me. Protecting me from them.

Dad says it’s PTSD, and maybe that’s part of it. But I’m also being hunted. Maybe a psych ward is what's best for me, but they’ll find me—just like they've undoubtedly found the other four.

I’ve never felt so helpless. So hopeless. So alone.

Dad is convinced just because Grammy had schizophrenia, I must have it too.

Mom told him to leave.

Like I said, for his own safety.

This is me screaming into the void because I have nobody else to talk to.

I’m 17 years old, and back in July, my Mom forced me to join a social experiment which was basically, “(None televised) Big Brother, but for Gen Z!”

I wasn't interested.

Last year’s summer camp had already been a disaster.

A kid caught some virus. He didn’t die, but he got really sick, and they said it had something to do with the lake.

Luckily, I didn’t swim in it.

Camp was canceled, and for months afterward, I had to go in for biweekly checks to make sure I wasn’t infected.

I thought this summer would be less of a mess.

But then Mom gave me an ultimatum: either I join a summer camp or extracurricular like my brother, or she’d send me to live with Dad.

For reasons I won’t explain, yes, I’d rather risk contracting a disease than spend the summer with Dad. His idea of a vacation is dragging my brother and me to his office. Now that Travis and I are old enough to make our own decisions, we avoid him like the plague. The divorce just made it easier.

Mom never stops. She either works, runs errands, or creates new jobs so she can stay busy. When we were younger, she was diagnosed with depression.

A lot of my childhood was spent sitting on her bed, begging her to get up, or being stuck in Dad’s office, playing games on his laptop. Now, Mom makes up for all that lost time by being insufferable.

She thought she was helping; but in reality, I was being smothered. When I wasn't interested in participating in her summer plans, my mother already had a rebuttal.

Looming over me, blonde wisps of hair falling in overshadowed eyes, and wrapped up like a marshmallow, Mom resembled my personal angel of death.

"Just read it," she sighed, refilling my juice.

The flyer looked semi-professional. If you ignored the Comic Sans. It was black and white, with a simple triangle in the center.

I’ll admit, I was kind of intrigued. Ten teenagers—five boys and five girls—all living together in a mansion on the edge of town. It sounded like a recipe for disaster.

Two days later, we got the call: I was in.

The terms raised brows. I wasn’t allowed to use my real name. Instead, I had to pick from a list of ‘traditionally feminine’ names.

Whatever that meant.

Marie.

Amelia.

Rosa.

Mom doesn’t understand the meaning of "no," so I found myself stuck in the passenger seat of her fancy car as she drove me to the preliminary testing center.

The tests were supposed to assess our mental and physical health to make sure we were fit for the experiment.

The building loomed ahead—a cold, sterile structure of mirrored glass.

No welcome signs, no color. Just a desolate parking lot and checkerboard windows reflecting the afternoon sun.

Yeps. Exactly how I wanted to spend my summer.

Being probed inside a dystopian hell-hole.

Seeing the testing centre was the moment my feeble reluctance (but going along with it anyway, because why not) turned into full-blown panic once I caught sight of those soulless, symmetrical windows staring down at me.

With my gut twisting and turning, I begged Mom to let me go to the disease-ridden summer camp instead– or better yet, let me stay inside.

There was nothing wrong with rotting in bed all day.

“I’m not going,” I said, refusing to shift from my seat.

Mom sighed impatiently, glancing at her phone. My consultation was at 1:30, and it was 1:29.

“Tessa,” Mom said with a sigh. “I’m not supposed to tell you this—it’s against the rules. But…” She rolled her eyes. “Call it quid pro quo if you want.”

I knew what was coming. The same threat every summer: “If you don’t do what I say, you can go live with your father.”

I avoided making eye contact with her. “I’m not living with Dad.”

Mom cleared her throat. “This isn’t just a social experiment, Tessa. It’s a test of endurance. The team that stays in the house the longest wins a prize.”

She paused, playing with her fingers in her lap.

“One million dollars.”

I nearly fell out of my seat. “One million dollars?” I choked out. “Are you serious?”

“Parents aren’t supposed to tell the participants,” Mom shushed me like we they could hear us. “It’s to avoid coercion. The experiment is supposed to be natural participation and a genuine intention to take part.” Mom’s lip twitched.

“But I know you wouldn’t participate unless there was money involved.”

Mom sighed. “Is this the wrong time to say you remind me of your father?”

She was sneaking panicked looks at me, but I was already thinking about how one million dollars would get me through college without a dime from Dad, who was using my college fund to drag me on vacations. I snapped out of it when Mom not so gently nudged me with a chuckle.

“Between the five of you,” she reminded me. “But still, it’s a lot of money, Amelia.”

Amelia. So, she was already calling me by my subject name. Totally normal.

Before I knew it, I was sitting in a clinically white room with several other kids. No windows, just a single sliding glass door.

There were three rows of plastic chairs, with four occupied: two girls on my left, two boys on my right, all bathed in painfully bright lights. I could only see their torso’s.

A guard collected my phone, a towering woman resembling Ms Trunchbul, right down to the too-tight knotted hair and military uniform.

I barely made it three strides before she was stuffing a white box under my nose, four iPhones already inside. I dropped my phone in, only for her to pull it back and thrust it back in my face.

“Turn it off,” she spat.

I obeyed, my hands growing clammy.

I was referred to as "Amelia" and told to sit in my assigned seat.

I could barely see the other participants, that painful light bleeding around their faces, obstructing their identities. It took me a while to realize it was intentional.

These people really did not want us to see or speak to each other.

I did manage (through a lot of painful squinting) to make out one boy had shaggy, sandy hair, while the other, a redhead, wore Ray-Bans. The girls were a ponytail brunette and a wispy blonde.

Time passed, and the guards blocking the doorway made me uneasy.

The blonde girl kept shifting in her seat, asking to use the bathroom. I just saw her as a confusing golden blur. When they told her no, she kept standing up and making her way over to the door, before being escorted back.

The redheaded boy was counting ceiling tiles.

Through that intense light bathing him, I could see his head was tipped back.

I could hear him muttering numbers to himself, and immediately losing his place.

When he reached 4,987, he groaned, slumping in his seat.

When my gaze lingered on the blonde for too long, the guard snapped at me.

“Amelia, that’s your first warning.”

The kids around me chuckled, which pissed her off even more.

“If you break the rules again, you’ll be asked to leave.”

Her voice dropped into a growl when the boys' chuckles turned into full-blown giggles.

I tried to hold in my own laughter, but something about being trapped with no phones or parents and forced into a room with literally nothing to entertain us turned us all into kindergarteners again– which was refreshing.

I think at some point I turned to smile at the blonde, only to be fucking blinded by that almost angelic light.

I noticed the guard’s knuckles whitened around her iPad.

Her patience was thinning with every spluttered giggle.

And honestly? That only made it harder not to laugh.

“Heads down,” she ordered. The spluttered laughing was starting to get to her. I d...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-10-30 22:03:59+00:00.

---

This all started because my childhood friend Abigail wanted to go to Paris. We had just graduated and knew that we wouldn’t be young forever. She didn’t want to travel alone. I didn’t blame her. It's dangerous for a pretty girl to go anywhere on their own these days. I joined her mostly because I wanted to try all the rich foods I wouldn’t otherwise be able to eat.   

I didn’t know much French. Only the important words like asking where the bathroom is. Abby could communicate better so I relied on her for the trip. She used that to her advantage and bullied me into doing a Catacombs tour. It’s not as if I could do anything else besides hang out in our overpriced hotel alone. I figured the tour would be packed being the spooky season and all. Abby hated crowds and I expected her to bail. Turns out, it wasn’t as busy as I thought. About twenty people were in our small group when we arrived. There were a few different tours available. I suppose that split the numbers a little. Or we just arrived too early. It was ten in the morning after all.  

Our tour guide stopped at the entrance to tell us the long list of rules. Her accent was so thick I didn’t understand most of it. From what I gathered, she said not to touch anything. Stay with the group and for the love of God, don’t try to bring anything home. Gross. I knew people took rocks from National Parks but who would want a dusty old bone?  

Abby and I were at the end of the group. The tunnels were dark and dusty. Not damp like I assumed. The tour guide spoke explaining the history and gesturing towards signs for us to stop and read if we would like. I had thought that seeing piles and piles of human remains might break me out a little. I was just bored. Because I didn’t understand our guide, I was missing out on all the neat facts. And once you saw one pile of bones, the next wasn’t too interesting. The wall of skulls looked a little neat though.  

Abby had moved near the front of the group to read a sign. I didn’t know if phones were allowed, but I glanced down at mine, shocked to see a signal. For the next few minutes, I kept my head down, trying to connect to a local coffee shop's Wi-Fi that was above us while walking behind the group.  

Our guide's voice echoed down the stone hallway. The orange lights and countless candles weren’t good enough to keep me from tipping over the uneven stone floor a few times. I don’t know how long I walked until I realized I no longer could hear voices or footsteps.  

When I looked up, I found myself in an empty tunnel lined with candles. No bones. No tour guide. No Abby. No one. That couldn’t be right. Didn’t they say if I got lost I should stay put? I waited for a while listening trying to hear any signs of life. I called out, my echoing voice giving me the chills.  

Finally, I heard someone call back in French. Relieved, I started walking towards the voice praying I would be out of here soon. Abby would give me an earful when I saw her next.   

I turned the corner expecting to see the group again. I heard the sounds of a large crowd talking and moving about. When I looked around the corner I didn’t see a soul. Just another long hallway lined with more bones. There weren’t any candles in the new hallway. I shone my phone flashlight down the narrow passage. The light couldn’t reach the end. I found myself rubbing my arms feeling suddenly cold. And scared as hell. I’m normally not the one to get scared at haunted places but this was getting to me.  

Had my ears been playing tricks on me? No. I knew I heard voices.   

I didn’t want to go further into the tunnels so I turned to come back the way I came. I should have done that to start with.  

Soon I found myself doubting my memory. The candles that had lined the hallway had been white, not black. At least a thousand were on the floor, half melted with piles of wax forming on top of each other. At the end of the hallway was something I knew I hadn’t seen before.   

A wooden door. I stopped in front of it, freaked out. For some odd reason, I knocked first as if expecting an answer. I heard people illegally set up raves and even movie theaters down here. But this door looked to be ancient as if it had been down here since the tunnels were made.   

Carefully I placed a hand on the worn brass handle to push open the door a crack. A burst of cold wind came, howling down the hallway and snuffing out some candles. Cold sweat started at the back of my neck. When I opened the door, I only saw darkness. Simply nothing. The floor ended when the door opened up. A deep dark almost endless pit was just beyond my toes.   

This couldn’t be right. I’ve never heard of a pit like this. I stared down into the darkness almost expecting this to all be a hoax. As I stared, the inky blackness started to slightly lighten. A red light appeared at the bottom with a sudden blast of hot air. I swore I heard something like drums rhythmically beating down below.  

Nope.  

I slammed the door refusing to deal with whatever all that was. I needed to get the hell out of here.  

I turned to walk back down the hallway. Instead of being greeted by the other tunnel lined with bones, I saw an empty tunnel covered with graffiti. My heart leaped into my throat. The was a line of electric lights above. If I followed that I would make my way to the exit, right?  

I started to jog, my feet slipping on the dusty floor. My lungs burned from effort and fear. I didn’t know what any of the spray-painted words meant. But I was glad to see them.  

My job started into a run when I noticed another steel door at the end of the tunnel. I crashed into it, spilling through expecting to be greeted by fresh air. Instead, I started falling into a pitch-black pit.  

I woke up, my entire body throbbing in pain with so many hard rocks digging into my back. When I moved in the dark to pull out my phone for light, my arm moved aside what I was laying on and an odd crunching sound echoed through the room. My throat grew dry and I almost didn’t turn on my phone from the dread of what I would see.  

The light came on but didn’t cover the entire room. I was sitting on so many human skeletons, all dry and cracked from age. Unable to help myself, I screamed. Scrambling, I struggled to move over the pile, my skin crawling every time my exposed skin touched the dry remains. The room appeared endless. I slipped and rolled down a slope of the bones, scraping my arms along the way. My fresh wounds stung however I just wanted to get the hell out of there.  

I found a stone wall with a small opening just large enough to fit through. I entered into another tunnel, this one a bit smaller than the others. I sat, dry heaving while shaking the dust off my clothing.  

Footsteps came from the darkness. I only had my phone for light. I should have been overjoyed to hear another person, and yet my body went into flight mode. I moved as fast as I could away from the sound, my heart pounding as the person behind me got closer and closer. A small hole was in the wall. I knew I couldn’t run forever so I risked it.  

I crammed myself inside, no longer caring about bruises and cuts. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I clamped my hands over my mouth trying to quiet my breathing. My knees pressed hard against my chest as I huddled in a space far too small for my body.  

The footsteps grew louder. I thought my heart would stop as I tried to think of what may come out of the darkness for me. Not knowing what was out there was far more terrifying than seeing any kind of monster mankind could think of. I was almost tempted to peek my head out to get an answer to avoid the fear of not having one.  

The steps passed but were soon joined by more. I needed to place my hands over my ears and shut my eyes tight against the booming sounds of a crowd stomping just outside my hiding spot. Voices came, unlike anything a human could make. Cruel laughter and something almost like music mixed into the deafening chorus. I might have been there for a few minutes but it felt like an eternity of being crammed inside that crack in the wall, scared and alone.  

Even when tie sounds died down, I didn’t dare leave my hiding spot. Hot silent tears ran down my face. I just wanted to go home. But deep down I knew no matter how much I explored these tunnels; I would never find the way out.  

A hand fell on my shoulder causing me to scream. I flinched away unable to move in the small space. The hand withdrew and I saw a pale face peeking at me in the dark.  They looked human enough. So thin they might as well be a skull with long black hair. Their dark eyes sunken into their face. As yet, the smile was almost kind.  

Despite my fear, I found myself reaching out to this person. I took their bony frail hand and let them guide us down the pitch-black tunnels. They may be leading me to a horrible fate. But their hand was warm like the living and I was glad for that.  

We arrived at a small room lit by blood-red candles. Square holes had been carved out of the walls deep enough for people to lay down inside. And there were people. Bodies filled each hole aside from two. They weren’t all skeletons. Some wore modern shoes, while others had their bare feet sticking out half rotten.    

The odd stranger smiled again and walked over the wall gesturing at a space. I shook my head feeling sick. I didn’t want to be in that cold dark space alone for the rest of my life. No, maybe longer than ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SunHeadPrime on 2024-10-30 21:47:50+00:00.

---

The night shift at a second-rate fast-food taco joint is where time goes to die. Minutes take hours and hours take years. There are only so many times a person can fill the sour cream and guacamole guns in one go without wanting to put them to your temple and pull the trigger. Would it kill you? No. Would it make a mess? Absolutely, and what a godsend that would be.

It would give you something to do.

Más Tacos was in the “Bentwater Corners,” a small suburban strip mall with little to no foot traffic. Every store here was the generic version of something more successful. Like a copy, it never looked as good as the original. I told friends Bentwater Corners was the island of misfit toys. It surprised me we stayed in business at all.

We were located between Burgers Ahoy, another also-ran chain restaurant, and the confusing Bank of Chester. I don’t know if someone named the bank after a founder or a city named Chester and it was never explained to me. In the five months I worked at the taco shack, I’d never seen a person enter or exit the bank. Hell, I’d never even seen anyone use the ATM.

Not even to pull out drug money.

My school schedule forces me to work late nights. I’m there from six in the evening until around midnight or a little after, depending on how much cleaning we have to do. Often, I’m in my car by 12:01. Like I said, we’re never busy.

After our “dinner rush” of about six to fifteen people, we have nothing but time to kill. We clean and prep and, once that’s done, we double and triple check our work. If we still have time, the entire shift takes turns fucking around on their phone while keeping an eye out for Mary, our manager.

I didn’t mind Mary. After years of being a stay-at-home mom, her divorce suddenly threw her back into the workforce. Sometimes she acted a bit harried and cracked the whip, but she was also understanding. Mary wasn’t the ogre some of my fellow co-workers made her out to be. She was the boss and had to do boss things occasionally. Those actions often flew in the face of people trying to do as little as possible and still stay gainfully employed.

Most nights, I worked with the same crew of miscreants. They were an eclectic bunch, but we all got along. It’s like soldiers in the army. You’re thrown into a foxhole with whoever and end up bonding over your shared trauma. Most nights, it was me, an aspiring rapper named Doug (aka Tha Dougfather), Jenna, a social media influencer in training, and a rotating cast of new hires. This night, the new guy was a pale, goth guy named Reggie. If you ask me, Reggie isn’t exactly a goth sounding name, but who am I to judge?

Tonight, while we were going about our normal “dodge Mary” routine, I heard Mary let loose a string of curse words from her little office that’d make a sailor blush. I took this as a cue to put my phone away and pick up a mop. As I was wringing out, a frazzled Mary came rushing up to me. Her face was panic-stricken and slightly pale. Something was wrong.

“Jill, my asshole ex just called. He was letting Jeremy play ‘Superman’ at home…”

“Superman?”

She sighed. I could tell this had been a point of contention before. “The asshole ex lets him jump off the top bunk into a pile of pillows. Anyway, Jeremy landed on his arm funny, and the asshole ex thinks he may have broken it. They’re off to urgent care right now. I have to meet them there.”

“Of course,” I said. “Should we close up or….”

“I can’t close early. Mr. Adamyan would kill me if he found out we did.” She sighed. “Can I trust you to close up the shop tonight? I can give you the alarm codes and keys.”

Her face was pleading as intensely as her words. I saw the worried mom look in her eyes and my heart softened. “Of course. Go be with your kid.”

“Oh my God, thank you! I owe you, big!”

“It’s family stuff, no worries.”

She gave me a quick hug and whispered, “I can’t trust anyone else. You’re the only one here going places, present company included.”

“Not true,” I said, smiling. “You’re going to be with your baby.”

She gave me a friendly smile. “Thank you. You’re a hero.”

She ran back to her office to gather her things. As soon as she was out of sight, Doug sidled up to me. He nodded toward Mary’s office. “What did ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ want with you?”

I grinned. “She put me in charge for the night.”

Doug laughed. “Fuck, dog. This whole place is going to go up in flames then.”

“Shut up,” I said, punching his arm.

“How come she picked you? She should’ve picked me,” he said, frowning.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Doug feigned offense. “Shit, if I ran this place, I’d have us going toe-to-toe with Taco Bell in two weeks. People be beating down the doors to get our Sopa de Awesomes and Sombrero taco boxes.”

“Uh huh.”

“And once I launched our new mascot, Mr. Taco, shiiiiit. We’re rolling in dough.”

“Or tortillas, as it were,” before adding, “and Mr. Taco? That’s the best name you got?”

“Gotta keep the names simple for Americans. We’re simple people. Check this, though. Mr. Taco would have a huge sombero and those bullet things across his chest. But instead of bullets…they’d be little tacos. Pretty slick, right?”

“The Taco guy would have smaller tacos as decorations? In a world of living, breathing tacos, wouldn’t those little tacos be baby tacos? Kinda fucked up, Doug.”

“Jill’s right, the name needs work,” Jenna said, joining us by the nacho station. “I know branding and Mr. Taco doesn’t cut it. When I started my GRWM videos, I started calling them ‘Watch a bitch glow up’ to stand out. I gained two hundred followers overnight.”

“’Cause you were showing off the curves, Jenna. You got it easy.”

Jenna laughed, “Easy? You try coming up with compelling daily content to satisfy thousands of parasocial stans. Boobs and ass can only take you so far.”

“To that end, maybe Mr. Taco needs a lady friend? Senorita Carnitas?”

“Ooh, I like that,” Jenna said. “Name is better, too.”

Doug waved us off. “Maaan, y’all overthink things. Mr. Taco don’t need a lady. He’s too wild to be tamed. He’s got that iconic Ronald McDonald energy, for real. Kids would be taking photos and shit with him. Drawing pictures. I’d probably win awards for creating him.”

“Let’s get a normies view on this,” Jenna said. “Hey Reggie, what do you think of Mr. Taco?”

The quiet guy just shrugged his shoulders. Doug nodded, “See! He knows it’s fire. Good shit, Reg! And y’all ain’t even heard about Taco Land yet. It’s full of kick-ass characters!”

Before I could further explore the origins of Taco Land (is that where Chester is located?), Mary came back into the kitchen with her purse on her shoulder and keys clutched in her hands. She called everyone over and sighed. “Look, my kid hurt himself and I have to go. Jill is in charge while I’m gone. What she says, goes. If she tells me you guys made her life hell, so help me god, I will have you cleaning the grease traps for a week. Am I clear?”

Everyone nodded. Mary turned to me and placed her hand on my shoulder. “If you need anything - anything - don’t hesitate to call or text, okay?”

“Got ya.”

“Thanks again.”

“No worries, go see Jeremy. I know he needs his mom.”

Mary gave me a kind nod before blowing out of the shop. Seconds later, we saw her taillights speed down the road. I turned back to my staff and saw that all of them had pulled out their phones already.

I wasn’t upset. We were ahead in our cleaning, and the real boss was gone. At this point in the evening, we were just running down the clock, anyway. I just prayed no fires broke out in the last few hours we were open. Seemed simple enough.

About twenty minutes after Mary left, the restaurant’s phone started ringing. It gave us all a shock - we’d never heard the phone ring in here before. Hell, Jenna admitted she’d actually never seen a landline in person before tonight. The phone was in Mary’s office. Jenna, Doug and I made our way over there. Reggie was in his own world and we didn’t bother him.

“Should I answer?” I asked.

“You’re the boss,” Doug said.

“What if it’s a supplier with questions about, I dunno, stock or something?”

“No supplier is going to call a store at close to ten o’clock at night,” Jenna said.

“It could be Mr. Adamyan,” I said. “What we he think if he called and Mary didn’t answer?”

“Just tell him she’s taking a huge shit and she’ll call him back,” Doug said. “Guarantee he won’t ask any follow-up questions.”

“Vile, Doug,” Jenna said, her face twisting in disgust.

“I solve problems Jenna. Sometimes that means going a vile route. Oh shit…vile route. That’s a banger,” Doug said, jotting the note into his lyric book.

“I’m gonna answer,” I said. I walked into Mary’s office and plucked the receiver up from the cradle. “Hello?”

“Hey, this is Paul over at Burger’s Ahoy.”

“Uh, hi? If you want something, just come over and order. We’re super slow.”

“No thanks. I was calling to ask if you knew that you have a dude who’s been standing at your drive through speaker for, like, ten minutes?”

“What?” I asked, confused. When someone pulls up to the drive through speaker, a whole host of things happen. A timer starts, bells ring, and the staff jumps into action. But nothing ever sounded. The shop had been quiet. I told Paul as much.

“Well, we’ve been watching him for a while. He’s just…standing there. It’s unsettling.”

“What’s going on? Who is it?” Jenna asked.

“Paul from Burgers Ahoy. He says someone’s been standing at the drive through ...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/WoodflyNecktie on 2024-10-30 21:09:47+00:00.

---

I feel absolutely sick writing this, but I’ve been told by a friend that writing this stuff down might be important. That same friend also told me that it wouldn’t be a good idea to share my name, so I won’t. I’m writing this from a Hilton Garden Inn about five minutes from my apartment. I haven’t been there in two months, but my neighbor texted me an update about it today. It sounds bad. They have torn up all of the carpet, large sections of drywall are missing, and they’ve started ripping out the ceiling. “When I say “they,” I’m not sure if it’s still the police, or if the leasing agency has hired someone to clean up. I have pictures, letters, furniture, and memories in that apartment. It was home for almost five years, and I just don’t care. I’ll never, ever set foot in that place again.

Two months ago, we had a MASSIVE storm roll through Cincinnati. I live, or lived, in an apartment complex closer to the edge of the city. I don’t want to give too many specifics, but imagine one of those cookie-cutter standalone complexes that has a few apartment buildings and a shitty pool. The rent wasn’t the cheapest I could find, but the complex is gated, so I justified the cost with an increase in safety. I’m a single woman, and have always been a little paranoid about living alone. Once I finished college and took a graphic design job here in the city, I realized that I no longer had a pool of college friends to choose a roommate from. I was faced with two options; either live by myself for the first time, or play random roommate roulette. Unimpressed by either, I decided to create a third option: my Murphy.

Murphy is, or was, the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I know a lot of dog owners say that about their pets, but Murphy really was my saving grace. Moving to the city was hard for me, and starting my first real job was even harder. Being greeted by Murphy’s big goofy smile was the highlight of coming home every day. When I adopted murphy, he was about the size of a soccer ball, and almost as round. However, it didn’t take more than a couple of months before that soccer ball began growing into a mountain . . . pun intended; my Murphy was a Bernese Mountain Dog, and at just under 120 pounds, he was more mountain than dog. He was a gentle giant, and probably not the stalwart guardian I’d adopted him to be, but he was my very best friend. We’d sit on the couch together every night, and he’d lay his heavy head in my lap. We’d go for walks in the common areas, and the handful of older people who stroll around our complex would always give him a treat. Every night, we’d lay in bed next to one another.

This nightmare began with the storm. Our complex is kind of in the middle of corporate-chain hell; surrounded by gas stations, a red lobster, an outback steakhouse, you get the gist. However, despite our proximity to the center of this commercial purgatory, we ALWAYS lose power during these nasty storms. What’s worse, we must be near the end of some network or grid, because we’re always the last group of buildings in our area to have power restored. 

This storm was particularly bad. I remember getting home sometime after dark and it was pouring down rain. The leaves hadn’t begun to change just yet, but there were twigs and leaves all over the parking lot from the wind. Luck would have it that I slipped into my apartment just before the complex’s street lights went out.

I was greeted by a dark apartment. I don’t think people realize how poorly apartment complexes like this are designed in terms of natural light. My whole apartment only has two windows: one at the front in the kitchen, and one in my little bedroom. That leaves the main hallway, both bathrooms, and the living room without light for most of the day. During an outage like this, and especially after the sun goes down, you open that door to a PITCH black apartment.

The primal fear one has when they’re met with such darkness evaporated the minute I heard Murphy’s collar jingle in from somewhere in the dark. He came bounding out and I felt him barrel into my leg, and up onto me. I scratched his heavy head and he plopped down, trotting back into the darkened living room.

I did what every sane person does when returning to a dark apartment on a stormy night; I walked through every room with my phone’s light to make sure there weren’t any unwelcome visitors lurking in the shadows. That split second before you throw back a shower curtain, when your mind has prepared itself for the small chance that there’s actually something there, can leave you on edge. Anyways, after making my rounds, it was time to brave the dreaded rain to let Murphy use the bathroom. I had been diligent in training him, and we’d actually gotten to the point where I could just stand at the top of the stairs while he’d run down to the bushes next to our building. With a quick clap, he’d bound right back up the steps and into the apartment.

As I opened our front door, it really struck me just how dark it was outside. Not one of the nauseatingly bright restaurant signs was glowing, and the handful of headlights I could see through the rain were far off in the distance. The project I’m toiling on at work is for an overseas client, so I’ve had to keep some weird hours to keep my meetings with them. I hadn’t checked my phone when I got home, but I’m sure it was at least 11:00pm.

Murphy must have darted past my leg without me even knowing (not an uncommon occurrence), and was doing his business somewhere in the dark. I couldn’t see much in the murky night, but I did catch a glance at one thing as the beam of a distant car danced across the sheets of rain. Across the parking lot, I saw a man turned 90 degrees to my building, and he was relieving himself. He was only illuminated for  second, but I swear I saw it. It isn’t unusual to see drunk people stumbling around the complex at night, and I’ve seen a lot worse in this parking lot than a drunk dude pissing. Even still, there was something so creepy about it; the rain, the darkness, it was like he was hiding out there.

Murphy took longer to come back than usual, but he eventually crawled up the steps out of the rain. I could hear him panting as he reached the top step, and he began a half-hearted shake to get the water off of his fur. We both moseyed back into the apartment.

I felt my way back inside, and plopped down on the couch. I used my phone’s screen to light my path, as the little flashlight on my phone stopped working after I dropped it a few months earlier. I pulled up a blanket and started scrolling on my phone. I kept the brightness low to conserve battery. I heard Murphy thumping his way down the hall towards me, and I realized that his cadence wasn’t quite right. Maybe six months previously, Murphy had injured one of his front paws on a piece of glass in the parking lot, and developed an odd walk for the better part of two weeks. His cadence now was similar to that, irregular and slightly off kilter. Even still, I felt his weight impact the couch cushions as he jumped up to join me. As I scrolled, Murphy’s head nuzzled under my arm. His head felt big, and I winced at the water still clinging to his fur. Something else struck me too; Murphy  stank. Don’t get me wrong, a wet dog smelling bad isn’t exactly unheard of, but I mean he smelt BAD. It wasn’t “dog” bad, either. The only thing I could liken it to was a smell I’d encountered while I was working at Dollar General in high school. There was this guy who worked there, probably 18 or 19, who just smelled terrible ALL the time. Just the worst body odor you could imagine, the guy obviously didn’t bathe a lot, as evidenced by his perpetually greasy hair. Murphy smelled something like that. As he nuzzled his snout into my chest, I briskly patted his head and told him to “go on” and get off the couch. He snapped up, and lumbered elsewhere.

Scrolling on my phone got kind of old, and the rhythmic pattering of the rain outside was tempting my eyelids closed. Once again feeling my way through the dark, I made my way into the bedroom. Feeling bad about the scolding I had given Murphy, I called for him to join me in bed. I know some people think its gross to let their dog sleep with them, but Murphy has always been a great pup to sleep next to. Sometimes he sleeps at the end of the bed, and other times he snuggles right up next to me.

I hoped that Murphy didn’t smell quite as bad now that he had had some time to dry off. As I heard him in the hallway, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I heard footsteps in the hallway. Not the friendly trotting of my Murphy, but the distinct, menacing footfalls of a human being. My ears rang in the silence, just as Murphy came bounding into the room unbothered. I sighed in relief. Hearing the neighbor’s footsteps isn’t that uncommon, but they seldom sound that loud. I guessed that the power outage had killed all of the background noise I was used to, as there was no air conditioner or refrigerator running to muffle the sounds of apartment living. The darkness is one thing, but the silence is another. I’m glad I still had the sound of rain to serve as my white noise.

Murphy jumped into bed with one big leap. He wasn’t wet anymore, but he still stank to high heaven. As he pawed at my side, I decided to pet him a little before banishing him to the end of the bed. I rubbed his big head, and realized just how big he’d gotten. L...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Verastahl on 2024-10-30 21:02:57+00:00.

---

I never cared much about Halloween.  Growing up, I didn’t like scary movies or dressing up, and it seemed a weird way to get candy.  Now that I’m in college, my opinion hasn’t really changed, though the peer pressure to go out and do something is even worse than when I was a kid. 

 

Maybe that’s why I picked this week to go home for a few days.  My parents were happy to have me visit, and I was glad to see them too, though it got a bit boring after the first weekend.  That’s what led me to browsing my dad’s recent pile of newspapers, and that’s how I found the ad from last Friday’s edition.

 

Need adult actor to play a role in my yard’s Halloween decorations.  Only Monday night, as that’s when the trick-or-treaters are coming out!  Will pay very well to the lucky employee.

 

There was a local number below, and I hesitated to even call.  I was just trading one Halloween for another, but technically it wasn’t even Halloween yet, and if he really was paying a lot…

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello.  My name is Becky Chatsworth.  I’m calling about the ad.  Do you still need someone for your lawn decorations or whatever?”

 

A quiet laugh, and then, “I do, yes.  I’ve had a few calls, but no one that stood out as worthwhile.  So you’re interested in it?”

 

“Maybe, yeah.  If I could find out more about what you’d need me to do and how much it pays.”

 

“Sure, of course.  You would be part of one of my lawn exhibits, playing someone partially buried.  Your face would be in the free air, of course, and I don’t think you’d find it uncomfortable.  Basically you’d just moan and scream and beg to be freed when people come up for candy.  I’d plan for it to go from 6pm until 10pm, though we might knock off early if there are no more trick-or-treaters.  And I would pay you $400 for your time.”

 

I tried to keep my voice even.  “Um, well yeah.  That doesn’t sound too bad.  I’d be interested in doing the job if you’d like to use me.” 

 

“I do think you stand out.  Hmm.  Yes, I don’t see why not.  I’ll text you my address and if you don’t mind arriving at 5:30,  I’ll put some make-up on your face so you look appropriately ghoulish.  Sound good?”

 

“Um, yes…yes sir.  It does.  See you then.”  Hanging up the call, I grinned to myself.  “A hundred bucks an hour?  Don’t mind if I do.”

 

****

 

When I got to the address I met Langford Lumley, a man in his early sixties that lived alone in a large house tucked away at the end of an otherwise empty cul-de-sac in a large neighborhood that was nice, if a bit run down with age.  He invited me into a home that was cluttered but clean, though you could still see the remnants of where he had been working on Halloween decorations scattered across the living room and kitchen.  Apologizing for the mess, he sat me in a kitchen chair and quickly put some make-up and fake skin on my face to make me look like the corpse I was meant to be.  Looking into the mirror ten minutes later, I was kind of amazed.

 

“Do you do this professionally?”

 

He gave a deep belly laugh as he blushed a little.  “No, nothing like that.  I learned it from my wife before she passed.  She was a real talent.  This stuff I do now…well, we always loved decorating, and I guess this is my way of honoring her.”  Sniffing sharply, he shook his head as he dug into the overalls pocket of his zombie farmer costume.  When he pulled his hand back out, there was a roll of twenties that he pressed into my palm.  “Here’s your pay in advance.  I went ahead and made it $500 since you came early and are such a nice young lady.”

 

I frowned.  “Are you sure?  That’s a lot.”

 

He waved away my concern.  “Not at all.  You’re going to be the centerpiece of the whole evening.  The kids’ll love it.”  Smiling widely, he gestured to the way we’d come in.  “Speaking of which, we better get you settled in before they start coming.”

 

****

 

The “grave” was a large metal box about seven-feet long and over three feet wide.  The top was a hinged lid covered with realistic-looking grass that, when closed, blended in almost perfectly with the grass of the lawn.  It was so good that when Langford first went over and reached into the ground to pull it open, it felt like I was watching him magically flip open a real piece of the yard.  He’d grinned at my surprise.

 

“Yeah, the keys are to fit it perfectly to the hole and match the grass.  Not just color, but length and type too.  It’s taken me a few years to get it just right.”

 

Nodding in wonderment, I looked down into the open container I was going to be living in for the next few hours.  Honestly, it didn’t look that bad.  It was lined inside with memory foam, with extra padding towards the top where my shoulders, arms and head would be.  I gave him a questioning look and he smiled wider, reaching into the lid to pop out cut-outs for my head and arms. 

 

“Yeah, I keep them plugged until someone is in there for appearance and safety.  But it should be plenty of room for you to stick your hands and forearms through, and your face too, of course.”  He pointed to two holes in the side of the container.  “I even have air being piped through so your body won’t get too sweaty in there.  I know it’s cool out here, but with all that foam, it can get warm if you don’t have ventilation.”  Glancing around, his eyes finally came back to me.  “So does it look okay to you?”

 

Returning his smile, I nodded.  “A grave fit for a queen.”

 

****

 

It really was pretty comfortable in there.  The lid holes also had some foam around the edges, and while my arms would get tired occasionally, I could always pull them in.  My face was more tightly surrounded by its cushioned halo, and with the lid down all the way, It would be hard to get it out without pushing against the padding beneath me and twisting hard, but I doubted it would be an issue.  I was in more danger of falling asleep than anything else.  The interior space where most of my body was had plenty of room, and I could definitely feel a small stirring of cool air against my side and legs.  It was such a strange and neat thing to make, and it made me both like and pity lonely Mr. Lumley with his empty house and his full yard.

 

Because I was far from the only decoration outside.  There were skeletons and ghosts and pumpkins, and even a large grim reaper presiding over everything from an oak tree on the opposite side from where I was buried.  At first I wondered if I was even in the best spot for kids coming up—I was on the far end of the yard from the driveway most people would walk up trick-or-treating, and my head, while angled a bit above the surface of the ground so that I could look down and see across the yard, wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.  I could be seen and heard, sure, but I definitely wouldn’t stand out if I didn’t move around and make noise.  But then again, maybe having me go unnoticed until I started to scream was part of the plan.

 

I’d been in the grave for awhile before the first victims came.  I had started to worry—what if no one came and he’d put all this work in for nothing?  And if that happened, I knew he wouldn’t ask for the money back, but should I keep it?  I guess I still did the job either way, but I’d feel bad.

 

So when the first group of kids came up, I felt more than a little relief.  I almost said hey or “Happy Halloween” or something, but I caught myself in time.  Instead, I waited until they were almost to the door and then I let out a wail.

 

“Help meeee..!  I’m not dead yet!”

 

All three of them jumped and screamed, and one of them started to bolt before the biggest, probably his older brother, grabbed him with a laugh.  “It’s a decoration, doofus.”  He pointed me out in the far part of the yard.  “It is badass t…”

 

“Happy Halloween, kids!”  Langford had opened the door now, and his warm and friendly zombie seemed to set them immediately at ease.  “We’re a bit early, but that just means you can bug your parents for more candy in three days!”

 

I let out a laugh then, and when they headed back down the driveway, still eyeing me nervously, I did call after them, wishing them a good night of trick-or-treating.  After that, we had a few more kids and their parents, with the pace picking up more and more as night came on.  I was getting into it too—screaming at some, laughing manically at others, and I was so into looking for the next group that I didn’t notice when the air circulating through the grave box stopped.  It wasn’t until I felt myself slowly being pushed up tighter against the head opening that I realized something was going on.

 

“You’re going to want to take a deep breath now.  As big of a breath as you can.  Hold it and keep it, okay?”

 

Langford had somehow come up behind me, was over me staring down, and it was as I went to ask him if this was some kind of prank that I felt cold liquid spraying against my body in a torrent.  I tried to pull free, but my head was too tightly in place, and when I pushed against the lid of the box, it didn’t budge.

 

“You’re wasting time, Becky.  This is a quick-dry resin filling up that box.  It’s flexible, but not enough that you’ll be able to breathe well if you don’t make room now.  So puff out your chest, fill your lungs, and keep them full until I say.”

 

I wanted to argue or threaten or scream for him to let me go, but he was right.  It was already halfway up my body and I could feel it thickening as it went. ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-10-30 19:28:16+00:00.

---

I remember the accident like it was yesterday. Unlike many people who say they can’t recall their crashes; I remember every detail of that day. It was winter, and the sun was setting early in the evening. I had gotten off work late; the daylight was now long gone and rain was coming down, making the roads slick, and visibility poor. I was driving my usual route home, thinking about what to pick up for dinner, when it happened. An oncoming truck suddenly swerved into my lane and came straight for me, head-on. In that brief moment, I felt a rush of terror, and a millisecond of clear understanding that I was about to die. Then, everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital room. I heard the beeping of the machines first, followed by the smell of antiseptic. I slowly began to open my eyes to the blinding of fluorescent lights. I heard a machine begin to beep faster, as confusion and panic began to wash over me.

“Woah, easy there”, I heard a voice say.

“You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the hospital, and you’re safe now.”

For a moment, I saw a face next to me. Pretty, and comforting. That was my last thought, before everything went black again.

I’m not sure how much time passed before I woke up again. Feeling more alert this time, I looked around the room, getting a bearing on my surroundings. I knew based on the number of monitors and IVs hooked up to me that I must have been in bad shape. As I blinked against the brightness, a nurse entered, a beacon of warmth in the cold, clinical environment. She had an air of calm that made me feel immediately safe amidst the chaos.

“Hello again, I’m Lily,” she said, her smile softening the edges of my fear. “You passed out before I could introduce myself last time. I’m one of your nurses.” Her kindness radiated as she checked my vitals, her gentle touch igniting a flicker of comfort in me. Day by day, she became my anchor, the one constant in a world that felt hopeless.

As the days stretched into weeks, our conversations grew more personal. I found myself sharing bits of my life, my dreams, and fears, revealing the vulnerable pieces of myself that I rarely showed. Lily listened, her eyes sparkling with empathy, her laughter soothing. I realized I was falling for her, hard.  Her presence in my recovery brightened my days and made me forget the pain.

The more time we spent together, the more I felt a sense of normalcy return to my life. During a particularly quiet evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting my hospital room in hues of orange and pink, I knew I had fallen in love with her. She had just finished her shift and came to check on me before leaving. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, the tiredness in her eyes overshadowed by the warmth of her smile.

Feeling bold, I asked “So, when I get out of here, can I take you to dinner?”

She smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “Yes, I’d love that”, her face blushing.

In that moment, I felt a connection between us, something electric that pulsed in the air.

After another couple weeks of healing, I was finally discharged. I sat outside the hospital, the sun warming my skin, a stark contrast to the cold sterility I had grown accustomed to. I kept my word to Lily, taking her out for dinner a few days later. And the rest, as they say, was history.

We began to explore the possibility of a life together. We found the perfect little house on the outskirts of town; its white picket fence a picture of domestic bliss. It felt like a dream. The house was modest, but was a fresh start, a blank canvas on which we could build our lives together. We spent countless hours painting the walls, arranging furniture, and filling the space with our personalities.

As we settled into our new life, I couldn’t have been happier. Lily was everything I had ever wanted, kind, intelligent, and fiercely supportive. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring us together, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a sense of belonging. I felt thankful for the crash that brought her to me.

Months passed, and we only grew closer. We shared dreams of starting a family and growing old together in that cozy little home. We’d sit on the porch, watching the sunset, discussing our plans and laughing at inside jokes. But over time, something started to change in that house. Something started to change in Lily.

It started as small things. Objects would get misplaced; the trashcan would be knocked over. Lily and I would tease each other for being forgetful, each of us assuming it was the other.  But then things began to happen that I knew couldn’t have been her.

One night, while cooking dinner, I got the milk out of the refrigerator, and set it on the counter. When I turned back around, it was gone, back in the refrigerator. Doors would creak open, the TV would change channels by itself. I began to feel uneasy in the house, like I was being watched. One night, while sitting on the couch, I brought the topic up to Lily.

“Do you ever feel... strange in this house? Like you’re being watched?” I asked.

“No, not at all... are you being serious?” She replied.

“Oh come-on, you mean to tell me you’ve never thought it's weird that things move around on their own all the time, how our stuff always gets misplaced? You’ve never heard the doors opening and shutting by themselves?” I said.

“Hallucinations are normal after a bad injury. Maybe we need to go get you checked out”. Lily said.

Her dismissiveness touched my nerves. “I’m not hallucina – “

“I think you should just let it go” she interrupted.

Her cold response caught me off guard, and for the first time, I felt a rift between us.

That night, I laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying the conversation I’d had with Lily earlier. It wasn’t even a real fight, but it lingered in my mind. Lately, it had started to feel like we were both on edge, with something unspoken weighing between us. And it wasn’t just that conversation; it was everything in this house. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, that I was being watched, even now. I closed my eyes, willing myself to ignore the sense of dread, trying to drift off. But just as I felt myself slipping toward sleep, I heard it. A voice, close and quiet, whispering my name. “David”. It wasn’t Lily’s voice. It was urgent, almost pleading, as though someone was right there in the room with me, waiting for me to respond.

I jolted upright, heart pounding as I looked around the room, trying to find the source of the whisper. I strained my ears, waiting to hear it again. But there was nothing, just the sound of my own heavy breathing. I turned and saw Lily beside me, fast asleep, her breathing slow and steady. She looked peaceful, completely undisturbed. I tried to tell myself I’d imagined it, just a product of my own frayed nerves and lack of sleep. But as I lay back down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been there, close enough to whisper right into my ear.

I woke up the next morning, more on edge than ever after my experience the night before. But Lily was in good spirits, and her kind and fun personality was contagious, bringing me out of my slump. And for the next few days, things seemed to settle down. No strange noises, no objects moving, just quiet nights and a gradual return to normalcy. I started to feel more like myself, and I wondered if maybe it had all been my imagination. Stress from moving, adjusting to a new life together, recovering after my injuries, nothing more. We’d started laughing together again, our conversations and routines falling back into place.

The strangeness of the house all but completely left my mind, when one afternoon, I was in the shower. I heard the bathroom door slowly open, and I could hear someone come in, their footsteps quiet but distinct. Through the steamy curtain, I could see the shadow of a figure approaching the shower and standing right outside, just lingering there. I waited for a second, waiting to hear Lily speak or open the curtain, but the figure just stood outside of the shower. I grinned, calling out to Lily, “Oh, coming to join me, huh?”

I opened the curtain to peek, only to find no one was there. The door was closed, as if no one had entered at all.

A chill crawled up my spine. I jumped out of the shower, quickly wrapping myself in a towel, and hurried into the living room. I found Lily on the couch, casually watching TV, completely at ease. “Oh yeah, very funny,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

She glanced up, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Coming into the bathroom while I was in the shower,” I said, feeling a prickle of annoyance. “Were you just standing there to freak me out?”

Lily’s face hardened. “I didn’t go in there, David. And honestly, this… this stuff you keep bringing up? The whispers, stuff moving… It’s getting old.”

“Old? You think I’m making it up?”

“Yes! I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to let all this go. None of it is real. Just let it go and focus on us, on our life together. I’m sick of hearing about it.”

Her reaction stung. I hadn’t seen her that frustrated before, and as we argued, a tension settled between us. It was our first real argument, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something much deeper was happening.

That night, after lying awake, I finally drifted off to sleep, hoping things would settle in the morning. I finally f...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jigjag22 on 2024-10-30 16:03:22+00:00.

---

I wake up with a splitting headache, the kind that feels like someone took a jackhammer to the inside of my skull. For a moment, I think it’s just the aftermath of one too many cocktails at a gala or maybe a late night on set. But then, as my eyes focus, I realize something is horribly wrong. I’m not in my bed. I’m not anywhere familiar.

I’m in a glass cage.

The walls around me are solid, transparent, and thick...like I’m trapped in some kind of display case. I press my palms against the glass. It’s cold and unyielding. I bang on it once, then twice, the sound echoing dully in the enclosed space.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

No answer. Only silence, like the world itself has been muted.

I scramble to my feet.

Beyond my cage, I see others...more glass enclosures. Inside them are people. Familiar faces. A pop star. A Hollywood actor. An astronaut. A Nobel Prize winner. A tech billionaire whose face has been plastered across every magazine for the past decade.

What the hell is this?

I bang on the glass again, harder this time. But no one looks my way. Some of the other captives are sitting motionless, their faces blank. Others look just as frantic as me, banging on their own cages, but it’s like they can’t hear me. Like we’re all locked in separate soundproof prisons.

I step back, my mind racing.

That’s when I notice it: the exact news desk from my studio in New York. It’s here, right in front of me, down to every last detail. And as I look around, I see it’s not just me. Each captive has a set that matches their life...a stage, podium, desk, lab, kitchen...all twisted reflections of the world we’ve been ripped from.

This has to be a dream. A nightmare. Any second now, I’ll wake up, and I’ll be back in my bed, back in control. But as I press my hands to the sides of my head, willing myself to wake up, the cold reality of the situation sinks in. This is no dream.

This is real.

A voice, cold and mechanical, crackles through the air.

“Take your positions, please. The show is about to begin."

Show! What freaking show?

My mind is racing, trying to process it all, but the pieces don’t fit. I look around and I see the others starting to move. One by one, they’re heading to their designated sets, as if they know exactly what’s expected of them.

I don’t. I stand there, paralyzed. That’s when the teleprompter flickers to life in front of me. My news desk, pristine and waiting, now has a glowing screen, and words begin to scroll across it. A news story. It’s about a political scandal, one I covered just a few weeks ago. But... how?

My mind tells me to sit down, to start reading, but my body won’t move. I’m still too stunned, too confused.

My eyes flicker over to the cage next to mine, and I see the famous writer I recognize from talk shows and book tours. He’s already seated at his old typewriter, fingers clacking away on the keys as if this is just another day at the office.

Everyone else is falling into line. The musician is onstage, tuning his guitar. The tech billionaire is at his console, tapping on switches. Even the boxer is throwing half-hearted punches at the air in his tiny ring, his face grim but obedient.

Everyone... except the chef.

He’s just standing there, fists clenched, trembling with rage. Then, in one swift motion, he throws a pan across his glass enclosure, the metallic clang echoing as it bounces off the thick, transparent walls.

“I’m not doing this!” he screams. His whole body is shaking, and for a second, I think maybe he’s right. Maybe we should all fight this.

But before I can even react, the gas begins to seep into his cage.

It’s fast...too fast. A thick, white cloud filling every inch of his enclosure. He stumbles back, eyes wide with terror as he realizes what’s happening. He bangs on the glass, harder than I ever did, but it’s no use. The gas is everywhere. I watch in horror as his movements slow, his legs give out, and he crumples to the floor.

And then it’s over. The gas dissipates, leaving his cage clear. And he’s there, lying on the ground, motionless. Dead.

A cold wave of dread washes over me, numbing my senses. My legs feel like they’re going to give out, but I can’t fall. I can’t make the same mistake. I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, until I’m standing at the news desk.

I sit down.

The teleprompter is still scrolling, waiting for me to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I just stare at the words, my body numb, my heart pounding.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The voice returns.

“It’s time. Let the performances begin.”

Before I can fully process the words, a loud click echoes through the room, and my head snaps toward the entrance. A massive door at the far end of the hall swings open, revealing a crowd slowly filing in. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos and women in luxurious ball gowns, each one moving with an eerie, deliberate grace.

But it’s not the elegance of their clothes that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the masks.

Every single one of them is wearing a golden drama mask; some twisted into broad, exaggerated smiles, others contorted into expressions of sorrow. Comedy and tragedy, two sides of the same disturbing coin.

The crowd spreads out, moving closer to the glass cages, leaning in, studying us like we’re exhibits in some grotesque museum.

I feel the cold weight of their stares as a woman in a shimmering gold gown steps closer to my cage. Her mask is one of the comedy ones, a wide, manic grin frozen in place. She tilts her head, examining me like I’m some rare artifact. I want to scream at her, bang on the glass, tell her to stop looking at me like that...but I can’t move. The show -- my show -- must go on. I continue to read the news.

They gawk at the others too. I catch glimpses of them crowding around the glass enclosures, pointing, whispering...though I can’t hear what they’re saying. The writer. The musician. The boxer. The politician. All of us, trapped in our cages, being observed like we’re not even human anymore.

And I realize with sickening clarity that to them, we aren’t.

We’re their entertainment.

“It’s time to vote for your favorite performer. ”

One by one, the audience members pull out golden stickers from inside their jackets or elegant purses and begin pressing them onto the glass of their favorite performers.

A woman glides up to my cage, sticking one of the “Hall of Fame” stickers on the glass. Another follows, a man with a mask twisted in a demented smirk. More and more come, each adding their sticker to my cage, one after the other, until I lose count. I keep reading, trying to block it out, but I can’t ignore it.

It’s happening to the others, too. All of them are getting plenty of stickers. But I can’t tell who has the most. The masks give nothing away.

Then, almost in unison, the audience begins to step back, silently retreating toward the entrance, forming a line as they face us, their votes cast, waiting for the verdict.

The voice comes back to life over the intercom.

“And the winner of tonight’s Hall of Fame induction is... Beverly Belle.”

For a moment, I freeze. Me?

A round of applause breaks out, slow and deliberate. I can feel the eyes of the other performers on me, their stunned expressions mirroring my own.

Then the hissing begins. Smoke starts filling the other cages. Each one swallowed by a thick cloud of white gas. They panic, banging on the glass, but it’s useless. The applause continues as I watch, helpless, while the others fall limp inside their cages.

Congratulations, Beverly,” the voice says, smooth and unfeeling. “You will now be inducted into our Hall of Fame.”

Before I can react, my cage begins to lift.

Slowly, I rise above the room, the applause growing louder as the masked audience watches me ascend. I’m leaving. Finally. I’m getting out.

Higher and higher, my cage pulls me toward the ceiling, the marble floors and mahogany walls growing smaller beneath me. I’m shaking, trying to catch my breath as I feel the ceiling open up. The applause fades.

Then, with a sudden jolt, my cage stops. I blink, disoriented, as the light above me dims.

My heart sinks as I realize I’m not outside. I’m not free.

I’m in another room. Identical marble floors. Mahogany walls. Rows of glass cages.

And I’m not alone. More performers. More celebrities, all trapped just like me, staring out from their glass prisons.

The intercom crackles to life again.

“Welcome to the Hall of Fame ceremony.”

My stomach twists. No. Not again.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/two-hip on 2024-10-30 13:43:29+00:00.

---

I am desperately looking for someone to pull the plug on me.  Not sometime in the distant future, but ideally as soon as possible, without taking time to get things in proper legal order or anything else.  I know that many people may find this offensive or distasteful, but please hear me out.  If you understand the pain I am in and how I have suffered, I think most anyone would be sympathetic. 

I am a professional estate executor, or I guess more precisely I should say was.  Basically, I get paid to settle the estates of people that have passed away and either have families too wealthy to deal with their own crap, or simply don’t have any loved ones around to do it.  In reality, 90% of the time I’m hired by estate attorneys.

Recently I was hired to settle the estate of a decedent with assets dispersed globally, having significant holdings both in the U.S. and across Europe.  One of the assets I needed to attend to was an old parcel of land in the foothills of the Moldavian Subcarpathians.  Travelling out of the country for work is not unprecedented for me, and it typically pays extremely well, but generally I loathe doing it.  It won’t surprise you to learn that I don’t speak a lick of Moldovan, and as a former Soviet region, English is not all that widely spoken, and this was a job I wouldn’t have dreamed of taking on had I realized what it involved before I’d signed up.

So, reluctantly, I headed off to the middle of nowhere in NW Moldova, feeling more than a little bit like the solicitor at the start of Dracula, and wondering whether I should’ve gotten my own affairs in order before departing.  And don’t worry, this has nothing to do with vampires (or creepy dolls coming to life – more on that later). 

I arrived at the large parcel of land to find an ancient decrepit house that looked more castle than farmstead.  I went into the house to happily find that this may not require as much work or time as I’d anticipated, with the home half empty, being mostly some old furniture to assess and dispose of. 

Strolling through the house, however, my heart dropped when I opened the door of a room to find a vast collection of marionette dolls, displayed wall-to-wall.  Collectibles are the bane of my existence.  With some commonly collected items, like coins, it’s easy enough to find reasonable values or a numismatist to assess everything and usually even liquidate the collection for me (we don’t have a lot of incentive to get the best price.  This did not look to be the case here.

The spacious room had rows and rows of antique marionettes from wainscoting to ceiling.  The only break in the dolls was a several foot wide floor to ceiling mirror, and the doorway to the room itself.  The room was much longer than it was wide, eerily long for where it was nested into the manor’s floorplan, almost as if it shouldn’t have fit.  The floorboards ran parallel to the room’s length, and the mirror was directly across from the door so that looking into it gave the impression that you were surrounded by an endless sea of marionettes, bearing down on you from above. 

These were the type of old-timey, hand crafted and painted dolls that you picture going back to the Renaissance.  Like string puppets in a travelling show, or Punch and Judy dolls.  Assessing, cataloguing and liquidating these in a country where I wasn’t even sure if I could google things was going to take forever.  The immense time spent on these types of things also tends to get questioned on expense reports, which sets me up for uncomfortable conversations with the families of clients and occasionally the IRS.

It was also at that moment that I remembered I was forced to stay in this house, with no inns or other alternatives nearby.  At least there was no bed in the marionette room, so that one was off the table.

The first few days and nights there passed largely unremarkably.  On several occasions, however, I had woken at night to hear a distant ratcheting sound that seemed to come from deep inside the house.  The noise would slowly click, and was accompanied by a ping like the sound of heavy cables being drawn taught, and it would build erratically over the course of several minutes to a crescendo pop.  It was almost like a giant jack in the box being cranked to eruption, without the campy music. 

Over the first several days, I progressed along with my inventory of the property, going room by room, planning to defer the marionette collection until I had completed everything else.  It would take the longest, so I should’ve gotten on it first, but hey, why not enjoy my time there, right?

One night, however, I was awakened by the ratcheting sound rattling from deep within the house.  I lay awake for some time, listening as the click-click would slowly build to a snap, then start all over again.  After some time tossing and turning like this, the noise began to feel like it was burrowing deeper into my head with each click, before bursting deep inside my brain, before beginning anew.  With the realization that sleep would not come, I decided it was time to investigate.

The noise seemed to be almost ambient, coming from all directions, but after roaming the house to try and zero in on a source, I was utterly unsurprised to find that as best I could tell, it was coming from the marionette room.  I wasn’t exactly the type to be afraid of some creepy dolls, but you know…alone in middle of nowhere Eastern Europe and all that.  I also forgot to mention that we were not operating with a fully powered and lit house here…oh no, it was nighttime navigation by cell flashlight, and conserving charge on the handful of power banks I’d brought along.

I paused outside of the room to reassess things (or maybe muster some courage) and the ratcheting noise began to sound almost inviting.  Throwing caution to the wind, I stepped into the room to investigate.  The rational part of my mind kept telling me there must be a marionette in there with some kind of wind-up aspect, or ratcheting gears like an old clock, but as I entered the room I had the cold realization that that was not the case. 

Nothing inside looked any different or disturbed, other than a whole mess of tantalizing and intimidating shadows cast by the dim, dusty light.  I held still so I could focus on the sound, and quickly realized that it didn’t seem to actually be coming from inside the room at all, and instead still seemed to come from all directions through the house. Too tired and cold at this point, I just shrugged and called it a night.

A night or two after that, I was again awoken by the ratcheting sound, and after trying in vain to ignore it, decided it was really, really time to get to the bottom of it, if nothing else than for my own curiosity and sanity.  After some strolling and triangulation, I again found myself in that damn room.  This time, however, I slowly made my way around the room, trying to determine if the sound was louder in any spot.  As I made my way down the long room, the noise grew and seemed to pulse, like I was approaching the heart of the house.

As I came around towards the mirror, I caught something out of the corner of my eye and froze.  In my peripheral I could see a dark mass laying on the floor, and half gave a sigh of relief, thinking a marionette had merely fallen off the shelf.  That sigh was quickly choked off, however, as I turned to see the figure of a man lying there in a heap as if he’d fallen out of the mirror. 

I froze in terror as the man moaned, and started to stumble to his feet like he was drunk.  I backed away towards the door, watching while the man awkwardly gained his footing and began to shuffle and totter towards me, reaching out his arm with a raspy moan.  What I first took as a predatory pursuit, in hindsight seemed more like a desperate plea.

The man lurched forward, and I heard the sound of his ankle snap, buckling him lower towards the ground, but he kept upright.  With each blundering step forward, he seemed to further deteriorate, with the cracking of bones fading to the grinding of gravel.  In the distance of several feet, the man eroded away nearly to mush, with his moaning becoming labored and a gurgle as his structure collapsed. 

The pile in front of me looked like a human octopus; a sack of amorphous skin and innards with a head plopped on top.  There weren’t any homes nearby to run for help, and even if I had cell service, I had no idea what the equivalent of 9-1-1 was, so I reluctantly decided to try and help the man and bent down towards him.  With a squishy grunt, a tentacle arm swung up at me, and I felt the cold, gooey appendage slide across my cheek.  I think I even felt the scratch of a nail.  I came to my senses and ran. 

I spent that night huddled in the shed, wondering if I did the right thing, and worried that I’d left a man suffering and helpless.

With the benefit of daylight the following morning, my resolve steeled, and guilt began to creep in, so I went back to check on the man – or whatever it was – but found nothing there. 

I reminded myself that I had a job to do, and managed to push the incident back to the “I’ll deal with that shit later” place in my mind.  It is amazing what you can ignore if you set your mind to it – I think it’s a sign of a strong will to have the ability to utterly ignore reality. 

At the risk of running long, I’ll try and cut to the chase here.

A few more nights passed of the no...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/likeeyedid on 2024-10-30 14:53:35+00:00.

---

I sat in absolute darkness, the kind that wraps itself around you and pulls the air from your lungs. 

"Welcome, welcome, welcome to those who are children and those who long for the time they were!" A familiar voice called into the darkness but I couldn't pinpoint where exactly it came from. 

"We are going on a very specific and wondrous mission today that is nothing for the weak-hearted. It is one that only a true adventurer can survive! And with that we welcome the one and only, the magnificent, the incredible…. JANIE!" 

All of a sudden hundreds of bright lights turned on, blinding me for a moment. I blinked a few times, seeing neon green and purple colors all around me. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I realized that there were cameras in front of me while I was crouching on the ground on top of a sheet of plastic grass. My breathing became uneven, my mind was running in every direction possible, but my body stayed frozen. I suppose a part of me already knew there was no way out.

I closed my eyes and hid them behind my arms when I heard heavy footsteps moving closer. A damp hand touched my arm and I slowly looked up at the man who was the main guest of my nightmares.

"You are supposed to be dead," I whispered to the source of the purple color.

The man I knew as Dr. Warly simply shook his head.

"I can't die. The children need me," he said in a voice that was his but also wasn't. It sounded wrong, warped in a way. And his face appeared as if someone had glued it together. He grinned as my gaze swept over the patchy pieces of his skin.

"And as long as they believe in me and watch me,  I will continue to exist. Now get up, sweet Janie. We have an adventure to go on. And for today, you are our main explorer. Do you think you can find your way out of the forest?"

Following those words, the lights went out once more, and hands reached out to grab me and pull me away. I kicked and punched, but it was no use. They wouldn't let me go.

--

When the lights came back on I was alone, at a different place, or at least that's what I believed because enormous pine trees suddenly surrounded me. This time the light was more dimmed, but it still wasn't real. I wasn't outside. No, it came from headlights. I couldn't see the cameras anymore, but I knew they were there, watching me, recording each of my steps.

"Warly, you motherfucker. Where are you?" I shouted, fear suddenly replaced by anger. I'd ridden myself of this place years ago. I was an adult now, far into my twenties and I thought I was safe but I suppose I never would be for the rest of my miserable life. They would always find me again.

"Is anyone else here?" I cried out. "Alex? Leigh? Anyone?"

The sound of laughter was the only response I received. 

Many years ago, I wasn't even a teenager yet, when I was recruited to star in a program specifically made for children with a group of other kids my age. We would spend the day alone with the producers and camera people to film something we didn't quite understand yet and wouldn't even remember. It was an innocent show from the outside. Two boys, Alex and Leigh, and two girls, Millie and myself, who went on adventures led by a man named Warly. 

The show was a clusterfuck of mind games designed to bring demise to everyone who watched it. Millie had died. So had the actor who played Warly. Children ran away from their homes, seeking a promised adventure and that was only the tip of the iceberg. It was so much deeper, so much darker that it was hard to comprehend, and for such a long time I didn't even think it was real. 

But it was, and now I was living it again.

I got to my feet and tried to ignore how much they were shaking as I pushed my way through the fake trees. The artificial needles of the trees scraped my skin, leaving bloody marks but I couldn't bother to care about that. I had to find a way out. If this truly was a movie set, it couldn't be infinite. If I walked to the edge, I would find a wall and then hopefully a door. 

"Our main explorer for the day has started her adventure. Will she make it out of the woods before the spirits find her?" A dark voice sounded through a speaker.

In response, children started laughing and then shouted out in glee, "YES!" 

"But if Janie finds the way out, the show will end. Do we want that?"

"NOOO," the voices of the children screamed in unison. I tried to ignore the wrongness of it all as I kept fighting my way through the forest. I kept moving forward, everything around me started warping into a blob of brown and green. I was so focused on getting out that I didn't even look at the ground and so I didn't notice what was right in front of me until I stumbled over it, falling on top of it.

On top of him.

I knew it was a body before even looking. A cold body. I pushed myself away, dropping into my back. 

"Even breaths, calm down. It's just a prop," I whispered to myself as I forced myself to look at him.

A bone had been jammed into his throat. His eyes were shut, and his green shirt was stained. My stomach turned from the scent of iron all around me. My hands were sticky and red, and I couldn't even say if it was his blood or mine. 

Suddenly, the corpse sat up, his eyes opening wide as he took a deep breath. My first instinct was to scream but instead I pulled the bone on from his throat, just trying to get a weapon, when I realized that it wasn't actually inside of his skin. The bone was broken off and glued to him.

"Who are you?" I forced out, holding the shitty broken bone in front of me.

His gaze swept around, finally landing on me and that's when I realized that he was just as scared as me. Possibly even more. 

But I had to keep my wits, it could be a trick. This was all a show after all. 

"No, no, no," he whispered. "I was out. I was safe."

"Who. Are. You." I repeated.

Before he could reply, the voice of Warly spoke through the speakers again.

"Our main explorer has stumbled upon one of her old friends. Will they continue the adventure as a team, or will they brutally take each other's lives?"

The corpse who wasn't actually a corpse looked at me with pain in his eyes.

"I think I'm supposed to be Leigh."

I got up from the ground and started walking, my mind couldn't comprehend what was happening and I couldn't deal with it. That wasn't Leigh. I knew Leigh, I'd seen him not too long ago. But he had an eerie similarity to him.

"Wait," the wrong Leigh called as he started following me. "You're Janie. The real Janie, right? I remember you. Well, kind of. You were on the show. I'm-"

I turned around, facing him suddenly, and he took a step back.

"What do you know about the show?" I hissed.

He laughed darkly.

"I know everything."

-- 

With the wrong Leigh on my heels, I made it out of the fake forest and we found ourselves staring at a door. 

"Any chance this will lead us outside, you think?" He asked.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

"Why were you so cold?" I asked instead.

"What?"

"Your body. You felt, well, dead."

"I have no idea. Maybe they put me in an ice bath, I don't even know how I got here."

I swallowed thickly.

"Are you gonna open the door?" He asked impatiently.

"I don't know. It seems too easy." I clutched the bone tight in my hand. "And I'm not sure if I can trust you yet."

"Right back at you," he replied in a dark tone.

"You go first," I said and took a step back. To my surprise he didn't hesitate before going up to the door and pushing it open.

A jingle played through the speakers and I followed the wrong Leigh over the threshold.

"What the hell?" he whispered.

We found ourselves on a different set. This one was supposed to look like a small suburban neighborhood. There were street lamps, fake lawns and a little road with houses on the side, decorated with skeletons, ghosts and pumpkins. 

On the ground, right at the beginning of the road, were two plastic jack o lanterns.

"I think they want us to go trick or treating," I said.

"Yeah, hell no."

"Agreed," I mumbled. 

We decided to walk around instead, to look for another door and avoid the middle of the set with the road. After what felt like an eternity, we still hadn't spotted a way out. Neither did we see any cameras, but they had to be hidden somewhere. I knew they were watching us because after a while of walking around the Warly voice spoke again.

"The explorers seem to be getting more and more lost, when they should be looking for their friends instead."

"They are in the house!" The voice of a little girl called out, followed by a giggle.

My companion's expression shifted and before I knew what was happening, he started running into the set, pushing the doors of all the wrong houses open.  

I followed him from a distance until he kicked open the door of one with purple walls and his screams filled the entire hall.

--

He'd stopped screaming and fallen onto his knees, staring right ahead without a word. And as I collected my courage and walked up to him, I realized what caused his reaction.

The house was tiny, consisting only of one room, but they had furnished it to look like a proper home. There was a sofa in the middle and on it were three limp bodies, put in a sitting position. Their eyes were open and their expressions were empty, and I immediately recognized who they were supposed to be. One looked like Alex, the grown ...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-10-30 12:33:14+00:00.

---

Nothing makes sense? Maybe you missed a few instalments. Check out the index to catch up.

Weird title again, I know, but there is a reason.

Honestly, nothing much could be done on the preacher front for today, so once Naru had finished rustling his files, we decided to head straight home. The rest of the family was bustling about preparing for whatever ‘ritual’ they needed me to do tonight, and my grandmother was smoking up the whole kitchen with her culinary black magic, though I must admit it did smell good. She was finally using the goat; apparently, keeping it in the freezer any longer would destroy the flavour. I wouldn’t know anything about that, but she wants me to eat before I go out. That was probably a bad idea, given that I am definitely going to overstuff myself if it’s her cooking. But there’s no arguing with Grandma.

Either way, since I had no idea what to do to help, I decided to give the journal another go, focusing on the entries I could read. I hadn’t intended to go very in-depth for the moment, but the very first entry caught my attention. Reading through it, I could not help but notice how much it related to our current situation. Almost as if it had been placed first for a purpose. What’s more, I could have sworn a different entry was in those pages when I checked it the last time. There was no way to prove it, but the book had apparently shifted its contents around.

Anyway, as the title says, there is no church in Chhayagarh. There is an old mosque, though it’s crumbling and abandoned now. There are lots of Hindu temples, including our family temple on the estate and the old, crumbling temple on the top of the hill, built many centuries ago by our ancestors and then abandoned when we moved our holdings to the plainland. But no church.

This was rather surprising since Bengal was the lynchpin of the British Raj, and we know that the government was aware of this village and, to some extent, its peculiar situation. Surely, they would have concluded that building a house of god, the ‘true’ god, on this land was a sure way to rid it of ‘evil’? But there was never any evidence to show they had tried.

But I now had the evidence in my hand. You see, until 1813, the East India Company was reluctant to allow missionary activity in India, as they felt it would anger the local populace and damage their business interests. However, the Charter Act of 1813 passed by the British Parliament made the Company take responsibility for the ‘education’ of the Indian people, which included allowing missionaries to preach in the EIC’s territories. Following this, a missionary priest was dispatched with the permission of Governor-General Francis Rawdon-Hastings (the other Lord Hastings) in 1816 to Chhayagarh, with the goal of “addressing its menacing relationship with devilry and establishing the law of god in the province”.

The diary entries of this missionary, named Charles Eden, have been meticulously copied by hand into this journal. Or rather, a part of them: the portion covers his entries from his arrival in Chhayagarh to what would be, for reasons that will soon become clear, his final entry. Instead of transcribing them exactly one by one, which would both pose trouble due to the archaic language and be incredibly boring, I have decided to use my incredible literary skills to compress them into a single, continuous account that will cover the entirety of his experience over the two days he spent here. For continuity’s sake, I’ll be writing them in the first person as well, but you’ll know when it’s me speaking and when it’s Charles.

All right then, here goes nothing:

It was raining when I first arrived in the village of Chayagore (Chhayagarh). It is a hamlet in a miserable state, built on hard, infertile land where almost nothing grows, and absolutely nothing grows well. The local zamindar seems to have a reputation for being a good friend of the Company, and the Governor-General has assured me he will cooperate, even though he neglected to furnish me with a letter of recommendation. I am not aware of the persuasions of this Hindoo fellow towards me, but his subjects are decidedly not entertained by my presence. Even in the brief time I have spent in the streets so far, I have caught two dozen glares, one or five frowns, and even a few sneers. It is evident that my black frock and starched collar are both an unfamiliar and unwelcome presence.

On the way towards the zamindar’s admittedly extensive estate, I glimpsed a prayer hall of the Mohammedans, identifiable by its dome even in its state of disrepair and neglect. I found it rather galling that even that beastly religion, responsible for so much of the sufferings of the natives if scholars are to be believed, had found purchase here when a bearer of modernity and rationality like myself should have to struggle for heathen approval.

But the Lord had only been too clear that spreading his Word would not be easy, and that was especially true amongst the unwashed and the illiterate. I had no choice but to soldier on.

At the gate, I was met by two very immodestly dressed guards, presumably of the lower castes. After all, such is the lot of the dark-skinned races in this country. They searched my luggage quite thoroughly with their grubby hands before letting me through. I suppose the idea of hospitality that the zamindar has does not extend to the trust one must place in guests.

(I feel compelled to clarify here that the racism is not my own, but his. I debated whether to leave it out entirely, but it is necessary to understand Eden’s worldview. As it is, I have already softened the blow by editing out the numerous slurs he seemed determined to hand out like candy.)

To add insult to injury, upon reaching this landlord’s sprawling and frankly obscene property, I was informed by a fresh-faced manservant that his most vainglorious master, not having the civilized decency to receive me, had instead embarked on some sort of ‘hunt’ in the vast forests of his property. He would not return until late at night.

Truly, much work is required to make gentlemen out of these natives. Thankfully, a few members of his family, including mostly women but gratefully a man or two in the form of his brothers, did receive me. However, I turned down their offer to attend with them some sort of nautch girl’s performance scheduled to take place in the evening, and instead asked to retreat to my quarters and have my dinner in seclusion. I have no patience for the vulgarity of those garish prostitutes, pretending to be something refined while flouting all God-given laws of modesty and submission to the social order.

Thankfully, they had at least heeded my sensibilities in assigning me simple and modest quarters, featuring none of the arrogant opulence that the local rich man seemed accustomed to. As a man of God, I do not seek nor condone excess in anything.

As I was rather peevishly scribbling this entry into my pocket diary, the same young servant brought in my food: a generous serving of rice along with some lentils, vegetables, and a thick, oily meat curry: this last one, I returned untouched, having adopted vegetarianism a year or so earlier. As with all the cuisine in these parts, it was heavily seasoned and immensely, overpoweringly flavourful. The abundance of spices in our Indian possessions has made even the poorest serf the owner of what would be a treasure trove in English kitchens, to say nothing of my hosts. Perhaps one of the few positives of their culture.

Nevertheless, I was careful to eat in moderation: besides my earlier disdain for luxury, my stomach was not fully accustomed to this clime. The servant waited at the door while I ate, squatting on the ground in a thoroughly unseemly manner while his eyes burned holes into my skull. When I returned my half-finished plate, he wordlessly bore it away, returning with a copper plate and a jug of water to wash my hands: the custom in these parts. I decided to cause no further aggravation by refusing.

This is where the first entry ends. As you can tell, nothing interesting really happens in this part, but I felt it necessary, nevertheless, to include it, as it tells you a lot about the basic character of Mr. Eden. These traits will be important to explain his choices and fate on the second day, which is where the matter comes to a head.

The entry begins as follows:

I did not sleep well. Despite my caution, my stomach betrayed me, tossing and gurgling all night in rhythm with me as I thrashed on the uncomfortable, thin mattress. I must have been half-feverish from indigestion, for nothing else can explain the dreams I had in those fugues, stuck between sleep and waking.

I dreamt of the forest, its canopy closing in an embrace that grew tighter every minute, snuffing out the light of the full moon above. I dreamt of a man clutching a rifle, his back turned to me as he stalked through the shade of the trees. I dreamt of a portal of quicksilver, gleaming and shifting with a light all its own, spread out in a fan, like a wave frozen just as it breaks upon the shore. I dreamt…

I dreamt of myself, laughing and pointing. Giggling. Dancing.

Beckoning.

Calling out.

That was when I snapped awake, roused by the rays of sunlight that streamed through the curtains and hit my eyes. Judging from the posi...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/spnsuperfan1 on 2024-10-30 11:47:27+00:00.

---

Funnily enough, I never believed in the supernatural up until a couple months ago. Hell, part of me still doesn’t believe in it, even with the things I’ve seen.

For example: just this past week the division detained its first mermaid. Correction, sorry, siren. The two entities absolutely loathe being mistaken for the other.

I’m still new to the job and am in the process of learning to disregard everything the media has told me. So if any Elders are reading this, I truly meant no disrespect.

For those of you that aren’t aware of who Elders are, well, they’re elder. Beings that inhabited the Earth way before we came along. Some places around the world have different names for them: Fae, Sidhe, Neighbors, Diwata, Yōsei, Dokkaebi. Around these parts of Winchester, Michigan though, we call ‘em Elders.

The very first thing I was taught is that long ago, us humans pushed them out of the lands they once ruled, so the least we can do is be respectful towards them.

Thankfully, I’ve yet to encounter a real nasty Elder. I hear things can get pretty ugly if you upset one well enough. These beings can be quite powerful, seeing as Elders can harness and tap into an ethereal energy that is invisible and mostly inaccessible to us- magic (no I’m not shitting you, magic is real).

Elders are also very clever and can look like anyone or anything whenever they want. You never know when you might unsuspectingly engage in a conversation with someone that is eons older than they look. So, as a reminder, respect everyone. Especially your Elders!

Getting back to our latest catch (pun intended), she was a real pain in the ass to track down. It’s not often you come across a fresh water siren. They’re more difficult to deal with seeing as they can go from one body of water to another. Sure the oceans are big, but in the event a siren comes ashore to feed, they tend not to stray far from the salty sea. It’s a completely different beast when your suspect can travel pretty much anywhere on land as long as there’s a fresh water source nearby.

Our Lieutenant personally requested that Detective Dustin Davidson, my partner, and I bring our fish friend in after a news segment about local missing men aired. The only thing left of them were their empty wallets- which had been found either by a creek, river, or in one instance, a pool.

In the segment the reporter also interviewed an old man who claimed to be a victim that survived his brush with the party responsible. There was a large bandage on his cheek and he had a pretty bad black eye. He definitely survived something alright.

The next two minutes of the broadcast consisted of a detailed rant about him encountering a luscious looking she-devil with claws, razor-sharp teeth, and a glimmering green fish tail in a pond while on his evening hike at a local trail. Poor guy had accidentally stumbled upon a feeding session. Siren’s are known to be territorial and very protective of their feeding grounds, kinda like resource guarding with dogs. Seeing him as a threat, the “she-devil” lunged out of the water and attacked him, screeching out a horrible song as she did.

He only got away because her prey in the water was still alive and started trying to run. The siren wanted her meal more, so she hissed at him then slithered back into the water to finish what she started. When he went back the next day, the only evidence he found that proved something had happened was a man’s empty wallet sitting by the edge of the pond.

Our survivor reported the incident to the authorities, but our counterparts didn’t believe him and called the guy a crackhead. Those lazy fuckers didn’t even bother to file a report. If they had, the case would’ve been flagged and sent directly to our division where we could start an investigation immediately. But, because this didn’t happen, and we found out from the news, Lieutenant Dawn was pretty pissed.

A guy ranting about lunatic mermaids on tv wasn’t exactly a good look for us. You see, civilians and the other half of Winchester PD don’t know that our division exists. The division’s purpose is to bring in supernatural perpetrators that make a lot of noise. We want to keep the general public from getting suspicious about the things that go bump in the night being real. The expression “ignorance is bliss” is an expression for a reason.

Anyway, the news crew probably included that interview as an attention getter to the case, dismissing his testimony all together and deeming him insane. But to us in the know, he gave us valuable information and a great tip. Now we knew what creature to look for. The fish tail and horrid singing were telltale signs of a siren.

“Davidson, Rookie,” Lieutenant Dawn addressed Dustin and I after the segment ended, “track down our witness and get a proper statement. Then get a profile on our siren. We need to bring her in before she causes us even more trouble. The last thing we need are some siren hunters snooping around.”

“Yes, sir.” Dustin and I nodded in unison, graciously accepting the assignment. It had been a slow day and we were eager to catch some action. Not even twenty minutes later we were leaving to speak with our witness, Paulie Rutledge.

Dustin grabbed his coat off his office chair then shot me a devious grin as he put it on. “Ready to go, Rookie?”

With a huff and roll of my eyes, I grabbed the rest of my things and walked off. I hate being called rookie. It’s so stupid because that’s what I am and he was just trying to be playful, but at my old department it was used derogatorily and wasn’t a good thing to be called. Plus being called a rookie brings up bad memories…

My therapist says I should try to reclaim the word, and I’m trying my best to, but as of now you can call me Lucky. She also said it might help me process my trauma a little better if I kept a diary. So think of this as a two for one special. I get to vent to the internet and make my job a little easier by giving life-saving advice on any supernatural’s that might cross your path.

“Officer Hale,” Dawn stopped me on my way out of the precinct, whispering in my ear, “prove them wrong. Show me you’re a good cop. Show me why I recruited you.”

My body went rigid. “Y-yes sir,” I barely managed to stumble out. He pat my shoulder firmly and shot me a reassuring smile. Dawn left as soon as Dustin caught up with me. The two of us then left the precinct without saying much about the encounter. I could see he wanted to pry but left it alone instead. I appreciated that.

When we interviewed Mr. Rutledge, he said the same thing as before.

Paulie was on his evening stroll on a local trail when he heard a woman’s hums and intense splashing coming from the pond. Concerned, he went off-trail to see if he could help. That’s when he spotted the siren and she attacked him.

The good news is he was able to give us a better description other than the one on the news. Right before she jumped out of the water and revealed her true terrifying siren features, Paulie said the woman had pale skin, long curly black hair, hypnotic blue eyes, and a tattoo of an anchor right above her right collarbone.

Armed with that new description, Dustin and I got ready to leave. But before we could, Paulie asked if we believed him since we were there following up on his account. He looked at us with a glimmer in his eye, happy that somebody was finally listening to him.

Dustin straight up told him no. Said we were doing a mandatory routine follow up, and if he was being honest with himself, the visit had been a complete waste of everyone’s time. All the while, I stood behind Dustin with my lips pressed shut. Our parting words with the man were to stay off the drugs or the next time we came back it wouldn’t be pretty. The last thing I saw as the front door closed were Paulie’s soul crushed eyes on the brink of tears.

Needed to take a breather after that. I had almost bitten my tongue off back there.

“It’s all part of the job,” Dustin reminded me, gripping the steering wheel of his brown ‘78 Corolla liftback, staring blankly into the distance. “It sucks, but it’s a necessary evil.” Clearly it had affected him too, judging by how white his knuckles were.

Pulling out into the street, he turned the dial on his radio and an old rock song came on. Dustin happily hummed along as we drove, energetically tapping on the steering wheel along to the beat.

It was almost uncanny the way he could switch from his usual happy-go-lucky self to bitterly ice cold in an instant. It freaked me out, but being dually personable and serious are good qualities to have in a detective.

Back at the precinct, we started putting a case file together. Here’s what we knew about our siren: she was young and beautiful looking (all siren’s are), she had long curly black hair, and a distinctive tattoo of an anchor on her collarbone. And, for some reason this one really liked snacking on unfaithful men. That’s what our profiler, Jane, said anyway. She gathered all that after sifting through the files we pulled on the missing men.

Friend and loved one testimonies weren’t worth shit, unfortunately. Jane only figured out the siren’s type after hacking into one of our bachelor’s phone records. And before anyone says anything, since we’re an unknown legal entity, the supernatural’s division is like the Wild West out here. Pretty much anything goes. Including magically aided hacking....

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CQ-Erickson on 2024-10-30 13:00:00+00:00.

---

Nobody writes about the Grinning Prince.

The thing about urban legends is that while they are supposedly an oral tradition, people love writing about them online. You can pretty much trace the whole Polybius myth from one message board post to dozens of podcasts over the course of 25 years.

Not the Grinning Prince.

And not even the show. Not really.

Everyone who was a kid in the New York area in the 70s and 80s remembers this tv show. It was the most popular kids program on a local channel (the one that showed baseball). But somehow it never went to other markets, and even weirder, nobody in the area recorded it. By the time it went off the air in 84 plenty of people had VCRs, but no matter how much you search YouTube, you only find short clips of the garden full of psychedelic puppets being herded by singing hippies. You never see a full episode, so you never hear The Roster. You also never hear the puppets say the one thing they absolutely said at least once in every episode:

“ALL THINGS SERVE THE GRINNING PRINCE”

The Roster was the end of the show, when the hippies would put down their guitars, and sing (a cappella and off key) four names. For example “We see Jordan and Kyle and Kerry and Julie and… YOU!”

Everyone remembers the roster, and everyone remembers the rules. At some point, an older sibling or a friend would warn you: when they said your name in the roster, you had to place the thing you loved the most on the the ground in your yard, with a letter asking The Prince for a gift. If you did, you would get your gift. If you didn’t, first the Grinning Prince would warn you in your dreams that night. If you still disobeyed, the Prince would visit your bed the next night. If you disobeyed again… nobody knew. Something bad.

My name, the real one on my birth certificate, is uncommon. My nickname was (and is) marginally less weird, but still unpopular. So I never got called on The Roster.

My cousin Davey wasn’t that lucky. He tried not to cry when I asked him where his Wayne Foundation playset was. He had just gotten it for Christmas and I was incredibly jealous. If any of you collected Mego superheroes you would understand. He solemnly explained that he ignored The Prince when he dreamt of him.

The next night, Davey woke up to a withered, six fingered hand rising up from the side of his bed, reaching for him. He spent the rest of the night in his parents’ bedroom, screaming. In the morning, while his mom was doing laundry, he went in the yard and dug into the frozen ground. I was four. He was six. That conversation is my earliest, clearest memory.

There is no reason why I should have cared so much about finding this show as an adult. But I am stubborn and nosy. Being stubborn and nosy aren’t the worst flaws you can have, but they have cost me most of my relationships over the years. This gives me a lot of free time.

I have been selling stuff - mostly original comic art- at horror and sci-fi conventions for twenty years. Twenty years of pestering the other vendors for a copy of an episode of this show. Usually conventions are amazing for “lost” media like this. I have a 4k print of the unaltered versions of the Original Trilogy, and a VHS with what appears to be an authentic 20 minutes of London After Midnight. But I could never find a copy of this show.

Three months ago, at the big con in San Diego, a pink haired girl in her mid 20s came to my booth. She was holding a disc with the show’s name on it. I didn’t have a DVD player with me(or at home, not for ten years), but she only wanted twenty dollars for it. I don’t know how she knew who I was or that I was looking for the show, but she looked incredibly familiar. Which made no sense. I didn’t know any women her age, pink haired or otherwise.

When I got the disk home and finally found a laptop to play it, I understood where I knew her from. She was the girl without the guitar. Her clothes and hair were obviously different, but she hadn’t changed in 40 years. When the Roster came around I was sort of expecting it, but it still felt like there was ice going down my spine when they said both of my names.

Obviously at this point the logical thing to do was just put my guitar in the yard.

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.

I woke up screaming on my bathroom floor. I don’t know how I got there. Even immediately after I woke up I couldn’t remember The Prince’s face. Only his hand. The six fingers ending in long nails that burned like candles.

So the next night I put a 1974 black Fender Telecaster Custom(same model that Keith hit a fan with on The Stones 81 tour) outside in the yard with my letter. I live alone, and was more freaked out than curious. I left the television on for company.

Around 3AM I woke up with the sense that I was being watched. The TV was an old school snowy screen, like we would get when the cable went out.

Then the hand rose up from the side of my bed. I don’t know if I screamed. I only know that I froze. It came up slowly, no particular hurry, the fingernail candles casting shadows against the wall. It stank of soil and decay.

It didn’t move like a person. It didn’t move like anything in this world.

Even in my terrified state I was able to recognize it.

It was claymation.

I didn’t bother getting dressed before running for my keys and wallet and bolting out of the house. I ended up at White Castle(the only place open), frantically doing an image search. I was filled with cosmic dread. But I was still stubborn. And nosy. I found it right away. I was right.

The thing that was in my bedroom was the old intro animation from the Saturday night horror movie on the same channel that aired the show. A six fingered hand rising from a creepy swamp.

When the sun came up, I went home to find my guitar exactly where I left it. My offering had been rejected.

Of course it was. I had tried to cheat.

Later, I would go into the yard dragging the thing I really loved the most. The only painting my dad ever finished: a lighthouse at the cusp of a storm, guiding the ships in. I have had it on my wall my entire life.

The following morning it was gone, along with my note. That night there was a package at my door. I opened it and found three photo albums.

Once I knew that the whole thing was real, I could have asked for anything in the note I left. If The Grinning Prince could appear in my dreams, and the host of the show could appear ageless, then I could ask to be rich, or young, or immortal or whatever. That’s not how I’m wired though. For my gift I wanted three answers:

• what was the point of the show?

-why did it stop?

-what happened to the kids who couldn’t or wouldn’t

leave the offering?

I sat on my couch and opened the first album. 1970s pale gold and olive tones shine in the pictures. I saw the hosts, their names, their real names, not the ones from the show, were handwritten above them: Carmen and Patricia. I touch the picture and suddenly I’m not me. I’m Carmen.

We are puppeteers. It is 1971, and we are in NYC trying to get a job with the public television kids show that has somehow become a huge hit. Our manager gets us an interview with a local channel. Station management pitches us on our own show. But there are rules. Very specific rules. We have to prove our loyalty to station management. We have to pledge ourselves to the smiling presence lurking behind everything. It seems like a game. Patricia and I sacrifice the puppets we made ourselves in sixth grade. We promise each other that we will ask for the same gift, for our show to go on forever. I don’t know what Patricia really asked for. It wasn’t to stay young: at her wake she was an old lady, and I was the same, like always. My mind is as fresh as my body. I can’t forget anything we did, I hear every kids name that I called. I see the ones that didn’t listen…

I snap the book shut, and open the second one. This one isn’t just pictures, it is a collage of 80s and 90s photos, newspaper clippings, magazine articles. They swirl into a vivid montage of what happened after the show stopped. It wasn’t needed any more. One generation of kids in one city was enough. Four names called a day. Five days a week. For ten years. Every kid grew up to serve the Prince in their own way. They gave him other names and made up party games to summon him. They put him in 80s album covers and 90s comic books and 2000s creepypasta. They even backwards masked a worship service into a Philadelphia based teen dance show(also not on YouTube). Every bit helped. All things serve the Grinning Prince.

I haven’t opened the last album. Not yet. I can just leave it. I don’t have to know what happened to the other kids. The ones who wouldn’t listen. Nothing good can come from seeing this.

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.