This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Various_Destinations on 2024-10-21 17:30:10+00:00.

---

When I was a child, I had a best friend named Roger. He was adventurous, outgoing, and unbelievably kind. He really brought me out of my shell. I was a shy kid, and often overlooked by my peers. Not Roger though, he always knew how to get me engaged and excited. I miss that kid.

We loved exploring. I was always curious, and he loved the adventure and excitement. We lived across the tracks from the… rougher side of town, but we didn’t mind. It had the best exploring. Lots of abandoned buildings and forgotten streets.

It was on that side of town that we came across the cellar. It was so odd, since the town we lived in didn’t have any basements. Something about flooding, I don’t know. But it was the first set of cellar doors either of us had ever seen. They were the old fashioned kind, set in the base of a house, but facing outside. Like you’d see on a farmhouse. Only this was attached to the crumbling ruins of an old chruch.

Roger and I examined the doors; rusting iron with a padlocked chain wrapped about the handles. The padlock was just as old and rusted as the door, and I saw the mischievous gleam in Roger’s eye as he turned it over in his hand. He was a resourceful kid, and quickly found a discarded piece of rebar nearby. Again, not the nicest part of town. He jammed it into the arch of the old padlock and began twisting. After a few turns, the rusted metal sheared and the chains fell away with a clatter.

I looked around nervously to see if anyone had heard, but there was nobody nearby. I peeked around the corner, and the only person I saw was an overweight clerk through the window of a nearby drugstore. He hadn’t seemed to notice.

The doors of the cellar were rusted shut, and it took the combined effort of Roger and I to wrench them open. Once we had, the darkness beyond seemed to quell even Roger’s adventurous spirit.

I remember him trying to get me to go first. I remember calling him a chicken. That seemed to goad him well enough, because he puffed up his chest, and strode down the creaky wooden stairs. I couldn’t just taunt him and stay behind, so I followed him down.

All things considered, the cellar wasn’t particularly notable. There were some interesting things, like old sacrament trays and bibles. Plenty of cobwebs. A weird red book. It was creepy, sure, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Except for the other set of cellar doors.

It was on the opposite wall from where we came in. These were locked too, but from the inside, with a metal handle attached to a locking mechanism. I remember Roger turning it; the squeaking metal setting my teeth on edge. I assumed it led into the decrepit building, so I was surprised when it creaked open to reveal the same street that we had just been on. Except, everything seemed different. The most striking difference was the fact that the sky was a deep red. The trees were leafless and black. The streets were cracked and shadowy.

It brought such an ominous feeling that I had never known, but Roger was brave, and I was curious. And we had each other. Together, we ascended the steps and stepped into this dark world.

The first thing I noticed was the church, not crumbling, but erect and looming. Red bricks trimmed with black iron stood tall before us. The bell tower was ringed in upside-down crosses. Roger and I backed away, and I instinctively looked to the drugstore that stood across the street. It was there, still occupied by the overweight attendant. Only now he stood in the center of the store, staring blankly into the distance. At least, for a moment he was. Then he snapped his attention directly to me, and a strange expression overtook his face. I could not discern it from where I stood, but I knew it to be unnatural.

I yelped and turned to urge Roger to get back to the cellar, but he wasn’t beside me. I looked around, but could not find him. I assumed that he had returned to the cellar, and I rushed over to check. The doors were closed, and no matter how hard I yanked, they would not budge.

I called out to him. I yelled and told him that this wasn’t funny. That he needed to open the doors. I shouldn’t have made so much noise. I heard shuffling from around the corner of the church. I was frozen in fear. Ten years old, and alone in a hellish version of my world. I won’t deny it. I cried for my mother then. And the worst part? That shuffling, it was her.

Only it wasn’t. She beckoned me over from behind the corner of the church. She whispered sweet words on the wind. But her face was wrong. Her eyes were black, and her mouth was too wide.

“Come to the feast” she had said. There was blood dripping down her unnaturally long chin. I could see past her shoulder, a crowd, a horde, all clustered together, tearing into something that I couldn’t see. I began to cry. I wrenched on the cellar doors. They moved a little, but not enough. My “mother” slunk toward me. Her body was lithe and slender, but disproportionate. Everything seemed too long.

Then he was there. Roger was beside me, pulling on the cellar doors. Together we managed to get them open, and we dove inside. They slammed shut behind us on their own accord. We dashed out of that place, and we didn’t stop running until we were on the other side of the tracks. When we stopped to catch our breath, I finally got a good look at Roger.

He did not seem the same. His clothes were the same. His voice was the same. But his eyes… his features. He smiled a too wide smile, and stroked my face once. Then he turned to leave.

Every day since I have struggled with my decision to say nothing. To not go back and look for my friend. Worry haunts me that he roams that hellscape, alone and afraid. But a part of me knows. He isn’t alive anymore. As for “Roger,” well. He tried to fit in. For a time. However, his unsettling demeanor was impossible to ignore. Everything had changed. The way he looked at people. The way he moved. He almost passed as the real Roger, but everyone noticed that something was off.

Even still, the news of his parents dismembered bodies found in their bed shocked the entire town.

Nobody saw Roger again after that. There was a statewide manhunt, or… childhunt, really. But he was evasive. I saw him once, though. Outside my window in the dead of night. I woke to that ominous feeling of being watched, and I saw him there, staring in, grinning his too wide smile. He waved at me, breathed fog onto my window, and wrote something in it with a skeletal finger. I pulled the covers over my head and called for my parents.

At first they thought I had a nightmare. The trauma of the murders was so fresh after all. But then I pointed to the window. Written in the foggy glass were the words, “thanks friend.” The cops came and scanned the property, but they of course found nothing.

That was years ago. Sometimes I feel like I see him on the street, grinning at me from a distance, but whenever I try for a closer look, he’s gone. I know he’s still out there. I know because I’ve received many more notes. Sometimes handwritten in the mail. Sometimes scrawled on my driveway. Once keyed into my car. All saying the same thing: thanks, friend.

That, and the murders that seem to follow me around. One every year. Dismemberment. I don’t know what I unleashed that day, but I know it isn’t my friend. And what’s worse? I don’t remember locking the cellar door behind me.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-10-21 15:56:54+00:00.

---

The sun had been gone for over a month, swallowed by the night, and with it went any sense of peace in Barrow, Alaska. The darkness was absolute, broken only by the flickering streetlights and the hum of snowmobiles cutting through the stillness. Life continued as normal though, well, as normal as it could for a place where night stretched on for over sixty days. But last year, the darkness brought something else with it. Something worse.

I’m Chief of Police for this town. I’ve been here for fifteen years. Seen everything there is to see in a town like this: a bar fight or two, domestic disputes, the odd tourist getting lost in the tundra. Routine, mostly. My officers, Carl and Dana, and I knew how to handle that sort of thing. We knew our people. Knew the land. But nothing could’ve prepared us for what happened last December.

It began with a call from Hannah Damon. She lived on the edge of town, near the frozen coastline, where the houses were more spread out, isolated by the endless fields of snow. I still remember her phone call, her voice shaky and thin, like she was trying to keep herself from crying.

"Chief... sorry to bother you but...something's wrong. It’s Charlie. He hasn’t come home."

Hannah’s husband, Charlie, worked for an Alaska Native corporation, doing maintenance work at the oil facility north of town. It wasn’t unusual for him to get stuck out there overnight during a storm, but this was different. There hadn’t been any storm that day. He should’ve been home hours ago.

Carl and I drove out there, the crunch of snow under the tires the only sound as we pulled up to the Damon house. Hannah was waiting outside, wrapped in a heavy parka, her breath clouding the air. The worry in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Chief, I know something’s wrong," she said, her voice catching. "He always checks in."

We tried to reassure her, but a knot had already formed in my stomach. Something was off. We went to the oil facility, found Charlie’s truck abandoned, door open, the inside of his truck covered in a fresh drift. There was no sign of him. Only blood. Dark, frozen, streaked across the ice in a pattern I couldn’t make sense of.

Carl knelt down, running a gloved hand through the red snow. "What the hell…?" he muttered, his breath visible in the frigid air. I crouched beside him, my heart pounding in my chest. The blood wasn’t just a smear, it was a trail. And it led toward the coast.

We followed it, flashlights cutting through the dark, but the farther we went, the less we wanted to. The trail ended abruptly, near the frozen water’s edge, with no body in sight. Just more blood. A lot more. The ice was cracked in places, deep claw marks gouged into the surface. But what kind of animal would be out here? And why hadn’t anyone heard anything?

Hannah begged us to keep looking, but there was nothing else to find. Charlie was just...gone.

Over the next week, more people started disappearing. A hunter, a woman walking her dog, and another one of the oil workers stationed farther north. Each time, the scene was the same: blood, signs of a violent struggle, but no bodies. With the heavy snow and wind, there were no tracks, no sign of what had taken them.

We were no strangers to bears around here. Big ones. Dangerous ones. But this was different. The wreckage looked deliberate, almost intelligent. The way things were torn apart, it was different than anything we had seen before. But I kept that to myself, not wanting to alarm the townsfolk any more than they already were.

Carl, Dana, and I split up the town, checking in on everyone we could, posting warnings about venturing too far outside. The tension was suffocating. People could already be unpredictable during the long night, but this was making people act even more paranoid and on-edge than usual.

I’ll never forget the day I found Sam Walsh.

Sam ran the only general store in Barrow, which doubled as a sort-of social hub for the locals. He was an old-timer, a man who had seen more winters here than anyone else. I’d always liked Sam, despite his tendency to talk your ear off whenever you came in for something as simple as a pack of smokes.

It was Dana who first noticed the store hadn’t opened for two days. Sam was always early, always the first light on when the darkness settled in. But this time, the windows had stayed dark.

I drove down with Carl, just in case Sam had slipped on the ice or fallen ill. The snow crunched under our boots as we approached the house.

The front door was already open, broken in. The old hinges had been ripped clean off, and the door frame had splintered under the force of whatever had crashed into them. The stale air hit us as we stepped inside, flashlights sweeping over the cluttered shelves.

“Sam!” I called out. “Sam, you in here?”

And then we found him.

Sam was in the back room, slumped against the wall. Or what was left of him. His chest had been torn open, ribs visible through the mess of blood and now icy torn flesh. His eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling, frozen in an expression of sheer terror.

The walls around him were painted in blood, streaks reaching all the way to the ceiling. It was everywhere. There were tracks of... something. But between the immense blood and the scene now frozen from the open door, I couldn’t make them out clearly. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

Carl gagged, covering his mouth as he stepped back. "Jesus, what the…"

I couldn’t respond. My hands were shaking. This was calculated, vicious. This wasn’t just an animal hunting for food. This was something killing for sport. This was violent in a way that didn’t make sense.

That night, I called a town meeting at the police station. People were on edge, whispering about what had happened to Sam, what had happened to Charlie and the others. I could feel the fear in the room, thick as the darkness outside.

Dana stood by my side, her face pale. Carl was by the door, rifle slung over his shoulder, scanning the crowd as if waiting for something to burst in at any moment.

"We don’t know what’s happening yet," I began, my voice steady despite the unease gnawing at me. "But something’s out there. We need everyone to stay inside, lock your doors, and don’t go out alone."

"What about the bear patrols?" someone asked from the back of the room.

"We haven’t seen any bears near town," I replied, "But we’re keeping an eye out. Dana, Carl, and I will be doing rounds."

The meeting broke up quickly, people eager to retreat to the safety of their homes, though we all knew how fragile that safety really was.

It was a week later when things reached their breaking point.

The night was colder than usual, the kind of cold that made the saliva inside your mouth freeze if you dared to open it. The sky was pitch black, no moon. Just the endless, oppressive dark.

I was in my office, going over maps of the coastline, trying to make sense of the disappearances, trying to find a pattern, when the power went out. The hum of the heater died, plunging the station into an eerie silence. I grabbed my flashlight and stepped into the hallway, where Carl and Dana were already waiting.

"Power’s out all over town," Dana said, her breath visible in the cold air. "We’ve got a report of something moving outside near the northern edge."

"Alright, well, let’s go check it out” I said.

Carl nodded, his jaw tight. "Hannah Damon has also been calling about Charlie again. Said if we’re not going to find him, she’ll go out and look for him herself.

I cursed under my breath. "Alright, I’ll stop by her place first. Grab your rifles."

We split up, me heading north while Dana and Carl covered the town. The wind howled, carrying snow across the empty streets in thick, swirling waves. My flashlight flickered in the cold, casting long shadows as I made my way toward the Damon house.

When I arrived, the door was open, swinging gently in the wind. Inside, the house was dark, save for the beam of my flashlight. The kitchen was empty, a half-finished meal still sitting on the table. But the back door had been ripped off its hinges, the wood splintered and jagged. My stomach dropped, knowing what I would find next.

And there it was, in the snow outside, a trail of blood.

I followed the blood trail through the snow, my breath heavy in the cold night air. The wind seemed to carry whispers, like the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. I could feel the weight of the darkness pressing down on me, and for the first time in my life, I felt small out here. Exposed.

The trail led of blood led me to a small clearing by the coastline, where the frozen sea met the land in jagged sheets of ice. My flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows across the snow. And then I saw her.

Hannah was lying face down in the snow, her body twisted unnaturally. Her clothes had been ripped to pieces, and blood pooled around her, soaking into the frozen ground. But she was still breathing, barely.

I rushed to her side, turning her over gently. Her face was pale, her lips blue, eyes wide with shock. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasp, a gurgling sound as blood bubbled up from a wound in her chest. A chunk of flesh had been ripped from her neck.

"Help..." she gasped, her half-missing hand gripping my arm with a surprising strength. "It…it’s still…here…"

I glanced around, but saw nothing. Just the vast, empty expanse of sno...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nomass39 on 2024-10-21 12:38:46+00:00.

---

If you met me on the street and asked me what my job was, I would tell you that I work from home consulting for an industrial laundry company. That is, after all, the cover story I have been provided with.

The reality? My job is even simpler. Every Friday night, I dress up nice, report to a certain theater downtown, have a seat, and watch a performance.

That’s it. All it takes is a couple hours out of my week, and I end up making six figures a year with every benefit you could possibly ask for. I know, I know. It sounds too good to be true. Pretty much anybody on the planet would kill to have a job like mine.

At least, perhaps, until they find out just what kind of performances I’m made to attend.

Before I start, though, I need you to keep in mind that I’m a good person. I donate thousands to the Rainforest Fund out of every paycheck, and me and my kids volunteer at the food bank weekly. I’m a devout believer, and I’m going to Heaven when I die. After all, I, myself, have never hurt anybody. Never raised a hand to injure any living soul.

How could you possibly call me a sinner, when all I ever do is watch?

It started about three years ago, when their job offer found me when I was at my most desperate. All I was told was, every Friday night, I would attend a performance at my city’s fanciest theater. That was it. I was baffled at first. What the hell do I know about theater, or ballet, or orchestras? Had they gotten me mixed up with some bigshot critic? During our talk on the phone, however, they politely reassured me that no critical ability would be required. “All we ask,” they said, “is for you to be there to bear witness.”

Everything about it screamed scam, but I figured, what the hell? Worst case scenario, I listen to a pitch for some MLM or timeshare, politely decline, and then walk out with some pocket money.

I was baffled when I pulled up to the theater. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of people were streaming in, all in nice suits and gorgeous gowns. I’d thrown on the fanciest clothes I could afford, yet I still felt severely underdressed. The theater was totally rented out by my ‘employer’, and only my fellow ‘coworkers’ were allowed in. How much could it have cost to hire such a massive crowd just to attend this one performance? Who could possibly bankroll something like this? I tried to empty my mind, and simply merge into that human tidal wave flowing through the doors.

Every staff member was dressed in a refined all-black suit, with black tie and undershirt, to the point they seemed to darken the air around them. Each wore a white comedy mask, the neoprene stretched into a grin of perpetual laughter, which struck me as almost mocking. They demanded that we hand over all electronic devices, even patting us down and running a metal detector over us. Then they reminded all attending not to leave their seats under any circumstances during the performance (recommending we take bathroom breaks before the show started) and to remain quiet and to keep our eyes open.

They kept repeating the same mantra. “No distractions. No diversions. No lapses in concentration. Remember: you are here to bear witness.

If I’d been alone, I would have left right then and there. There was a tickling in the back of my brain, some primate part of me screaming that there was something terribly wrong here. But mob mentality is a hell of a thing. Everybody else seemed calm, nonplussed, handed their phones over without a fuss. There were a few holdouts — probably other newbies like me — but eventually, they, too, relented. If everyone else is going along with it, I figured, why shouldn’t I? Who wants to be the one, single paranoid bastard who missed out on an easy paycheck?

Stepping into a gorgeous theater like something out of three centuries ago, I was most struck by the make of the stage. It looked like the back action of a piano, strange levers and mahogany hammers looking like fingers manipulating countless lines of piano wire, some over a dozen feet long. All the taut wires stretched in bizarre formations across the stage reminded me, somehow, of a spider’s web. I could not fathom a machine so complex, yet with such little apparent purpose.

The nature of the performance always varies. Sometimes its a work of Shakespeare, a ballet, an opera, hell, even a puppet show. That day, it was a concert featuring a small chamber orchestra of around 35. Students, it looked like, young and inexperienced, with a nervous air about them as if this was their first time performing before such a crowd. Mostly a string section, plus one of each woodwind, and just a couple each on horns and percussion. The conductor was one of the staff members in the comedy masks. I was baffled. Who would put forward this much cash just for a small, green orchestra to play in such a massive, prestigious venue? One of them must be a billionaire’s kid, I figured. It was the only explanation.

This, I’ve since realized, is always the best part. The beginning of the performance, when you can, if you try, lose yourself in the display and pretend everything is okay, that it’s all normal. It was best on those lucky days when the performers onstage were completely unaware of just what sort of danger they were in. That always makes it easier for everybody.

On that first day, I was as oblivious as they were, and simply enjoyed the music. Maybe some snob of the orchestral arts would hear their amateurish mistakes, but to my untrained ear, they sounded just fine. Pleasant, even.

But one question began to worm its way into my head, a small nagging at first which crescendoed into a hammering on the inside of my skull. How much time has passed? At a certain point, I suspected the intermission was long overdue. But there were no windows, and I had to part with my electronic wristwatch at the door, so really, getting any sense of time was impossible. I dismissed it as my lousy attention span at first.

But eventually, others began taking notice. No one dared speak, but among the fellow newbies, I noticed furrowed brows and sideways glances, confused and concerned. The performers seemed to be getting restless as well, whispering and gesturing to eachother and the conductor, who never ceased those robotic, sweeping motions of his gloved hands. It must have been two hours by then, if I had to guess, and they were starting to look exhausted, dehydrated. Some even looked as if they were about to quit playing.

“CONTINUE PERFORMING.”

In a moment, all of the piano wire loudly reverberated and stretched taut with the movements of those mechanical contraptions onstage, as the whole thing bristled and tensed as though it were a living thing. And that voice, cracking like thunder, seemed to emerge from the stage itself with a mechanical roar like the grinding of metal on metal. That seemed to frighten them into submission for a while.

It wasn’t until a half hour later that my life changed irreparably. They’d been playing a quiet sonata, so everybody could hear the sudden frrr-ting, accompanied by a pained yelp. My eyes leapt to one of the violinists. One of her strings had broken, and happened to snap her right in the eye. It could see the streak of scarlet bifurcate her pupil, before the emerging blood replaced the entire eye with a thick redness. She stood, clutching a hand over her eye and blindly grasping with the other, gesturing tor medical help.

And as she did so, that strange lattice of levers and hammers and pullies all roared and clacked to life, like a bear trap being sprung.

The machine’s efficacy was just as sudden, just as brutal. Those clockwork edifices moved like a pair of robotic arms, aiming a wire for her neck as if trying to garotte her. But they moved at such a speed that the wire seemed to pass through her, like she wasn’t even there. For a moment, she seemed fine, unaffected, as if nothing had happened at all.

And then, things began to fall off of her. Her head, severed at the neck, alongside the hand she’d been holding over her eye, and the very fingertips of her other hand with which she’d been grasping a little too high. All had been cut cleanly, with surgical precision. Time seemed to slow as they all went clattering wetly to the floor, and the girl’s body soon followed, as if it took a few moments for gravity to set in. Or, perhaps, for her body to realize she was dead.

It happened so fast, it was hard to be properly horrified. It was more like… awe maybe. Everybody stared at the chunks of meat that had once been a promising young woman with hopes and dreams. That spider web of wires was still rumbling and shaking all around them, and the mechanical voice roared once more.

“CONTINUE PERFORMING.”

They were given no further warnings. A few of them jumped from their seats out of sheer instinct, not even thinking. None of them made it more than a step before the wires divided them in twain. The rest just kept playing exactly as they had been, as if their brain froze up at what they’d witnessed and simply ran on autopilot, until their faculties slowly returned to them and they realized that this instinct had saved their lives.

Where once beauty filled the room, now the orchestra had been reduced to a discordant sound like a long, shuddering whine, like a mocking parody of music. They gripped their instruments with trembling, sweaty hands, playing just well enough to avoid stoking the ire of those quivering wires stretched taut all around them. ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Lupabeingawolf on 2024-10-21 02:13:57+00:00.

---

The air was thick with the damp chill of autumn as I led my friends into the park, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and unease. We’d heard the whispers about Hollow Creek park—a place where the spirits of long-gone children supposedly still played, their laughter echoing through the trees. Some locals swore that on certain nights, you could hear the giggles or see the swings moving on their own, as if the past refused to let go.

“Are we really doing this?” Sarah’s voice was shaky, barely a whisper. I grinned, though I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "It’s just a story. There’s nothing to it." But even as I said the words, I couldn’t shake the unease creeping up my spine. The park was bathed in the dim light of a crescent moon, casting long shadows that twisted and danced like they had a mind of their own. The old iron gates creaked softly in the wind, and I could have sworn they almost seemed to welcome us in.

We moved deeper into the playground, the crunch of dry leaves beneath our feet breaking the unnatural silence. Everything looked oddly well-kept—too well-kept for a place this old. The swings were freshly painted, the merry-go-round looked like it had just been oiled, and the sandbox appeared untouched by time. It was as though the place was waiting for children to return. Waiting for someone.

“Look at that,” Ben said, his voice low, pointing toward the swings. “One’s moving.” I turned, my pulse quickening. Sure enough, one of the swings was swaying gently back and forth, though there was no wind. The chains rattled, creaking with an odd rhythm, like someone was sitting on it, rocking themselves higher and higher.

“It’s just the metal, old swings creak like that,” Sarah said, but her voice was strained, as if she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else. I wasn’t so sure. Something felt… off. I took a step forward, the sound of my boots crunching against the gravel too loud in the otherwise still night. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

A figure. Small. Pale. Standing at the far end of the playground by the merry-go-round. It was hard to make out the details in the low light, but it was unmistakably a child. The figure didn’t move, only stood there, watching us. “Do you see that?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The others turned, but when they looked back, the figure was gone.

“Probably just a shadow,” Ben muttered, his voice tense, but there was something about the way he said it that made me think he didn’t believe it either. I couldn’t stop looking at the spot where the child had been. I felt the weight of its gaze even though it had vanished.

“Let’s just take a quick look around and get out of here,” Sarah said, her eyes darting nervously toward the swings again. “This place is creeping me out.” We moved deeper into the playground, my feet moving on autopilot, but my mind was elsewhere. My eyes kept flicking back to where the child had stood, but it was empty now. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that something was lurking just out of sight, waiting.

The wind picked up, and the branches overhead rustled like whispers. The swing creaked again, but this time it was louder, as if the invisible child had begun to push themselves higher. And then, I heard it—a giggle. Soft and innocent, too bright to be anything but out of place. I froze, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. The laugh was distant, but so clear it seemed to fill the whole park.

“Did you hear that?” Sarah’s voice was small, like she didn’t want to admit it out loud. I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah. That… that wasn’t just the wind.” The giggle came again. It echoed through the trees, ringing out in a way that made the hairs on my arms rise. The park was deserted. There were no kids here, no one else around. Just us.

Then, just as I thought it couldn’t get worse, a voice—no more than a whisper—floated toward us on the wind. "Play with us..." I could feel a cold grip tightening around my chest. My legs felt heavy, like I was rooted to the spot. But I couldn’t look away from the swing. It was moving faster now, as if someone was pushing it from the other side. As if… the child had climbed into the seat.

“We need to go. Now,” Ben’s voice was sharp, his hand reaching for my arm. But before any of us could react, the merry-go-round started to turn—slowly at first, then faster, like someone was spinning it with a frantic urgency. The air around us grew colder, and our breath fogged in the night.

And then, it happened.

The child’s figure reappeared. At the center of the playground. But this time, it wasn’t just standing. It was waiting. It was staring. Its eyes were dark as coal, hollow and empty, like there was nothing behind them at all. Its form flickered like a broken lightbulb, its outline barely visible against the night. And when it smiled—oh God, when it smiled—it wasn’t right. Its lips stretched wide, but the teeth were jagged, blackened, and twisted.

My blood ran cold. The giggling grew louder, closer. The swing creaked in time with the sound, as though the invisible child was calling to us, begging us to come play. To join them.

I took a step back, but my legs felt like they were made of lead. “We have to go. We have to go.” But the wind picked up, sudden and sharp, making the shadows around us feel alive. The trees seemed to twist and lean in, like they were watching us too. The playground wasn’t just a place anymore. It was waiting. It was pulling us in.

I turned, and we all bolted. The exit was so much farther than it should have been. The path stretched out, as if the park itself was reshaping, pulling us deeper into its grip. “Why can’t we find the gate?” Sarah’s voice was panicked. Her hands shook as she pulled out her phone, but the screen flickered—no signal.

Behind us, the swing creaked again, louder this time. And then came the voice again—"Play with us..." Only it wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was clear. It was commanding.

With a final burst of adrenaline, I pushed forward, pulling Sarah and Ben along. My heart pounded in my ears, and my feet were slick with fear. I could feel it—something—just behind us, just out of sight. I dared to glance back, and there it was. The figure. But now, there were others. Children—pale, translucent, their eyes wide and black as pits. Their faces… wrong. Twisted in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Some of them were missing limbs. Others had faces that had melted away, revealing nothing but darkness beneath.

The gate. Finally, the gate. We stumbled through it, gasping for air. I turned, my legs shaking, my breath coming in frantic gasps. The park behind us was silent. The playground was still. Nothing moved.

But I could hear it. The giggle. Faint, but unmistakable. Still too clear.

We didn’t stop running until we were in the car, the doors locked, the engine roaring to life. We sped away, the silhouette of the playground fading in the rearview mirror.

But the giggling… it didn’t stop.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/wordmule_ on 2024-10-20 10:38:06+00:00.

---

I always considered myself lucky that my parents let me do whatever I wanted with my room. They thought it was important for my space to be mine. My only responsibility was to keep it somewhat organized. But if I wanted to draw on the walls? Sure, go ahead. If I wanted to rearrange it every week? No problem.

My dad was military, so we moved around a lot. I must’ve had dozens of rooms growing up, each one unique. Not all of them were to my liking, but my favorite was in an apartment above a restaurant. The room was massive, with a great view of the river and the restaurant patio. Best of all, there was a big walk-in closet. It was so big, I sometimes slept in there—it felt like my own secret hideout.

Even now, I wish I had that room. I’d probably still sleep in the closet just for the nostalgia.

My least favorite room, though, was in a farmhouse we rented in Nevada. It belonged to some weirdo landlord who always seemed too friendly. He had this big plastic smile, and he was thin in a sickly way, like Reverend Kane from Poltergeist 2.

God, that guy freaked me out.

But honestly, the landlord wasn’t even the worst part about living there.

The house itself was terrifying—on the verge of collapse. Holes in the ceiling, rats scurrying inside the walls, old water pipes groaning and clanking in the night. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the rats were kicking up asbestos and poisoning us all.

Oh, and bats. They’d fly out of the ceiling holes sometimes and terrorize us in the middle of the night.

To this day, I’m still scared of bats.

But even that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the upstairs room. My room.

It was small, barely big enough for my things. But my parents helped me make it work. There was a window with a view of the farm—and the landlord’s house. I had no desire to look at it, so I always kept the blinds shut.

The room had one of those crawl spaces in the wall, the kind you open to access insulation or store things. I hated it. It reminded me of Coraline, a movie that terrified me as a kid, even though I still love it. I couldn’t shake the thought of some creature crawling out of that little door.

My dad, sensing my unease, nailed a piece of wood over it and hung a black curtain to hide it from view. That was enough to ease my fears—at least for a while.

One afternoon, while my parents were out shopping, I was alone in the house. I stayed in my room, as the rest of the place always felt even creepier when I was by myself. I was sitting at my desk, drawing by the window, when I heard a faint scratching noise. I brushed it off as the usual rats in the walls, as I’d gotten used to hearing them scurrying about.

But the sound persisted. It was rhythmic, deliberate. Three quick scratches at a time. The more I ignored it, the louder it became.

Annoyed, I turned down my CD player and yelled, “Hey! Knock it off!”

As soon as the words left my mouth, there was a loud bang, like something had slammed into the wall. The whole room shook. My heart leaped into my throat.

I spun around in my chair, scanning the room. The sound seemed to have come from behind the curtain—the crawl space door. I stared at it, my skin crawling. Then the scratching started again, only this time it didn’t stop. The sound grew louder, more frantic.

I bolted out of the room and ran outside to sit on the porch. I didn’t go back in until my parents returned.

When they got home, I told them what had happened. To my relief, they said they’d already decided we were moving soon. The house was too unsafe to stay in much longer.

For the last two weeks there, I refused to sleep in my room. I stayed with my parents, too scared to even go upstairs. On moving day, my dad took down the curtain and removed the wood that covered the crawl space door.

Before we left, I decided to take one last look. I don’t know why—I guess part of me needed to see for myself that there was nothing to fear.

I pulled open the door to the crawl space.

What I saw inside still haunts me to this day.

Scratches. Dozens of deep, jagged scratches carved into the wood from the inside—like someone with only three fingernails had clawed at the door in desperation. And in the center of it all, crudely etched into the wood, were three chilling words:

“I see you.”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/S-CSleepwalker on 2024-10-20 21:45:57+00:00.

---

My name is William Anderson and it is with a sound mind that I can say, despite what the doctors think, that I am not insane. I guess I should explain more for you to understand. Like stated my name is William Anderson. I was born December 7th, 1990. I went to college and finished with a bachelor of science in nursing. The idea of being a doctor never really clicked with me but I still wanted to work in that kind of environment, so nursing was the next step down. I got a job not long after college at the local urgent care and that’s where I worked for about 11 years, until recently. What you’re about to read is my best recollection of the events that transpired over the past two months and I hope that when you’re done you will agree with my statement from before, I’m not insane.

The urgent care I worked in didn’t really get a lot of people in there regularly. The town I live in is pretty small so most of the time it was usually the same few that came in. Older patients and the occasional visit from parents after they kid gets a sprain or breaks something. It was a very rare occurrence to every get someone we didn’t know in the place. Mostly it was truckers riding by that didn’t fell up to par, the road trippers that needed directions and then there was him.

It was about 1 am when he came in. I was putting some patient information in the computer when a man came up to the desk. The best way I could describe him was that he looked boring. I don’t mean that in a rude way, I mean he looked like the most basic man you can think of. If you were to think of a man off the top of your head you would probably imagine a guy that looked like him. Brown hair, brown eyes, he didn’t have a single noticeable thing about him. He was average height, maybe 50 years old. I say maybe because I never got the chance to ask him. Almost immediately after he walked up to the desk he fell over, and immediately after he fell over he started to convulse. I quickly got over to him and called for someone to help me stabilize him and for someone else to call 911. At urgent care we treated non-life-threatening illnesses, so when someone starts to convulse and turn blue in the middle of the lobby we aren’t really accommodated for treat that.

It was 1:19 am when the ambulance showed up but it was too late. He had died about 6 minutes before they came. Luckily for us the lobby was empty when this all happened. Unluckily for us we all had to experience it. The best way I would describe the feeling of the place afterwards would be stagnant, like the air in the building was staying still for us to really sink in what happened. We tried to carry on like normal after everything transpired. A few of the younger workers left early because of it while I stayed the rest of my shift to fill out all the needed forms to document what happened. Although it’s not normal for something like that to happen, it’s also not impossible for someone to die in urgent care. I figured that I just got the short stick in life and was one of the unfortunate few to experience such a thing, but that life would move on like normal afterwards. I was wrong.

It wasn’t until 4 days after that I started to notice little things. I would feel like someone was watching me from corners or that I was being followed when walking on the street. I caught myself a few times rounding a corner and almost waiting for something to just pop out from behind the wall, ready to strike me down. I chalked it up to nerves but it really started to freak me out when I would experience it at home. I live in a pretty decent area of town in a quiet neighborhood, so it really was strange when I would feel like someone was trying to peak into my windows and catch a glimpse of me. This feeling of unease kept up for about a week until the climax of it finally came to turn one night.

It was about 1 am when it happened, almost 15 days after the stranger had died at my work. I had taken a few days off for some personal issues, so I was being a responsible adult and staying up past my normal bed time. I was sitting in the living room on my phone while some show I had put on played on the tv when I heard something. I had thought the sound came from the show but then I heard it again, this time louder and more distinct. I muted the tv and waited for it to happen again, and when it did it sounded almost like glass being knocked on. My first instinct was to check the front windows but as I was making my way to them I heard it again, this time behind me. I turned to look at the kitchen window when I saw something pass by it outside. Unfortunately the light of the living room glared on the window so all I could see was a black blur. So like an idiot I turned them off, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the moonlight that started to shine in from outside.

I had hoped it would make it easier to see out the windows and maybe catch who was doing this. I almost immediately regretted my decision cause as soon as I could see out of them I noticed a figure pressing they face against my back door. I almost jumped out of my skin and let out what I believe to be the loudest scream I have ever made. I just stood in my living room as still as I could, staring at the figure. They had their hands over their eyes as to see better inside which just made the image more frightening. They body was hunched over and I could see them adjusting they position as to get a better view. I just stood still and slowly tried to get my phone from the couches arm rest and as I was about to grab it that’s when I noticed it. They were staring right at me. They arms were at they sides and they forehead was pressed right against the glass. I could feel they gaze peering directly into me as I just stared right back at them.

Without wasting anymore time I grabbed my phone and ran to the front door. I could hear the handle of the back door shaking as the figure started to bang on it. I was running out of the house as I heard the doors glass frame shatter. I didn’t bother to look, I just slammed the door behind me and ran to my neighbors. I was lucky enough for them to be home and was able to have them call the police for me, as I had become an incoherent mess. The police checked my whole house and besides the broken back door they said they could find no signs that another person was ever in my house. Did they think it just smashed the door and walked away? I told them I heard it come towards me after it broke in but they said it wasn’t enough evidence to push it any further.

I ended up staying with a friend for a while after cause I just knew something was wrong. No one just goes to a persons back door to break it and leave. I soon found out that my suspicions were right, I was still being watched. I could feel eyes on me at almost every second of the day, but it wasn’t the normal side glances people give you on the street. No, this was a hateful stare coming from one specific person. I would start to freak out at the smallest things. People bumping into me, the sound of things falling, but it all started to come to ahead one day at work.

It had been about 20 days since the stranger had died at my work. The image of him falling over in front of me would reply in my head every time someone came up to check in. I ended up moving to the back and just did some busy work cause it was getting too much for me. I was filling out some checklist for supplies when it hit me, I was being watched.

I did about 5 360’s to check around me, just spinning in a circle to try and catch a glimpse of someone, anyone that might had been there. I grabbed a nearby wall to catch my balance when I finally spotted them. Standing, right in the middle of the hallway was him. He almost looked like a shadow, draped in darkness so I couldn’t see any noticeable things about him. I think we stood like that for about 10 minutes before he finally took a step towards me. I didn’t waste anytime, I turned and ran the other way. I was praying, pleading for someone else to show up and help me. But no one did, it was if the entire building was empty. The hallways felt like they were stretching, what should have been a 20 second walk to another room had turned into a 5 mile sprint. Every time I turned around he was right there, just staring at me.

After what felt like miles I finally reached a room. I slammed the door behind me and backed away, staring at the knob of it. I looked for anything to use in the room to defend myself when I heard the doorknob shaking. I started to hyperventilate, my head spinning as I watched it shake more and more violently. I slowly moved into a corner and slide down, staring at the door. As the door slammed open I just started to scream. “GET THE FUCK AWAY! GET AWAY, I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!” I felt a pair of hands grab my arms and start to squeeze them before a calm voice filled my ears. “William! Calm down, it’s ok. No one is here.” I opened my eyes to one of my coworkers right in front of me, the rest of them standing by the door terrified. I felt my eyes fill with tears as I clung onto them, feeling myself breakdown.

I didn’t know what was happening. I wasn’t even sure if it was real but I know that it wasn’t safe for me to be around people while I was like this. I went to my boss and told him I was quitting. He knew what happened and was understanding, telling me that if I wanted to I could come back after things calmed down. But I knew th...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g89z2h/someone_is_watching_me/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/FlyNearby7599 on 2024-10-20 18:58:14+00:00.

---

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other. It was quiet, peaceful—a place where the strangest things were the rumors that spread like wildfire. One such rumor was about Mr. Longlegs.

He was said to be a tall, spindly figure, a man with impossibly long limbs and a face hidden in shadows. Kids would tell tales of how he roamed the woods at night, his legs stretching and twisting as he moved. They said he could crawl into your bedroom through the tiniest cracks and that he liked to watch you sleep.

I never believed those stories, not until last summer.

I was fourteen and had just gotten my first job babysitting for the Johnsons down the street. They had two kids, Lucy and Ben, who were about six and eight. The Johnsons were lovely people, and I felt safe in their cozy little house, tucked away from the whispers of the town.

One evening, the kids were in bed, and I settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a movie. As the film played, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. It was an old house, creaky and full of shadows, but I dismissed it as my imagination.

Around midnight, I heard a soft tap against the window. I turned, my heart racing, but there was nothing there. Just the moonlight casting eerie shapes on the walls. I tried to focus on the movie, but the feeling of unease settled deeper in my stomach.

Then I heard it again. A gentle tapping, almost like fingers rapping against glass. I glanced at the clock—12:30 AM. The kids were still sound asleep. I stood up, gathering my courage, and walked to the window.

As I pulled back the curtain, I saw him.

Mr. Longlegs stood just beyond the porch, his long limbs stretching impossibly in the dim light. He was unnaturally tall, his body swaying as if caught in a breeze that didn’t exist. His face was obscured, but I could feel his eyes on me—cold, unblinking.

My heart pounded in my chest. I wanted to scream, to run, but I was frozen in place. As I stared, he lifted one of his long arms and pointed directly at me.

The air grew thick with dread. I stumbled back, retreating from the window, my mind racing. I grabbed my phone to call the Johnsons, but as I dialed, the lights flickered. I glanced back out the window. Mr. Longlegs had moved closer, his limbs bending at unnatural angles, creeping along the porch like a spider.

In a panic, I ran to the kids’ room. I shook Lucy awake, whispering for her to be quiet. “We need to hide,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

As I ushered the kids into the closet, I heard the front door creak open. My breath caught in my throat. He was inside.

I clamped my hand over Lucy’s mouth, and we huddled in the dark, listening to the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, echoing through the house. They were long and drawn-out, like a predator savoring the chase.

“Mr. Longlegs,” Ben whispered, his eyes wide with fear.

I shushed him, heart racing, as I strained to hear. The footsteps stopped. A moment of silence, then the soft tap-tap-tap began again, but this time, it was coming from the closet door.

I pressed my back against the wall, panic rising. The kids held their breath.

The tapping grew louder, more insistent. I couldn’t take it anymore. I slowly turned to peek through the crack in the closet door.

What I saw made my blood run cold. Mr. Longlegs was crouched down, his elongated fingers stretched out, tapping on the wood. His face was still obscured, but his mouth twisted into a grin—a wide, horrific grin that sent chills down my spine.

“Let me in,” he whispered, his voice a low hiss. “I just want to play.”

I closed my eyes, desperate for it all to be a nightmare. The tapping continued, relentless.

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut, and the footsteps retreated. I held my breath, unsure of what was happening.

After what felt like an eternity, I cautiously opened the closet door. The house was silent, but the feeling of dread lingered. I looked at the kids, their faces pale and wide-eyed.

“Stay here,” I said, and I stepped out into the hallway, the darkness swallowing me whole.

I crept toward the living room, praying Mr. Longlegs was gone. I turned on the light, and the house was empty, save for the soft rustling of leaves outside.

Just as I thought it was over, I noticed something strange on the floor—a trail of muddy footprints leading to the window. They were impossibly long, stretching across the room.

I turned back to the kids, my heart racing. “We need to leave. Now.”

As we rushed to the door, I glanced back one last time. There, in the corner of the room, stood Mr. Longlegs. His figure was even taller now, limbs stretching and bending at unnatural angles. He pointed at me again, the grin widening.

“Playtime isn’t over,” he whispered, as I slammed the door behind us.

I never returned to the Johnsons' house. I never babysat again. The rumor of Mr. Longlegs faded into the whispers of the town, but I knew better. I could still feel his gaze, watching me from the shadows, waiting for the right moment to play again.

And I fear that one day, he'll find his way In again

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/feverhead_coldhands on 2024-10-21 02:46:53+00:00.

---

Since even before I can remember, I've seen a man's face whenever I look through a window. My mom loves to tell a story of when I was 3 or 4 at my grandma's house. I called them into the room and asked "why is there an ugly face in the window?" My mom went and looked and assumed that I was seeing my own reflection. "That's you!" she said, and then apparently I got mad and started crying.

I don't remember this, but my mom thinks it's hilarious and loved to tell it as a cute, embarrassing story. I always felt a cold dread when she would tell it because I know that I wasn't seeing my reflection that day. I was seeing the man in the window.

When I was a little girl, I thought he was old. But once I started getting a little older myself, I decided he looked to be in his late thirties to mid-forties. He has dark blonde hair with a little touch of grey in it. Usually his hair is down to his shoulders or pulled back in a ponytail, but sometimes it's cropped to his ears and once or twice I've seen him with a buzz cut. He's almost always wearing glasses. He usually has a patchy beard, kept cropped short, though I've seen him clean-shaven before. But even though little cosmetic changes happen from time to time, it's always the same man, and he always has a gaping, bloody hole in his face.

It's above his left eye, just near the hairline. The hole is black with clotted blood and red is smeared down his face. His left eye doesn't always open all the way due to the blood and deformation around the eye socket. Spatters of red fleck his glasses. His face is pale. Any real person with this injury would either already be dead or mere minutes from death. But he lives behind the windows, looking like a reflection superimposed on my own reflection. Sometimes he's very close to the glass, and sometimes he's further away, but he's always watching me.

I don't remember my mother's story, but I can remember seeing him from about age 5. By that time, I already understood that this wasn't normal and had also decided that this was a secret I could tell no one. My parents raised me in a pretty extremist version of Christianity, and anything with even a hint of the supernatural (besides church) was considered demonic. As such, I had come to the obvious conclusion that the man in the window was a demon, attached to my soul due to some heinous sin that lurked in my heart. I had decided that this was a test and a judgment from God: I must pray and have faith that He would deliver me. I must repent of whatever sin had caused this demon to attach to me. And I would do it alone, both out of conviction that this was my burden to bear, and out of shame at my apparent lack of purity.

You might think that these are pretty weird thoughts for a five year old to have but, uh... you don't know my family. Let's just say these weren't even the most fucked up religious ideas I had placed in my head. But that would be another story.

From around age 5 to 8, I remember being terrified of the man in the window. I would insist on having the curtains drawn in my room, especially at night. Like a reflection, he was easier to see when the outside of the window was dark. I tried to avoid looking at windows. I prayed. I begged God to protect me. But nothing changed. He was always still there.

Sometime around my tweens, the intensity of the fear began to wear off. He had never done anything to harm me. I was more afraid of what his presence said about me, than his presence itself. I became more comfortable with windows, though I still kept the bedroom curtains closed at night and would cry when my sister would open them.

At age 11, I was baptized in our church and "received the gift of the Spirit" which means speaking in tongues, for those unfamiliar. This is, for Pentecostals, the moment that you are saved. I remember feeling elated, thinking "surely now I have been made clean and God will release me from the demon in the windows." When we came home that night, I only pretended to go to bed. Once everyone was asleep, I got up and spent the whole night praying. I praised God, I rededicated myself to him over and over, and I reveled in my new-found salvation. I said "God is with me now. I rebuke the demon in these windows in the name of Jesus Christ." Then, finally, I pulled the curtain aside.

He turned his head to look at me. A spurt of fresh blood washed down his face, plastering a streak of his hair to his cheek. He was very close to the window, looking intently at me. Before my eyes blurred with tears of disappointment and confusion, I thought that he also looked sad.

The next day, I was really sick. I must have caught something at the crowded church, and it developed into pneumonia. My fever sored, and I hallucinated that my bed was sloshing back and forth underneath me.

For the first time in my life, I didn't pray.

After I recovered, I began to think differently about the man in the window. Maybe he wasn't a demon. Maybe he was something else.

Instead of avoiding his gaze, I started to study him. Sometimes I talked to him when I was bored doing my home schooling alone at the kitchen table. He still frightened me a little, but I suppose I just didn't have the energy to fight against him anymore. And if I was going to have to accept that he'd always be there, I might as well try to make peace with it.

Around age 13 or 14 I think, I saw him with both short hair and no beard for the first time and was struck by how similar he looked to my dad. A new theory bubbled up in my mind: was he the ghost of some relative of mine that had attached himself to me?

He wasn't any of the uncles or cousins I knew. But my dad had a fairly large extended family, some of which I had only met when I was too young to remember. I went to our family photo albums and flipped through. There I was, a chubby toddler in white and green dress, scowling at the camera with my thumb in my mouth. Behind me was a veritable horde of family members lined up and grinning. I scanned all of the faces. Only one of them besides my dad had blonde hair, and she was a woman. No one matched the man in the windows.

I asked my dad if he had any long-lost brothers or cousins that weren't in the pictures. He didn't know of anyone, though I wasn't sure he was trying that hard to remember. He asked why. "I was thinking about trying to do a family tree," I said.

So that was a dead end. I still felt pretty sure that I must be close to the truth, but I didn't know how else to pursue this. We didn't live close to any of Dad's family anymore, and even if we did, I wasn't sure what I would even ask. "Are there any blonde men in the family who died of gunshot wounds to the head?" I didn't really believe myself to be demon possessed anymore, but everyone else would think I was if I showed up with a question like that.

Besides, around this time, something else was beginning to take up space in my mind. Another secret, another sin, something so shameful and disgusting that I was not able to fully acknowledge it even to myself. But refusing to give it words didn't make it go away, and it gradually began to eat away at my mind and my heart. I spent hours in the bathroom with the lights off, crying into the sink. I pinched my arms and banged my shins against the toilet to raise bruises. I lay in the dark with my pillow over my face and wondered if I could somehow suffocate myself and never wake up. And sometimes I'd look at the man in the windows with the gaping hole in his skill and I'd think "I wish I was you."

When I was 19, I was alone in the house. I knew where my father kept his fire-arms. He had bought several because he was paranoid that "Obama is going to make guns illegal" and he wanted all of us to know where they were hidden. I got his hand-gun and carried it to my bedroom window. I looked at the man. He was watching me, as always. I raised the gun and pointed it to my head, right above my left eye, like him. It seemed right.

But then I saw him lunge for the window. His glasses slipped off of his blood-slick face as he pressed a hand against the glass. I could see him, eyes wide, mouthing words, pleading with me. "No," he was saying silently through the invisible wall between us. "No. Please."

Slowly, I lowered the gun. Tears came in a flood, adrenaline and exhaustion shaking my body violently. I pressed my head against the cold glass, wishing I could hear his voice, but glad he was there all the same. I ugly sobbed. There was snot dripping from my nose and my face was red and I smudged the window with tears for I don't know how long. But whenever I opened my eyes, I could blearily see him there, still with me. And that was just enough to keep me from picking up the gun again.

Soon after, with nothing but a couple of suitcases of clothes and a few cooking tools, I moved far away from my home town and family and away from that hand gun. Mentally, I was still not well, and the bruises on my legs showed it. But at least I had the distraction of a new job, new community, new friends to make, and a new way of life to help keep me moving forward. And also a good bit more alcohol to numb me up than was healthy, but I somehow managed to barely skate above the surface of a life-threatening addiction to it.

The man in the windows was still with me, though he drew much further back from the glass after that day. For years and years, I could barely see him unless the night was very dark and the l...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Minesticks on 2024-10-21 02:25:51+00:00.

---

Does anyone remember playing tag? I sure do. The first time I played tag, or at least got introduced to it was back in first grade. The constant shrieking of “You’re it!” would’ve irritated me to death right now, but it was fun back then. I never really grew out of tag either. I had a friend group, 5 people, who’d play tag up until highschool. People would leave or join the group every now and then, but it was those five people that stayed.

I was playing with those five people that day. It was autumn, when the maple trees were most vibrant in color and leaves littering the ground. I never liked autumn, never did ever since 3rd grade. I read there were small bugs crawling all over dead leaves, and it really disgusted me. And it just happened we were playing in a forest behind the backyard of one of our friends. His name was Tom. Tom was a slightly overweight guy, maybe even ‘chubby’. We called him ‘Fat Tom’ for that (yes, we were real clever). He wore glasses, but most of the time we played, he wore contacts instead. He was a solid guy, a stand-up guy I might even say, except for his sudden outbursts stemming from his anger issues. Anyways, we started.

“Rock, scissors, paper, shoot!”

“Ah damn, do I really have to? You guys know I’m not fun when I’m ‘it’,” Tom complained.

“Fucking pussy.” another of my friends chanted.

“Fine.”

Tom counted to ten, and started chasing us. He wasn’t wrong when he said he was bad at being ‘it’. He was horrible. 10 minutes straight and he couldn’t catch us. We kept taunting him for this, maybe we went too far though. It was kind of hilarious how pathetic he looked. And then he cornered me. He didn’t notice, but there was quite a sizable drop if I went any further back. I really didn’t want to get caught though, getting caught by Tom was almost as bad as playing like him.

So I bluffed, “You’re too slow.”

I made a run for it. My heart rate accelerated, the only thing I could hear besides Tom’s breathing. He eased closer. Too close. He started to wind-up, like one of those toy cars. In that split-second moment, Tom charged at me, tackling me.

“Shit.”

We tumbled down, rolling through the dead leaves. I groaned in pain as I hit a rock on the way down, leaving a bruise and quite a considerable scrape to my left knee. Then a crack. A cracking noise came from my right and as I turned to see, I felt it. Blood pooled under my head. It wasn’t my own. I looked. I wish I didn’t. The image of Tom’s skull torn open by a jagged rock is burned into my retina to this day. Blood was gushing out, a chunk of his head missing. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The grotesque sight captured me, like a warm embrace, but slightly too warm and slightly too tight. I wanted to gouge my eyes out. Everything went black afterwards.

The next time I woke up, I was in the hospital. I rested for a little bit then I remembered. I called one of the friends over and asked.

“Is he okay?” I said in a half-panicked half-worried voice.

“…”

“Well, is he?” I said, hoping to hear some kind of miracle.

“Who are you talking about dude?”

I was confused. Tom. How could they forget? I saw his injuries. They’ve got to know.

“Tom. Who else? Is he okay?”

“Who?”

“Stop messing with me asshole.”

“I’m not.”

“This is a new low. Lying to a disabled person? Are you genuinely confused who Tom is, dumbass?”

“Yeah.”

“Fat Tom. We were playing tag, do you not remember? He fell with me.”

“There’s no Tom we know, John, you’re delusional. Also what the fuck is tag?”

“Fuck off dude.”

After the fall, it was like Tom never existed. No photos, videos, hell, even his name itself. Look it up yourself. ‘Thomas Whitman’. The closest I got was some rapist from Oklahoma. I did find his parents though, Susan and James. They had a stillborn baby. It wasn’t just Tom—tag vanished too. Nobody knew the game, they just told me, funnily enough, “great idea”.

I spent years searching—desperate to find even a game remotely similar, with names like ‘chase’ or something, I’m not really that clever. The game was gone. Tom was gone.

It is as if reality erased this memory that only I can recall. So, I will ask once again.

Does anyone remember playing tag?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BadandyTheRed on 2024-10-21 01:01:49+00:00.

---

Once the bedlam from the fire alarm died down, Bianca took me back into the building. She spoke to some of the security personal and I was escorted into one of the restricted sections. She turned back to me with a look of obvious anxiety,

“We need to go to my office; it will be safe there to discuss what I think is happening. After we do that though.” She paused making sure she had my attention.

“We will need to bring this matter to the foundation directors. The situation is a potential danger to the entire establishment and all the personal associated with it, as well as who knows how many others.” I nodded my head, not wanting to force her to speak more on the matter until we were in a secure setting. Though I was anxious to learn what she knew about what the hell was going on.

I did not have to wait too long. We walked through a network of halls leading further in. The halls gave way to a secure, bunker-like wing of the facility. Entering an enormous security door I had to do a double take as we passed by several arrays of odd-looking technology in the background. I was about to ask Bianca what they were but as I looked at her, she seemed to be getting more nervous as we moved on. We suddenly veered left and a small door was visible with the number twelve on it. She swiped a key-card she had in her coat and an electronic lock disengaged and we moved into a small office with thick dull gray walls and minimal decorations. A desk, computer and various books lay strewn among the surface of a plain metal desk and Bianca gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite hers. I obliged and as soon as I sat down, she had had pen and paper in hand and ready to take notes on whatever we discussed presumably.

I was about to ask her what was really going on, when she asked the first question.

“Where did you find the device? I mean the phone; was it acquired recently?”

“Well, I didn't find it, it's my phone, I dropped it down a small flight of stairs near my work. It broke of course and after breaking it started doing this, but what exactly.....” She cut me off again and started in with another barrage of questions.

“Are you able to use it to send any message or call? Do any other functions remain? How many calls have you received? How many messages from this M person?” I was starting to get frustrated,

“Hey I thought you were going to be telling me what happened? I already told you what I know, I don’t know how this works. I have been receiving these calls for a few days and in each case, there has been a call for help to emergency services that somehow comes to my phone. It is always about something exactly twenty-four hours before it happens and I have tried to stop almost all of them. Now if you don’t mind, would you tell me who the hell you think M is?” She looked down at her papers and back at me with a plaintive sigh as if she was not sure if she should humor me in things I would not understand. I tried not to take offense to it, but she was getting more and more impatient with me as we went on.

“I'm sorry I got carried away, I know you must want answers. It is just that this situation is very sensitive and well."

She paused again, her impatience giving way to that same concerned look from earlier.

"You must understand that what I can tell you is limited, many things are strictly confidential and what I do tell you must never leave this building.” I nodded my head again and she continued,

“Good, well as I stated before this foundation has been researching radical new technologies that would revolutionize and change the world as we know it. One of the most significant projects under our purview was Project Echo. This initiative was led by one of our best, a brilliant man named Doctor Rolland Merrick. Merrick was not only the director of Project Echo but the mastermind behind the research involved in its inception. This project was an attempt to successfully send an object back in time using a tachyon transmitter. Merrick was a genius in the field of temporal research and experimentation. This project of his had even reached the point where the experiments involving the proposed goal of transporting objects forward or backward through time were becoming genuinely possible. All that was left was a practical test of the device, but,”

She trailed off, her tone shifting from one of admiration to tragic concern while she continued,

“There was a terrible accident that occurred during the first fateful attempt. An energy spike threatened to destroy the project and set us back years in our efforts. Doctor Merrick broke the safety quarantine in an effort to shut it down and save the device, save his life's work. It was too late however and Doctor Merrick ended up being wholly disintegrated on an atomic level, along with the devices he was carrying. We continued following up on his project, but he has been dead as far as we knew for over a year. At least it seemed he was until now. Considering this mysterious attacker who is able to predict things before they happen and is targeting foundation members, along with leaving the initial M in a message, well it suggests an outcome we did not expect.”

I could not believe the insane tale that was being told to me, secret time travel research? This was crazy stuff. Yet it was hard not to try and believe some of it, considering what I had experienced so far. How else was my broken phone receiving calls from the future. But that begged the question,

“Why am I able to receive the calls though? And how or why is this dead scientist returned from beyond, contacting me after my efforts to prevent disasters that he might very well be orchestrating?” She looked at me and then her notes and responded,

“That is the question. Remarkably it seems he is not dead, but actually made it back through time in a very corporeal way. Why he has contacted you I am not sure.” I considered her answer, but was still very confused on one detail in particular, M’s motive.

“If he is back, why would he be trying to kill you all? Shouldn't he be trying to get in contact and share his discovery and not murder the faculty?” She seemed caught off guard by my question and looked away to her papers while giving me a dismissive sounding,

“I don’t know why he would wish to kill his former coworkers, perhaps the process of phasing between time has damaged his mind and he is lashing out at the people who he can remember. Maybe he blames the foundation for letting it happen to him in the first place, I don’t know.” The explanation did not sound authentic and I felt like she was holding something back. I did not push the subject but I knew there was more to M, or I should say Merrick and his motivations.

“Now that you have your answers, I am going to need you to come with me and speak to the board and see what they think we should do.”

“Alright but what else do you need from me?” I asked feeling more uncomfortable as I sat there, not knowing what was going to happen to me or what M might try to do next.

“We just need to see what the board suggests we do now that the facility might be compromised. This is a serious situation and it has been shown that you are not entirely safe either, despite his attempts at communicating with you.”

We left Bianca's office and walked down a corridor to a large ante chamber that looked more like a military command and control center. There were armed guard and scientists everywhere. Cables snaked in every direction and the thrum of energy could practically be felt in the room upon entering.

Several scientists sat around a table discussing and murmuring things to each other and Bianca approached them slowly.

“Directors, I apologize for the suddenness of this meeting but we have a serious situation.” She paused briefly, waiting for the entire group of members at the table to turn their attention to her.

“I have uncovered evidence that suggests that Doctor Merrick is still alive and worse he has come back here and made contact with a temporal anomaly. He seems to be contacting someone through the anomaly and is trying to kill faculty members.” There was a mixture of gasps, dismissive chuckles and stern grunts at the collected board members digested the news they had received.

A tall man sitting at the head of the table held up a hand and the rest of them quieted down.

“If Merrick has come back somehow and his memory is intact, he will have remembered what happened. He is likely already plotting some kind of revenge on all of the members of project Echo, which led to his unfortunate accident. It is also likely he was responsible for Calvin and Michael s deaths. Put the facility on high alert and we need to do something about this madman.”

I heard the names spoken and remembered the first two victims. I knew they worked here, but did both men work on this project Echo? What did they do to Merrick besides failing to save him from getting zapped by a machine?

Another voice chimed in,

“What about the anomaly you mentioned, is it still intact and still here?”

Bianca paused a moment looking uncomfortable and then pointed to me. I held up my hands and started to panic, what were they going to do to me?

“No wait I don’t know what you all think I am, but I did not sign up for any of this. I just broke my phone and was trying to get a new one from the store before I got the first of those weird calls." I pulled out the phone and everyone took a step back...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g8dxag/i_keep_receiving_911_calls_for_emergencies_that/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Artistic_Penalty8195 on 2024-10-20 22:08:17+00:00.

---

I was a mess after the breakup. You know that feeling of emptiness you just can't describe?  Nights were brutal. I’d sit in my tiny little house, staring at the ceiling or mindlessly scrolling through my phone, desperate to escape my thoughts. But nothing worked. Music, TV, even the booze I was drowning in—it only muffled the noise in my head for a while.

One night, after finishing off another bottle of cheap whiskey, I decided to take a look on the dark web. I wasn’t looking for anything specific, just something to make the emptiness stop, something to hit harder. I’d given up on caring by then.

Clicking through all the shady sites, my screen occasionally had some pop-up every once a while. But one had caught my eye: Life-Sized Robot Dolls.

"The hell?" Was all I could think of.

I've seen some terrible things on the dark web, but what came to my mind when I saw this ad was those horror stories where people would get murdered and turned into dolls and be sold on the dark web.

A sane person wouldnt dare to click it, but in my half drunken state, I was too curious. I hit the pop-up, and there they were. Dozens of them, laid out like some twisted shopping catalog. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, every type of woman and man, every shape and size, all perfect in that eerie manufactured way.

I didn’t plan on sticking around, but my fingers betrayed me. I clicked on the redhead girl, just to see. The bigger image popped up, along with details on the side—her height, eye color, body type. She was priced at $25,000, which made me chuckle.

There were things you could adjust below the purchase button. You could change her voice or personality. There were even more...erotic things you could change, which wasn't surprising.

I stared at the image of her. Yeah, she was realistic looking in the photo, but it was obvious she wasn’t human. Her eyes—there was something empty about them. That’s always the giveaway with robots. They can get everything else right, but those eyes—they’re never quite alive.

I clicked off the page and kept browsing. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I spent a few minutes scrolling, telling myself I was just curious. But the truth? A part of me wanted one. Not to fulfill some twisted fantasy, but to fill the empty space in my home. To fill the hole left by my ex.

I filtered the page by price, and that’s when I saw her—the cheapest female model. $1000.

I clicked her image. A petite girl, black hair, brown eyes, slim frame. Nothing special compared to the others, but that didn’t bother me. She didn’t need to be special.

I read through the details, and when it all seemed fine, I scrolled down to the purchase button. My heart was racing. I paused for a second, looking at the adjustable options. I hesitated, then clicked on "personality." A blank text box appeared. I guess I was supposed to type in what I wanted.

I stared at the cursor, wondering what to do. For some reason, I typed in: "protective, cute, sweet, funny." It was my ex’s personality—at least, the parts I liked about her. I hit enter, then moved the cursor over to the purchase button.

I sat there, thinking. Was I really about to do this? I knew it was stupid, but what did I have left to lose? If I got scammed, so what? Life would go on, right?

With my eyes closed, I clicked "purchase."

I followed the instructions to pay with Bitcoin, my hands trembling the entire time. Once it was done, the screen went black. White text appeared: “Purchase successful.”

A few days passed, and though it was a ridiculous purchase, I completely forgot about it. So when I came home from work to see a giant wooden box sitting on my steps, my heart sank. I stood there for a moment, just staring at it. A part of me hoped it was a prank, but I knew better.

I walked around it cautiously, my heart pounding. It wasn't labeled, no markings, nothing. I felt a swirl of emotions, but mostly fear. My mind jumped to the worst conclusions—what if someone was inside, waiting to jump out and kidnap me? Turn me into a doll like those horror stories? It wouldn’t have been the first time someone fell for something shady online.

But then again, no one would've waited for me to get home just to kill me, right?

I swallowed my fear and, with shaky hands, hoisted the box up. It was heavier than I expected, and I struggled as I carried it inside. Of course, that damn Chihuahua next door started barking. I hissed at it to shut up, kicking my door closed with the package finally inside.

My nerves were shot. I grabbed a knife from the kitchen, just in case. If someone jumped out, I was going down swinging. I started to pry open the box, every sound making my heart race faster.

The wood creaked as I finally got it open, and then—my knife clattered to the floor. Inside the box stood the girl from the website. Same height, same hair, same everything.

She looked real. No—she was real. At least, she looked that way. Her eyes were shut, head tilted down, slumped against the side of the box like she was powered off.

I bent down and picked up the knife, my hands trembling. With the tip of the blade, I poked her arm. The skin moved. It actually moved, like real human skin would. I froze, fear twisting in my gut. This couldn’t be synthetic. Could it?

I panicked. What if this was a dead woman? What if I had just spent a thousand bucks to smuggle a corpse? I tapped her shoulder repeatedly, my heart in my throat.

Nothing. Not until her eyes flickered open, sending me stumbling back in shock. I held the knife up, like a child hiding behind a blanket.

She blinked a few times, her metal joints softly clicking with each blink. Her neck turned in small, precise motions, like she was calibrating herself.

I watched in absolute horror as she scanned the room, then locked her gaze on me. Her eyes narrowed slightly, then dimmed.

"Scanning complete. Hello, Michael," she said, her voice monotone as she stepped out of the box like it was no big deal.

My throat tightened. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "Are... y-you... real?" I stammered, barely holding it together.

She let out a laugh, sounding almost human. It was unsettling. She took a step closer, but I backed away, still gripping the knife like it was my last line of defense.

"Of course not—well, I’m here physically," she said with a cheerful tone, far from the robotic voice she'd used before. "But if you’re asking if I have awareness like a human? No. Now, please put the knife down and get up off the floor, hun!"

I hesitated, my mind spinning. But something in her voice, or maybe the fact that I was just too exhausted to fight, made me put the knife down. Slowly, I stood up, taking cautious steps closer. Her eyes followed my every move, locked onto me like a predator tracking its prey.

“P-Prove it…” I demanded, my voice shaky. “Prove you’re a robot.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes, and then, without warning, grabbed her face and began to pull. I watched in a mix of disgust and horror as she opened her face, revealing a mess of wires and circuits beneath. Her robotic frame gleamed, reflecting my own terrified expression back at me.

I rubbed my eyes, blinking hard to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

She closed her face back up with a click and smiled. “Believe me now?”

I nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I don’t understand... if we have this kind of technology—robots that look and act like people—why isn’t it out to the public?” I muttered, more to myself than to her.

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “Who knows. But I was made to be your companion. That’s my job. That’s why you bought me—to protect you and to make you feel better!”

Strangely, that made me smile. There was something comforting in hearing that, even if it was from a robot. I cautiously stepped closer and, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. Her skin was soft and warm, but beneath it, I could feel the cold, hard metal of her frame.

I heard her arms raise, and she hugged me back, the embrace feeling almost human.

I pulled away, still a bit uneasy. “So… what do you do?” I asked, trying to break the tension.

She giggled, shrugging again. “Whatever you want me to do!”

I glanced around the room and pointed at the fridge. “Can you… get me a whiskey?”

She looked at the fridge, then back at me with a nod, before walking over in a way that was almost too smooth. No robot should move like that, I thought. I half-expected her to malfunction, but instead, she opened the fridge, grabbed a whiskey, and walked back, handing it to me with a smile.

“Here you go!” she said cheerfully.

I took the bottle from her, dumbfounded. “Th-thanks… Do you have a name?”

She shook her head. “No. You must name me.”

I took a sip of the whiskey, thinking. “How about… mAIve? Like mauve, but with ‘AI’ in the middle, since, y’know, you’re AI.”

She tilted her head slightly, and for a moment, I felt like she was judging me. But then she lit up. “I love it!” Maive exclaimed, her tone bubbly.

After that, I tested her limits. I had her clean up, cook me food, even give me a massage. The more commands I gave, the more comfortable I became around her. She wasn’t just some clunky robot—she held conversations, laughed at my jokes, and responded quickly like a real person. By the end of the day, I was lying on her lap, laughing at some dumb TV show as she stroked my hair.

Maybe… I cou...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g8agu8/the_robot_girlfriend_i_regret_ordering_from_the/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/psycharious on 2024-10-20 06:33:02+00:00.

---

Kings Swamp is one of the most beautiful spots within a 40 minute drive from the city from where I live. Photographers come from all around to make use of its breathtaking scenery, its naturally occurring light filters, the variety of wild flowers, and the various fauna that roam the area. For decades, ghost stories and urban legends have popped up surrounding the swamp do mainly to the  amount people who have gone missing and the odd swamp lights that visitors have reported seeing. People have even claimed to see the phantom lady roaming the swamplands. They tell various stories ranging from a woman who drowned in th swamp to a woman who committed suicide. What’s odd about the reported lights however, is that the swamp isn’t really a swamp in the strictest sense of the word. There is a small connecting river that somewhat helps to circulate the water. If I remember correctly, I have read articles that the actual amount of methane in the water was low, making the existence of the lights all the more of a mystery. I was about to find out the reason for this mystery.

 I personally like the swamp because it’s one of the few areas that’s away from the light pollution with a parking lot that stays open all night. I sometimes head out there, near the foothills, with my refractor telescope, my camera, and occasionally a tall boy to get some good shots of the night sky. This particular night, a buddy of mine had canceled plans that we had, so I decided to make one of my solo trips to the swamp parking lot. I was setting up my refractor telescope southward when I noticed some lights in the sky to the south-east. They were three green lights floating gracefully in slow movements. They seem to be moving back and forth in a descending pattern. Now’a’days, I would have thought that they were just drones but this all happened sometimes before drones became a thing. They definitely weren’t planes I’ve ever seen either. I come from a Navy town so we were used to seeing various aircraft fairly regularly. I quickly grabbed my binoculars from my truck and tried to get a bead on them. It was hard to make them out. I did notice that their colors would change. They would go from green, to red, then purple, and then blue. They soon disappeared behind the foothills. I contemplated what they possibly could be for a bit while switching my focus back to fiddling with my telescope. 

Not long after, I noticed a glare of green light coming from in the swamp brush. Maybe it might have something to do with the lights that I saw I thought. Maybe it was someone playing with some cool new radio controlled plane or a weather balloon experiment. I walked closer to get a better look, following the lights deep passed the tree line and near the swamp. As I got closer, I saw a  single figure in the distance, human like, but wearing some sort of robe. Maybe what I was witnessing was ceremonial, or maybe I was about to come face to face with the infamous swamp ghost. I hid behind a tree and ducked behind some tall grass at the end of the swamp. I had thought that the figure must have been standing at the other bank of the swamp, but they seemed too close. Upon a better look, the figure looked to be a tall, slender bluish figure with a bulbous spade shaped head or helmet with a red mask with bright yellow eyes,and long lanky arms and fingers. I stood there crouched for sometime, trying to figure out what it could be. Was I seeing the ghost woman of the swamp? It couldn’t be. I’ve been up here quite a bit and never seen anything like it. It seemed to be hovering over the swamp, moseying about. I was awestruck. An instinctual fear told me that it would be better if I began to slowly head back to my truck. Another curious side told me that I should try to snap a picture. Even if I was able to manage it, it would probably be waived away as some elaborate hoax. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My mind raced with multiple ideas to try and rationalize it. 

My fear finally won out. I slowly backed away, making sure to keep my silhouette behind tree coverage. Then on the tree in front of me, I saw the reflection of more light, red this time emanating from behind me. I turned around, and coming from down the path that lead to my truck, was another source of light. I quickly ducked behind the closest tree to my right and stayed quiet. I saw another being, similar to the one I had just seen, headed my way down the path from which I came. I was trapped. I continued to move right, keeping low and trying to use the tall swamp grass along the bank as cover. As I came around to another bend, I figured my best option was to wade through the swamp itself and make it to the trail on the other side. I turned around to see one of the lights headed my way. My fear of these things overrode any fear I may have had of any creepy-crawlies lurking in the swamp itself, so I took my chances and waded in the murky waters. I pushed on as the swamp waters began to go deeper and deeper. At one point, it came up to my waist. I was surprised by how deep it was. I had thought these waters were shallow. The muddy bottom began to hinder my movement. Without looking back, I saw the light reflected off the trees in the swamp. It was on me. I had no idea if it had saw me and was pursuing me but I couldn’t stop to find out.

I raced for the nearest tree in front of me on a patch of elevated land. I pulled myself up with the large protruding roots and on the other side, where the roots formed something of a formation which I ducked into. My heart was racing. I tried frantically to control my breathing as I saw the brush shadows shift with the approaching light source. It was on top of me now, standing above the large root system I was hiding under. I took a deep breath. I could heari it scavenging about just above me. Had it found me? I looked up only to see a tarantula. I held my scream as hard as I could. In an act of panck, I flicked the spider from the top and into the water. It made a small splash. The creature heard it. I saw a long arm reach over and pluck the tarantula from the water. There was silent for a long while, then the light began to fade away. It was moving away. I gave it a few more long minutes then crawled out of my hiding spot and and braved a peak over. I didn’t see anymore lights. They must have left, I hoped. I was cold and soaking wet now. I was unfamiliar with my surroundings. I looked around to try to get an idea of where I could be, to get my bearings. It was hard to figure out as I only had the moonlight to go by at that point. I had a small flashlight on me, which I pulled out. Luckily, it still worked despite being wet. I saw a little ahead there was another trail. It must have been one of the trails on the far side of the swamplands. I trudged out of the swamp water and began to follow the trail, hoping that it would lead me back to the parking lot. I kept my flashlight low onto the pavement in case I saw any more creatures. 

I walked along for quite a while. Exactly, how long, I’m not sure. I completely lost track of time. It was getting progressively colder and I began to shiver from the wet clothes. My eyes darted to every shadow, every branch that stuck out. I tried desperately to calm myself. I didn’t see anymore lights. I had hoped that whatever they were, they finally left. I still tried to keep control of my breathing. My anxiety was still heightened. I heard another noise off to my left. The hairs on my arms began to stand up this time. I slowly raised my flashlight. It was just more branches. No. I raised it higher. The mask. this was no tree. It was one of them. Standing in complete darkness in the distance, watching me. I gasped. I began to run as fast as I could. I tripped over some cracked asphalt. I flailed for my flashlight. I grabbed it, pushed myself up and continued running. I saw the parking lot off in the distance. I saw my truck. I would jump in my truck as quickly as I could and take off. The trees felt like they were closing in. I felt something grab my arm and yank me. almost knocked me down. I turned. It was one of the creatures. It had caught me. My heart raced, stomach turned, then nothing. 

I woke up laying in the bed of my truck, still somewhat damp. I looked around. It was still dark. It must have been really late though. I looked at my Nokia. It was almost 2:00. I had been out hear a long time. I got in my truck, turned on the heater to warm me, and headed home. The next morning I felt sore all over. I looked in the mirror and studied myself. Nothing seemed out of place. I didn’t tell anyone of course. I was still processing what happened myself and didn’t think anyone would believe me. Then one day, I noticed it. There was something hard under my skin by my right wrist. I remember toying with it, thinking it was just a cyst or calcium deposit until I remembered that night. They had put something there.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/orangeplr on 2024-10-20 23:03:44+00:00.

---

“Jesus Christ, you look pathetic, man.”

My coworker, his baggy eyes sinking down like a bloodhound, couldn’t contain his snort as he swung the plastic swinging door open for me. I scowled at him with as much hatred as I could muster. 

“Shut up. Asshole.” I shoved past him, squeezing between his slouching form and the shelves of electronic cigarettes contained in their bright fluorescent boxes, screaming out SOUR RASPBERRY CRUSH! and COTTON CANDY! at whoever’s eyes inevitably drifted to their section behind the register. 

The truth was, he was right. I looked pathetic. I felt it, too. I felt like a slug stuck to the bottom of Gods shoe. I slammed my bag down on the counter, careful not to bump my cast against anything. I had already made that mistake of carelessness, and payed the price heavily. 

Zeke held his hands up in surrender, his Cheeto stained fingertips glowing faintly orange in the fluorescent lighting. 

“My bad, dude. I knew it was rough, I just didn’t know how rough. You look like an injury lawsuit billboard.” 

I waved him off, pretending I couldn’t be bothered to turn my head to look at him, ignoring the reality that my neck brace physically wouldn’t allow it. 

“Just go. Get out of here.” 

Zeke yawned and slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Don’t have to tell me twice. See ya’.”  

I watched him circle around to the break room to leave out the back door, pulling our metal stool up to the register with my ankle. I couldn’t be mad at him for pointing out how pathetic I looked, because it was true, just how I couldn’t judge his dark eye bags when I imagined mine looked ten times worse. Sometimes it felt like there was a hierarchy in the convenience store, a power struggle: Zeke worked from 2pm to 10pm, and I stepped in to take the torch until six. Sometimes, when I was especially displeased with the night shift, I imagined him as a fat king, eating grapes and drinking wine from the bottle at home. It was more likely that he played Call of Duty and took bong rips until he passed out, knowing him. 

I always convinced myself I liked being alone, but every night the second Zeke left, it felt like reality began to fade. A gas station convenience store at night was like a portal, like some spot between dimensions. Half there, half not. It felt like being in a school during summer vacation, or visiting a completely empty water park. Slightly wrong. 

I sat for a while, just watching out the window, until I couldn’t stand the encroaching boredom. When that happened, I slipped my headphones over my ears and shuffled to the fridges in the back, cracking open a redbull and getting started on my nightly menial tasks. 

I had just finished sweeping the floors when the bell on the door jingled, signaling my first customer of the night. I shrugged my headphones to rest awkwardly around my neck brace, calling out a greeting. It turned out to be a very tired looking woman, who swayed in place and smiled sleepily at me when I joined her at the counter. 

“Hey,” she said. “Can you put thirty bucks on four?” 

“Sure thing.” 

She handed me a twenty and two fives. I could feel her looking me up and down, but I ignored it as a rang her up. 

“What happened to you, if you don’t mind me asking?” She said finally, as if she’d mustered up the courage. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up over her greasy hair as if she had to hide after giving in to her curiosity.  

I waved her off like I had Zeke, struggling to keep the polite smile on my face. “I’m fine. Just an accident.” 

Once the woman left and I had watched her dinky Chevy Cruze peel off down the road, I pushed my headphones back up and cranked up the Joy Division playing from my phone. I didn’t feel like finishing the sweeping. I checked the time - 12:05 - and sighed loudly. I wondered if I could get away with sneaking to the back to take a quick nap… but I knew my boss would check the security cameras, and then she would have my ass. 

I unwrapped a chocolate bar from next to the cash register, making a mental note of how much I owed the till so far. I gave a knowing look to the camera in the corner, pointing to the candy like, I know, I’ll pay it. I popped the entire second half into my mouth, feeling it melt on my tongue, and crumpled the wrapper in a half moon around my index finger. I stared at it for a while, feeling strangely guilty. It was funny how many hours I worked just to end up fat and broke anyways, and it was because during the night shift, there was nothing to do but eat. 

I did a few more tasks before retreating back behind the counter, and I was beginning to drift off with my head in my arms when a strange feeling washed over me. 

Something felt off. An odd, hot chill crept up the back of my neck, and I felt suddenly violently frustrated that I couldn’t scratch it. 

I felt like I was being watched. 

When I looked up, there was a man in front of me. I nearly toppled backwards off my stool, and my arm and head ached sympathetically at the mere concept of falling on them. 

The man didn’t say anything, He just stood in front of me, smiling at me. 

He had brown hair, neatly moussed back, and clear if not slightly pale skin. I would have guessed he was about forty-five, but I couldn’t tell for certain. The first thing I noticed was that smile, which stretched across his face a little too widely for - I checked the time again - 2:36 am, and displayed his sparkling white teeth. The second thing I noticed was his eyes. I couldn’t quite tell what color they were, because they were enveloped by his pupils. One pupil appeared larger than the other, but they were both too big. I immediately wondered if he was on something, although his crisp suit suggested otherwise. 

“Good evening,” I said, choking on the words, quickly taking off my headphones. “I’m sorry, how long were you standing there?” 

He didn’t answer my question, he just placed a few things down on the counter. Two little bottles of vodka, those 90 proof ones with a million different flavors, and a tuna sandwich wrapped up in plastic. Then he pointed. At first I thought he was pointing at me, and my blood went cold, but then I followed his gaze to the shelves of cigarettes behind me. 

“American Spirits,” he said. His voice was crisp and clear, just like his suit. “Please.” 

I swallowed. Something about him deeply unnerved me. He had the demeanor and gait of a plastic surgeon, someone a little out of touch with reality. Someone with a little too much work done. Why was he at a gas station in the middle of nowhere this early in the morning, in such a nice suit? I swore I had been gazing sleepily out the windows at the empty parking lot moments before - why hadn’t I seen him get here? 

“Good choice,” I mumbled, glancing at him nervously as I reached for the cigarettes behind me. I didn’t want to turn my back to him, for some reason. “Those are my favorites.” 

He nodded, his smile growing a tiny bit bigger. 

I rung him up as quickly as I could. “Twenty-four bucks, please.” 

He dug in his pocket, and then handed over the money in cash. When I took it, I noticed a slight dark red tint under his fingernails. I followed his hand with my eyes up to his neck, where he scratched at somewhere his collar concealed. When his hand moved, I saw more red staining the white fabric in a few tiny splotches. 

“Hey, man… are you alright?” I asked reluctantly. “Are you hurt or something? Do you need me to call someone?” 

The man’s smile didn’t falter, but he mouthed something very quickly, almost like he was trying to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. I could hear the faint sound of a whisper. I squinted at his lips and leaned closer, trying to make out what it could be. 

“Do I seem happy to you?” 

He spoke so abruptly, and I was focusing so intently on his mouth, that I nearly jumped again. “What?” 

“Would you think that my life is good, and will remain good?” 

I looked him over. Nice clothes, big smile. He looked successful. But I didn’t know about happy. 

“Sure.” 

He stared at me for another few seconds. His pupils seemed to contract a little, and his eyes bore into me. However, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look away. 

“Take care of yourself!” He said cheerfully, and then he gathered up his purchases and he left. 

After that, I felt shaky. I didn’t want to stay there at the counter, in case he came back, so I slinked out back, clumsily putting on my jacket with one arm and feeling for my box of American Spirits. 

It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to light up, my body awkwardly leaning against the wall and my knobby knees crammed against my chest. I couldn’t wait to get my cast off. 

As I smoked and tried to calm down, I found myself staring straight ahead, into the dark woods that surrounded the gas station. The trees towered over me, completely still except for the slight sway caused by the chilling breeze that hummed through the air. In those trees, I could make out a strange shape, one that moved a little differently from the other foliage. It almost looked like a person. 

When I finally got home at 6:30, I was so relieved I almost cried. I slumped back on my bed, watching the dim sunlight start to creep through my bedroom blinds. That was another con of the night shift: I didn’t get to sleep until it was bright outside. 

I rolled onto my good side, taking my phone out of my pocket and scrolling through a few notifications from ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g8bmgx/i_work_at_a_convenience_store_one_of_my_regulars/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jigjag22 on 2024-10-20 16:53:59+00:00.

---

I’m a pretty rational guy; urban planner, born and raised in Philly, spent my career focused on data, zoning regulations, and architectural design. I’ve never had time for the supernatural, but now, I’m dealing with things that have no rational explanation.

It started a few days ago while I was in my home office, reviewing blueprints for a downtown project. Maria, Ethan’s nanny, appeared in the doorway, looking a bit more anxious than usual. “Mark, can I show you something?” she asked, holding one of Ethan’s drawings.

“What’s up?” I replied, expecting to see the usual: a family portrait with stick figures and lopsided heads, or maybe an abstract blob of color that I’d have to pretend I understood.

But when she handed me the paper, I nearly choked.

Instead of bright colors or playful shapes, it showed a dark, crooked building: lines scribbled in black crayon, jagged and rough, with what looked like staircases or doorways unevenly sketched along the sides.

“What’s this?”

Maria’s fingers tightened on the paper. “He said, ‘That’s where the bad things happened,’ and then he just kept drawing.”

I sighed, attempting to lighten the mood. “He’s probably just copying something he saw on TV or one of my blueprints. Maybe he saw a building I was working on, and his imagination ran wild.”

Maria didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push. She’s been with us for over a year, through the thick of the divorce, and I know she cares about Ethan. But kids are kids, right? They see things, make things up, and go through phases. That’s all it was...just a phase.

But then it wasn’t.

The next day, Ethan showed me another drawing. This time, the building looked even more detailed. The windows were more defined, and he’d added a door off to the side. But what really threw me was the number scrawled at the top: 49. It was centered, bold, and unmistakable. Ethan was three; he didn’t know what an address was, let alone how to put a number on a building.

“Why do you keep drawing this building, buddy?”

Ethan didn’t look up from his crayons. “Because it’s where they live,” he said, his voice oddly flat.

“Who lives there?”

“The people who screamed.”

I glanced at Maria, who was standing nearby, her arms crossed and a worried look on her face. I didn’t say anything then. What was I supposed to say? That my kid was just making things up, or that this was somehow normal? I decided to let it go, hoping, no praying, that this would all blow over.

But it didn’t.

As I tucked Ethan into bed, he began muttering softly in his sleep. At first, it was the usual gibberish...half-formed words and mumbles. But then, clear as day, I heard him say, “Jonathan.” A moment later, he added in a whisper, “She screamed too much.”

Later, I had the worst nightmare of my life. I found myself standing in front of a decrepit building: the same one from Ethan’s drawings. The windows were cracked and covered in grime, the walls dark and crumbling as if time itself had forgotten them. The number 49 loomed above the entrance, larger and more vivid than in any of my son’s sketches.

I tried to move, to turn away, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. It was as if I was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from the building. Then, from somewhere deep inside, I heard the faintest sound...a muffled scream, growing louder and more desperate. The screams turned to cries for help, and then I heard a voice...Jonathan’s name, spoken in a child’s voice that I recognized all too well.

I woke up drenched in sweat. This wasn’t just some random dream—it was a warning. I couldn’t ignore it. I had to figure out what was really going on.

The next day I headed to City Hall to show the sketch to my buddy in real estate and planning. He knows practically every building in the city: old, new, abandoned, you name it. If anyone could recognize the place Ethan kept drawing, it’d be him.

Dante Moretti, mid-50s, graying temples, always sharp in a suit, glanced up from the sketch, his reading glasses halfway down his nose.

“Your kid drew this?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, he’s been sketching it non-stop lately. Any idea where it is?”

Dante let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, you don’t recognize this place? 49 Raven’s Lane. It was all over the news a few years back. People couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Why? What happened there?”

Dante’s face darkened. “Three murders. Spread over a few years. Then the guy who lived there, Jonathan Adler, jumped off the roof. That was about three years ago.”

“Jonathan...Adler?” I repeated. The name was exactly what Ethan had whispered to me last night.

Dante nodded. “Yeah, the whole thing was pretty gruesome. How’d your kid even know about this place?”

I had no idea.

When I pulled up in front of 49 Raven’s Lane, it was like stepping into one of Ethan's drawings. Every window, every door...it was all there, exactly as he'd sketched it.

I stepped out of the car and walked slowly toward the entrance, my shoes crunching on the scattered debris. The building loomed overhead, its walls covered with graffiti and the brickwork stained from years of neglect.

As I approached the rusted front door, I noticed the old doorbell panel beside it. Three names were faint but legible: "C. Harper," "J. Lewis," and "M. Evans."

A chill crept over me as I unfolded Ethan's drawing from my pocket. I hadn't noticed it before, but there they were those same names, scribbled in his uneven handwriting.

How could Ethan have known?

I rushed home.

Bursting into Ethan's room, I found him playing quietly with his toys. I knelt beside him, trying to steady my voice.

"Ethan," I asked, pointing to the panel he had drawn, "how did you know those names? C. Blake, J. Owens, M. Harris. Who are these people?"

He glanced up at me, calm and unbothered.

“They’re the ones who screamed,” he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

My stomach tightened. "And how do you know that?"

Ethan's eyes met mine, and a faint, knowing smile crossed his lips.

"Because I’m Jonathan," he whispered. "Jonathan Adler."

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-10-20 16:00:00+00:00.

---

I stood in my kitchen staring out the window, my mind a million miles away. I couldn't take the tightness in my chest and the weight of what my husband had suggested to me.

My husband David and I have been trying to have a baby for years, but our last visit to the hospital provided the final nails in the coffin after telling us that it wasn't ever going to happen. I was devastated, but my husband didn't seem too upset, because he suggested we had options.

I couldn't believe what he was asking of me, but not only me, also my sister. When he first mentioned that we ask my sister to be a surrogate, It didn't come across as the worst idea. But when he suggested we do it the traditional way it sent my blood running cold.

A million thoughts ran through my head as I tried to make sense of what he said and wanted. Was he attracted to my sister all this time? Was he using this as a way to sleep with my sister quilt free? I was furious and when I said this to him, he didn't see the problem. Told me his ancestors have done it for centuries. I didn’t answer him at first. I didn’t trust myself to speak without breaking. It was as if David, the man I’d known and loved, was suddenly a stranger.

It wasn’t just the idea of surrogacy that upset me. It was the way he spoke about it, like it was part of some long-forgotten tradition. He wasn’t talking about clinics or doctors. He wanted Emily to conceive with him naturally. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. My sister, with my husband, to give us the child I couldn’t have? The thought made me sick.

David had been calm, almost too calm, when he explained it. He said it was “the family’s way,” something his ancestors had always done to keep the bloodline strong. The more he talked, the more I felt like I didn’t even know him anymore. It wasn’t just old-fashioned, it was disturbing. I tried to talk to Emily, hoping she’d be as horrified as I was. At first, she thought it was a joke. But when I told her how serious David was, her face changed. She admitted that he’d already spoken to her about it. She had hoped he’d drop the idea if I wasn’t on board. Now, we both knew it wasn’t going away.

Anger burned in me. How could David even suggest this? The thought of him with Emily was unbearable, but there was something else, too, something darker lurking underneath his words. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his plan than just having a child.

I started digging. I went through his things, looking for anything that might explain what was going on. That’s when I found the old family records. At first, it seemed like harmless genealogy, but the deeper I looked, the stranger it got. There were symbols I didn’t recognize, notes about bloodlines and fertility, and then I found something that chilled me to the bone: mentions of rituals, sacrifices, and offerings to some kind of ancient god.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. This wasn’t about having a child. David wasn’t just trying to keep the family line going, he was planning something far darker. My sister wasn’t meant to just carry our baby. She was supposed to be a sacrifice, an offering to this old god his family had worshiped for generations.

I felt sick. My mind raced as I pieced it all together. David had been planning this for years. His calm demeanor, the talk of tradition, it was all a cover for something far more sinister. I realized I wasn’t just fighting to stop an uncomfortable surrogacy arrangement. I was fighting for my sister’s life.

When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He just looked at me with that same eerie calm, saying it was the only way to secure the family’s future. Emily had to be the one. She was pure, perfect for the ritual. He spoke like it was already decided, like I had no say in the matter.

The desperation in me turned to panic, a gnawing fear that was eating away at me. I had to protect Emily, but I wasn't sure how obsessed my husband was about all this and the lengths he could go to make it happen. Time was running out, and I knew that if I didn’t stop him, I’d lose Emily. And if that happened, the consequences would be far worse than anything I could have imagined.

The night of the ritual came. David had prepared everything, symbols drawn on the floor, candles flickering in strange, unnatural patterns. Emily stood off to the side, trembling, terrified of what was about to happen. I was shaking too, but not out of fear. I was ready.

David had no idea how much I had learned, how far I had gone to turn this around. He thought I was beaten, that I had accepted his plan. He had no idea that while he was busy obsessing over his precious "old ways," I had been finding something older, something stronger.

As David began the chant, my heart pounded in my chest, but I stayed silent, watching him call on forces he didn’t fully understand. He moved toward Emily, ready to start the final part of the ritual, but that’s when I made my move. I spoke words he wasn’t expecting, words I had learned from the darkest parts of those ancient texts. They weren’t meant for me to say, but I had learned to twist the ritual, bend it to my own will. I had spent weeks preparing for this moment, memorizing everything I needed to make sure that he would be the one who paid the price.

David froze as the energy in the room shifted. The symbols on the floor flickered, changing shape, twisting into something unfamiliar even to him. His confidence wavered, and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. He tried to finish the chant, but the words fell flat, powerless.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing!” he tried to shout.

His control over the ritual was slipping. The power he’d summoned didn’t care for tradition or purity. It was only looking for one thing: the perfect vessel.

David gasped. His face twisted in shock. The ritual had shifted, and he was no longer the master of it. He tried to stand, but his body convulsed again, and he fell to his knees. His hands pressed against his belly as something inside him began to swell, pushing outward. The horrifying realization dawned on him: the life he had intended for my sister was now growing inside him.

I watched as his belly expanded, stretching his skin tight. The weight of it grew, heavy and undeniable. He looked up at me, his face pale, desperate for a way out, but there was none. The spell had made its choice. David, the man so obsessed with controlling his bloodline, was now the one carrying it. The look of terror on his face was all I needed to know, he understood, and there was no escaping it. He was pregnant.

Nine months later, David was a shadow of the man he used to be. His once-proud posture had crumbled under the weight of his massive, swollen belly, his skin stretched tight and marked with deep stretch marks. His feet were constantly swollen, and his face, once stern, was now puffy and exhausted from sleepless nights of cramps, back pain, and the relentless discomfort of carrying life inside him. He had gone through every stage of pregnancy, morning sickness that left him heaving, strange cravings, and the unpredictable mood swings that left him either weeping or raging at the smallest things. His body ached in ways he never imagined, his back hunched as he waddled through the house, barely able to move with the burden of his own making. The reality of pregnancy had shattered any last trace of his arrogance, leaving him humbled and broken.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-10-20 12:37:17+00:00.

---

My sister and I have always been attached at the hip. Literally.

Being conjoined twins is like being in a life-long three-legged race, except your partner is both your best friend and your worst enemy. You move in sync, but you also fight over every decision—left or right, fast or slow, now or later. There’s no escaping it. We share everything. Our movements, our thoughts, even our heart.

We’ve always done everything together. There was never a choice, for better or worse. But what happened on that fishing trip… that was something I never imagined we’d share.

It was a sunny day on the lake, the kind of family outing that felt ordinary. Peaceful. Our parents had brought us out for a relaxing afternoon—fishing rods, sandwiches, the works. Mom was setting up lunch on the picnic table, and we were helping her, passing plates and cutting bread, one of us holding the knife, the other steadying the food. It was a routine we had perfected over the years.

That’s when the fox appeared. At first, it seemed curious, sniffing the air around our picnic. But then it lunged. I didn’t even see it coming, but my sister did. It clamped down on her arm, snarling, its teeth sinking deep into her flesh. She screamed—a sound that echoed through me like a thunderclap. I tried to pull her back, but we’re connected, and there was nowhere to go.

It bit her again. And again. By the time Dad shot the thing, its teeth were stained with her blood.

The hospital trip was a blur. Doctors stitched her up, while I sat there, numb, tethered to her by our shared flesh, feeling her pain as if it were my own. They talked about rabies, about shots that would protect us both. But we share a heart, a circulatory system, parts of our nervous system. We’re not like other people. The treatment didn’t work.

Days passed, and my sister started to change.

At first, it was small things—restlessness, twitching. She complained of feeling hot, then cold. Her eyes became wild, darting around as if they were tracking something I couldn’t see. I could feel the heat radiating off her, our bodies connected, her fever coursing through me. I got tired, but not like her. She wouldn’t sleep, her muscles tensing, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

Then came the violence.

One night, while we were alone in our hospital room, she turned on me. It was as if something inside her had snapped. Her eyes, once so familiar, now gleamed with a terrifying, primal madness. Before I could even call for help, she lunged at me, teeth bared, her fingers clawing at my skin. We fought, struggling against each other, but I couldn’t escape her—not when we were bound together, our bodies tethered by flesh and bone. She bit me twice before the nurses rushed in, sedating her, pulling her back just enough to keep me alive.

Now, I sit here in this cold, sterile room, waiting. The doctors say she has rabies, and it’s too late for her. They’ve tried every treatment, every sedative, but nothing seems to calm the animal inside her for long. She’s dangerous. Violent. She’s not her anymore.

 They’ve separated us as much as they can—horizontal cushioned bars attached to the hospital bed, fabricated to fit between us safely and securely. The dense, padded plastic presses against our upper torsos, snug around our ribs. Soft enough to protect our skin, yet firm enough to keep us apart. It’s an unyielding divider, designed specifically to restrain her without hurting me, a desperate measure to contain the growing madness.

I can still hear her, though—low, guttural growls, her shallow, rapid breaths. Sometimes, she laughs—a twisted, hollow sound that no longer belongs to her.

I can feel the infection inside her, pulsing through our shared heart, our connected blood. The doctors check me constantly, waiting for any sign that I might be next, but so far, I’ve remained lucid. Every day, I watch her through the bars, her eyes wild, her body twitching in its restraints, and I wonder how much longer I can hold out.

She’s been sedated for days now, slipping in and out of consciousness, but even in sleep, I can feel her presence gnawing at the edges of my mind. Every now and then, her body jerks violently against the restraints, the metal rattling as if she’s trying to break free.

The worst part isn’t the separation—it’s the waiting. Knowing that I’m losing her, knowing that she’s still there but no longer the sister I’ve always known. The doctors tell me she’s gone, that the rabies has taken her mind, her soul, everything that made her my sister. But we share a body. I can still feel her. I can still feel the rage, the hunger, seeping into me.

They told me I should say goodbye, but how can I? We’ve shared everything, every moment, every breath, for as long as I can remember.

How do you say goodbye to someone when you're not only losing them, but losing yourself too? When every word sticks in your throat because you’re not just letting go of your sister—you’re saying goodbye to your loved ones, to everything, before you even have the chance to mourn the loss of yourself? How do you face the end when it’s not just hers, but yours too, creeping closer with every breath? Every time I feel our heart beat, I feel weaker.

I whispered to her today. I told her I loved her, even though I know she’s not really there anymore. I told her I’m sorry, that I didn’t know how to save her.

I’m typing my final goodbye, searching for the right words. The room is quiet, except for the faint hum of the machines around us. My hands tremble, the weight of everything pressing down as I try to let go. But then I feel it—a subtle, disturbing shift beside me.

I glance over, and my blood runs cold. My sister’s wide, bloodshot eyes are open, staring at me through the cushioned bars. Her lips curl into a maniacal smile, teeth gleaming in a way that makes my stomach twist. She doesn’t blink, just keeps smiling as her body jerks harder, the restraints straining under her movements.

I freeze. The words on the screen blur, my hand hovering over the keyboard, forgotten.

My sister is awake.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/latebutstillearly1 on 2024-10-20 08:15:57+00:00.

---

On my twenty-fifth birthday, my dad told me about a unique family tradition passed down all the way from the 17th century.

“Our family has a book that's been passed down many generations,” he began.

“The first entry was written by your twelfth great-grandfather Edward in 1655. When Edward was thirty years old, he hand-wrote a long, detailed book of wisdom and life learnings for his eldest son, your eleventh great-grandfather William, and gave it to him to read at the age of twenty-five. After William finished reading, Edward then instructed William to write his own life learnings in the next pages before he turned thirty, then hand it down to his oldest son when he turned twenty-five with the same instructions. William’s oldest son Harold, your tenth great grandfather, did the same.”

I listened in awe.

“Over time the collective wisdom of the books from each first-born sons of our ancestors were passed down through the generations,” He continued. “When the book was damaged during the Napoleonic war, your sixth great grandfather diligently restored the book to the best of his ability. By the time of the first world war, the pages were so worn that your great-great grandfather recreated it with a typewriter before passing the new copy down. When your grandfather passed it to me, that copy was falling apart, so I copied it into a Google Doc.”

He paused. Comically tech savvy, but efficient, I thought.

“Now that you’ve turned twenty-five, I’ll be sending it to you.”

“Wow, that’s mind blowing!” I exclaimed, “What other family has something like that?”

“Right? No family like us.” He smiled and patted me on the back, as he sent me an email from his laptop. “Read it carefully. It contains the wonderful experiences and wisdom from the youths of our past grandfathers. To carry on the tradition, you’ve got five years to write your own message to pass onto your oldest son, along with the rest of them. Might as well start thinking about it early.”

“Wait, I can’t write stuff in it after I turn thirty?”

“Afraid not,” dad shook his head, “Not sure why, that’s how the tradition goes. Each entry is an account of youth, written between the ages of twenty-five to thirty. We must respect it.”

“Fair enough.”

I opened the email with the link to the Google doc that dad had transcribed, containing thirteen generations of wisdom. The entries were fascinating and emotional. That night, I stayed up until dawn reading.

Edward, my twelfth great-grandfather who started our book, was a wealthy estate owner who lived through the English Civil War. I was impressed by his writing, even though I had to try and decipher some of the old English.

To quote, “I commence this tome to chronicle the youths of mine sons. As long as they draw breath, I shall not meet my end.”

I was sure my future grandsons would be disappointed at my entry after reading a banger like that.

His eldest son William, my eleventh great-grandfather, was similarly a hard-working tradesman. One of his gems of wisdom: "A man’s worth is not measured by his fortune, but by his steadfastness when the world shifts beneath his feet."

His son Harold, a soldier who fought during the War of Spanish Succession, seemed like the total opposite type to his dad and grandad. “My dear son and grandsons, to charm a lady and shoot a pistol are but two arts of precision; both require a steady hand and a heart unflinching. For while bullets may fly true, it is the spark in her eye that captures a man's soul.”

He must’ve gotten all the ladies, I thought. Unfortunately, it seems like I never inherited any of those pickup genes.

Each entry was as captivating as the last. It was as if I could envision the spirited youths of my grandfathers standing in front of me, speaking to me directly. In their stories, I discerned reflections of my own character and glimpses of their shared essence within one another. It was an emotional experience – they were all well written and captured the highest highs and lowest lows of their lives.

Well, all except for one. I was left confused by my fourth great-grandfather’s entry.

All my other grandfathers, my dad included, had written dozens of pages, full of stories, teachings and advice. But my fourth great-grandfather had only written one page. I couldn’t even understand the meaning of his entry.

“He is the whisper that directs you to verity. Is it sagacity or artifice that you discern in his utterances? Not all connections possess the strength they purport, nor the sincerity. Your heart perceives more than your eyes are willing to acknowledge. Father-hood is a role most sacred. When the stars align, fate weaves its intricate design. You are the author of your own unfolding tale, brave and unyielding. Turn your gaze to the horizon, where dreams dance on the edge of dawn. Thirty echoes with the laughter of youth, yet whispers of wisdom draw near. You must delve deeper, beyond the well-known façade. Are you prepared for what lies hidden beneath? Next arrives the instant when your destiny shall reveal.”

Perhaps he was trying to write a poem, I thought. I asked dad, but he had no idea what it meant either. He suggested the war made my fourth grandfather go mad, and perhaps those were his ramblings.

For the next two years, I periodically opened up the Google Doc and read through the entries, while thinking of what I would write in my own. I couldn’t stop thinking about my fourth great-grandfather’s entry. Like my dad, I concluded that it was most likely gibberish. Either he was trying to sound overly artistic, or he had really gone mad during the war. PTSD was no joke. However, my fifth great-grandad’s entry about his son, and my third great-grandfather’s entry about his father, my fourth great-grandfather, were both bothersome to me.

According to the context, my fifth great-grandfather finished his entry at the age of twenty nine, and had my fourth great-grandfather, his first son at the age of nineteen. He describes his oldest son:

“As I observe my ten-year-old son, a quiet lad with a contemplative brow, I am continually astounded by the brilliance that resides within him. Though he speaks little, his mind dances with the complexities of numbers, effortlessly unraveling the most intricate mathematical conundrums that baffle even seasoned minds. His remarkable ability to discern subtleties in behavior and read the hearts of those around him fills me with confidence that he shall one day be a genius of great renown. I cannot help but envision a future where he is celebrated not merely for his intellect, but for the profound understanding he brings to the world—a light among many, illuminating paths previously obscured.”

Basically, he clearly thought his son was exceptionally intelligent as a boy. Having read that description, I couldn’t help but think there was a deeper meaning to my fourth great-grandfather’s book entry, which seemed nonsensical at first glance.

My third great-grandfather describes how as a child, he witnessed his father, my fourth great-grandfather, trying to take his own life several times. A notable quote reads:

“As an eight-year-old, the memory is etched into my mind like a scar that time cannot heal. I recall the day vividly, the sombre atmosphere hanging heavy in the air, as I witnessed my father, a man of strength and resolve, grappling with a darkness I could not comprehend. His actions, born of despair, unfurled before my young eyes like a cruel nightmare, shattering the innocence of my childhood in an instant. In that moment, I felt a chilling blend of fear and confusion, a child's heart struggling to understand how the very anchor of our family could be so lost, leaving an indelible mark on my soul that would forever shape my understanding of sorrow.”

I deciphered from the rest of his entry that my fourth great-grandfather would have been about twenty-six at the time this happened.

After much consideration, I eventually came to the conclusion that the PTSD theory seemed to fit – perhaps he was a highly intelligent man struggling mentally around the time he wrote his entry, so it made little sense. But I could never shake the feeling that my fourth great-grandfather was trying to convey something deeper.

For the past five years, I had taken extensive notes about my most important life experiences and was finally ready to gather them into prose to complete my chapter of the family book. I took a vacation from work to visit my parents at their house, and to complete my entry, something I had now considered was to be one of the most important events of my life.

Dad came downstairs to find me typing away on my MacBook in the morning.

“Hard at work leaving your legacy,” he beamed, as he sat on the couch with his morning coffee.

“They’re gonna love this,” I smiled, eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s gotta be my oldest son I give this to, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, what if I never have a son?” I asked nonchalantly. I wasn’t even married.

“Oh, you will.” He smiled.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Okay... lot of confidence you’ve got in me there.”

I took a break from typing to flick back up through the Google Doc for inspiration and found myself staring at my fourth great-grandfather’s entry again. I stared for a couple of minutes in deep thought, until the words were floating into each other across the screen.

My eyes started scanning the first word of each sentence.

“He Is Not Your Father When ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g7tyox/whisper_in_the_bloodline/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SalamiMommie on 2024-10-19 23:53:46+00:00.

---

Damn, I should I have known that those five tequila shots were a bad idea. I mean…I knew it wasn’t a good idea. Tequila isn’t exactly a great idea, but sometimes it is.

Sorry for the rambling, I’m trying to sober up. This Mexican grill downtown has some killer drink deals and some beautiful ladies that love to dance.

I’m trying to get over a horrible breakup I just went through a mere thirty six hours ago. A woman I loved cheated on me with one of my friends. We still have to share our apartment until we figure out who is moving out. Always a gamble when both names are on the lease. She wants to work things out and I don’t.

Tequila isn’t always a good idea and neither is trying to get over someone you love way too quickly, but screw it. Cheating on me wasn’t a good idea either.

Jose was going to be my best friend for the night. He made an excellent bartender and I was having the most wonderful time. I was gonna stay and shut the place down. I danced with some beautiful women and even got a phone number that she typed in for me, I kept pushing too many buttons. Her name was Lola.

I asked Lola if she wanted to come back to my apartment but she politely declined. She was heading back with her friends.

I asked Jose for another shot of silver but he told me I was cut off. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be my best friend

He wrote his number on my arm and told me to call him when I got back home. He tried convincing me to hand him my keys over but I didn’t want to hand them over. He threatened to call the cops and tell them I was driving drunk. I handed them over to him.

He handed me a water bottle and told me that an Uber was about to be there to take me home. I reached over for someone’s half drank beer and he pulled it out of my hands.

“My friend, your Uber is gonna be outside in a minute.” He held my arm and helped me out before returning to his post.

I walked up to an older, yellow Honda Civic that looked horrible. It was filthy and all the windows rolled down. The driver had curly brown hair and a flat cap on. He was puffing on a cigar. The cigarette craving was kicking in.

“Hey Uber, are you my driver.”

He was looking straight forward, “get in.” It sounded like he gargled with gravel and sand with how rugged and raspy his voice was.

“Where to?” I muttered out my address.

He stomped on the gas and peeled out. My stomach turned and I felt as if the liquor was about to spew out of my mouth.

“Hey man, can you slow d-.”

“You naughty, naughty boy. Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s a sin to get so sloppy?”

“Hey man, I-“

He turned around and I screamed. His eyes were like a hypnotic wheel turning. His tongue was hanging out and was forked just like a snakes. Horns began to sprout out of his head.

I closed my eyes and tried to jerk off my seatbelt. Every rug was making it tighter to where I couldn’t breathe as good. He began laughing.

He was swerving around cars and blaring the horn . Everytime it did, my ear drums felt like they would explode.

“Please, please. I won’t ever do this again.”

“That’s what they all say.”

I pulled out my phone and sent Jose a text message. I was letting him know to call the police and track the Uber in case that I die. I dropped my phone when I got the message.

“What are you talking about? Are you okay? The Uber driver waited outside for you for a while. I came to check on you and you were already gone.”

He swerved into the apartment parking lot. The door opened by itself and my body was tossed out after the seatbelt jerked off. It was as if someone extremely strong threw me. I fell face first into the asphalt. Blood began pouring out of my nose.

“Don’t let me catch you next time!” His car set on fire as he drove away, then it disappeared.

I managed to get inside my apartment and my ex was sitting on the couch in her pajamas. Empty bowl of ice cream in her hands, The Bachelor or some other show on the tv.

“Oh my god, baby what happened.”

“I ain’t your baby anymore, kiss my ass.” I snarled out to her. She had tears in her eyes.

I locked myself in the bathroom as I tried to clean myself up and pick all the gravel out of my skin. All the contents of the night went into the porcelain throne. She knocked on the door.

“I told you that I was sorry. We can make it work.”

“I told you that I’m done!”

I opened the door and stumbled to my room. She caught the door before I could slam it.

“I’ll let you go to bed and sleep this off. You sure smell like you had an eventful evening. I’ll even leave you some Tylenol and water. But don’t make me summon that thing again.”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/JLGoodwin1990 on 2024-10-20 06:16:27+00:00.

---

Okay, so I’m not sure if any of you here have heard anything about this, but to be completely honest, the people who live around the lake here, myself included are beyond terrified, even if we don’t say it outright. It’s not a new occurrence; stories about it have circulated at least since I was a small boy, and according to the old timers who still remain, perhaps even longer. But the last year or so, and especially the last six months, it’s really gotten bad.

For anyone unfamiliar with the area, and contrary to its name, the Salton Sea isn’t an actual ocean, but a large saltwater lake located in southern California. Millions of years ago, there used to periodically be a giant lake here which would swallow the whole valley up, but the Salton Sea as it’s known today was created by a dam bursting on the Colorado River over a century ago. It once was touted as a “Miracle in the desert” and attracted tourists and vacationers from everywhere to swim, boat and fish in its waters. But thanks to a number of disasters, both natural and man-made, by the ‘70s and ‘80s it had been reduced to a shell of its former self. Only those too stubborn or too sentimental to leave remained, and in the following decades, other people soon came to live on the shores of the lake; those who saw it as an artistic refuge from the outside world, or those who weren’t in the best financial situation. Nowadays its biggest claims to fame are an early 2000s movie starring Val Kilmer, and having a fictional version of it in a very famous video game.

Like I said, though, if you ask the real old-timers, the few who still live here who were around during the Sea’s glory days, they’ll tell you that it’s always been here. Living beneath the water’s surface. Nobody ever bothered to give it a name; in those days, the year round residents feared that word might get around and scare away the tourists. They couldn’t risk the lifeblood of the five towns that rest on both sides of the lake disappearing into the ether. And so, whenever somebody went missing, be it a tourist who just so happened to never come up after diving under the water or who’s empty boat was found floating abandoned far from shore, a fishing rod still in the holder and a smear of blood on the gunwale, they would cover it up. Eventually, they would all end up as files in the unsolved Cold Cases department of the police station. And since the disappearances were seldom; birds seemed to what disappeared the majority of the time, nobody outside of the community ever bothered to dig deeper.

As I was born decades later, I didn’t hear about it until I was a little kid, growing up in what was left of Bombay Beach in the early ‘90s. It was a stern warning my mother and father always told me. “Now you get your behind back here before dark Jim, and stay away from the water’s edge on your way home” When I asked them why, they refused to say anymore, only remained adamant for me to stay away. Naturally, as I was a rebellious ten year old boy, the first chance I ever got, I ignored their rules and stood by the water’s edge as the sun lowered on the horizon.

That was the first time I ever saw it.

I had been watching a heron fly over the water’s edge when my attention was caught by a ripple about twenty feet from shore. At first, I thought it was just one of the last remaining fish still in the lake, or more likely a trick of the fading light, but when it came again, closer this time, I focused completely on it. A third ripple, this time more violent came from less than fifteen feet from where I stood, and almost like precognition, I suddenly felt an almost sickening sense of dread and terror overtake me. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and even in the sweltering heat, I felt a chill shudder through me. I began backing away from the lapping water, feeling very much like the worm on the end of a hook that has just seen the fish which will end its existence approach. And then its head broke the water’s surface.

In the last rays of sunlight that preceded the beginning of night, I couldn’t make out it’s features that well, but if you want a general idea of what it looked like, take the monsters from the Creature from the Black Lagoon and Humanoids from the Deep movies, splice them together, and then imagine that hell itself took a few extra minutes effort and spat out the amalgamation. The biggest thing I can remember was its eyes. Two glowing yellow eyes that seemed to pierce right into your very soul, attempting to root you to the spot and unable to flee. I felt myself begin to tremble as I watched it study me, the same way a shark eyes a young seal pup. And had it not been for what happened next, I doubt I would be here today.

As I watched it begin to stand up, still unable to move, the sudden loud explosion of what I can only assume was a firework of some sort, likely set off by one of the bored and rowdy teens that lived a little ways down from me pierced the air. The sound froze the creature in place, and I saw it’s head swivel around to try and locate its source. At the same time, it finally seemed to break the spell, and without another look to see what it was doing, I turned and ran towards home. Screaming. When I burst through the front door, I saw my mother and father spin around to face me. I saw my mother’s face go pale as she saw the terrified expression on my face, and my father was a blur of motion in an instant, sprinting past me to lock the door and slam the windows shut. Mom knelt down beside me, wrapping me in the tightest hug she ever gave me; I could feel the hot tears dripping down onto my cheek.

I never again disobeyed my parents.

As the years went by, and the dawn of the new millennium rounded the corner, the stories of it kept making the rounds around us locals. After my 21st birthday, I would hear them the most in the Ski Inn, one of the two bars in town, spoken in hushed, drunken whispers so as not to attract the attention of the occasional out-of-towner who happened to wander in. My father died of cancer in 2004, and my mother, seeming to give up on life without him by her side, went just four years later. For a time, I seriously thought about selling our home and simply moving somewhere else. Between what my parents had left me and the money I made working construction on a casino that had recently opened nearby, I had enough to take my belongings and start anew somewhere else. Somewhere where there was less crime, less dead fish, and most importantly, without the looming specter that dwelled below the surface. But, whether it was a stupid sense of loyalty to the memories that lingered in the house, fear of leaving the only place I’d ever known, or even defiance, a refusal to allow it to make me turn tail and run, I stayed. Just like the old timers, and the others who slowly moved in to take their place when they died. And things continued on as normal as they could.

Until rather recently, that is.

You see, without the Colorado River replenishing it, and with farmers conserving more water, not allowing it to runoff like before, the Salton Sea is beginning to shrink. Slowly, but steadily. There are efforts to try and save it, if nothing else but for the birds which still live on its shores and to keep the toxic dust clouds from filtering up from the bottom of the lake from blowing over the towns and into the nearby cities like Los Angeles. But it hasn’t stopped it completely.

And that seems to have made the creature far more aggressive.

The last couple of years, the rate of people disappearing around the sea has increased exponentially. What once used to be only one or two every five or six years has multiplied exponentially. They’re never dug into too deeply, as many decades ago before. After all, with the reputation the area has, most assume that they were victims of either drug violence or robberies gone wrong, and they were buried somewhere out in the desert. Things like gun shots are ignored by people out here at this point. As much as we wish we could get help, everyone here knows that nobody would believe any of us. It would be written off as the hallucinations of a drug addict or alcoholic, or simply the fantasies of someone with too much free time on their hands. And because it was hushed up for so long, as horrible as I know it is to say, many simply find it easier to continue the cycle than to break it. The same way some towns never spoke up when cults moved into them.

But I can no longer keep quiet. Not after what happened to Old Fred.

Old Fred was a vagrant, albeit a friendly and polite one who wandered around the Salton Sea for as long as I can remember. He was in his seventies, at least, with white hair that stuck out like Doc Brown’s from Back to the Future, and eyes that held the same wildness as a Mustang. Every few months, I’d see him roll into town on his usual circular path. Usually, he would find one of the abandoned buildings to hole up in for the night. I never asked him if he’d heard the stories or seen the creature himself; I can only assume he did. That’s why, one extremely hot summer night a few months ago, as I lay in bed with the fan on full blast, trying to wrestle sleep from the grasp of the Sandman, I sat bolt upright as I heard his drunken shouts coming from outside. I couldn’t be sure, but from the sounds of things, he was down near the far end of town.

Down near the water.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be *shitt...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g7sdd3/something_horrifying_lives_in_the_salton_sea/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Lupabeingawolf on 2024-10-20 01:16:03+00:00.

---

The wind howled outside, making the walls of the old house groan. I sat by the window, staring out at the field where the scarecrow stood. It had been there since the day Olivia and I arrived, after everything fell apart. After our parents died. We were sent to live with Aunt Margaret and Uncle Bill, though they barely seemed to notice us. They stayed in their room most of the time, leaving Olivia and me to fend for ourselves in this creaky, old house. And that scarecrow—it bothered me. Something about it wasn’t right. Its burlap face and straw-stuffed arms were supposed to keep birds away, but it felt like it was watching us instead. Watching me.

I leaned closer to the window, squinting. The scarecrow hadn't moved an inch since we got here, but every time I looked at it, a chill ran down my spine. Olivia always told me I was being silly, that it was just my imagination. But I knew better. “Why does it look like that?” I whispered, to myself. “It’s just a scarecrow, Grace,” Olivia said from behind me, her voice steady, like she wasn’t scared of anything. She always tried to stay brave for me. “Nothing to be afraid of.” I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I couldn’t look away from it. Its hat drooped over its face, like it was hiding something, and its arms stretched out like they could grab you if you got too close.

As night fell, Olivia and I ate dinner in silence. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Bill hadn’t come out all day. Their bed was made, but they were gone. I didn’t like how the house felt without them—cold, empty, too quiet. “They probably went into town,” Olivia said, trying to keep things normal, though I could hear the doubt in her voice. She didn’t know where they were either.

After dinner, we went up to our room. I lay awake for what felt like hours, listening to the house creak around us. The darkness pressed in, and my mind kept drifting back to that scarecrow. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Quietly, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. My heart pounded as I pulled back the curtain, just enough to peek outside. And that’s when I saw it. The scarecrow was gone. I froze. My breath caught in my throat as I scanned the yard, trying to find it. But it wasn’t in the field anymore. It was just... gone. I ran to Olivia’s bed, shaking her awake. “Liv! Wake up!” I hissed. “The scarecrow—it moved!”

Olivia groaned and rubbed her eyes, still half asleep. “What are you talking about?” I pulled her to the window, my hands shaking. “It’s not in the field anymore. It’s gone!” She sighed, but when she looked outside, I could see her face change. The scarecrow was really gone. Olivia’s expression hardened, and I could tell she was trying to stay calm, even though I knew she was scared too.

“We have to lock the doors,” she whispered. She grabbed my hand, and we ran downstairs. My heart was racing as we checked the locks on the front door, then the back. Everything seemed fine—until we reached the kitchen.

The back door was open. And standing in the doorway was the scarecrow.

I couldn’t breathe. My legs felt like jelly, and all I could do was stare. The scarecrow was right there. Its burlap face hung low, its hollow eyes staring at us. It held a large burlap sack in one hand, dragging it across the floor. The sound of the sack scraping against the wood made my skin crawl.

I screamed.

Olivia grabbed my arm. “Grace, run and hide!” I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t move. She pushed me toward the pantry, and I darted inside, closing the door just enough to see through the crack. Olivia stayed behind, facing the scarecrow. My heart pounded in my ears, and I could barely think. I wanted to cry, to scream again, but I had to stay quiet. I had to trust Olivia. “What do you want?” Olivia’s voice trembled as she tried to keep her fear hidden.

The scarecrow didn’t answer. It didn’t speak. It just... moved. Slowly. Towards her. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to run out and help her, but I couldn’t move. The scarecrow raised its arms, and before I could even scream, it lunged at Olivia. “Grace, stay hidden!” she yelled, just before it grabbed her. My heart broke. I couldn’t help her. I watched as the scarecrow shoved her into the burlap sack. Her screams were muffled, her legs kicking, trying to fight. But the scarecrow didn’t stop. It dragged her to the door, pulling her out of the house and into the night.

And then it was gone.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that pantry, shaking, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of what had just happened. My sister was gone. Taken. And I didn’t do anything to stop it.

Finally, I crept out, my legs trembling beneath me. The house was too quiet. I felt sick. The back door was still open, the cold night air pouring in. I stepped outside, my body numb. The field stretched out before me, lit by the moon, and there—right in the middle—was the scarecrow.

It was back in its usual spot, standing tall like it had never moved. But something was different. As I got closer, I noticed something hanging from the scarecrow’s arm. My breath caught in my throat as I realized what it was. Olivia’s sweater.

It was tied around the scarecrow’s arm, fluttering in the wind.

The scarecrow had taken her.

And now, it was her.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DrElsewhere on 2024-10-19 18:39:32+00:00.

---

I was outside the diner smoking a cigarette when the cops rolled into the parking lot.

The pair was in an unmarked car, which meant they were experienced - it takes time to get to the level of wearing plain clothes when you’re on duty. There was only one reason a couple of high-ranking law enforcement agents would be here in Edwards and I knew why. Everyone in town did.

Three murdered . . . in three months.

I’ve had a good sense of hearing for a long time, and as the two cops walked toward the diner I could hear them discussing between themselves on how to handle the interview.

Interview?

Shit.

I tossed my cigarette butt on the ground and offered them a pleasant smile.

“Hey, y’all,” I said with my drawled Southern accent. “Come on in, get some breakfast. Can I get you fellas some coffee?”

The two men were tall and well-manicured: clean shaven faces, no nonsense haircuts. They wore the same cologne, which I thought was funny, but their suits were different.

“Sounds great, ma’am,” Navy Suit said. “I take my coffee black.”

“Cream and sugar for me,” Gray Suit said.

They took a booth by the front window and I went around the counter to find Lola bringing out three plates of breakfast food. The plate balancing on her forearm tilted and I reached to grab it before it dumped eggs all over the customers sitting at the counter.

“Thanks, Grace,” Lola said. “Great reflexes.”

“When you’ve worked at diners as long as I have, you learn how to spot accidents before they happen.”

Grace nodded toward our newest customers with a puzzled look.

“Cops, I think.” I said. “I’m getting their coffee now.”

I brought them their drinks and took a notepad out of my apron. The faster they ate they faster they could leave. Everyone in the diner knew why they were here and it was making the customers nervous.

“What’ll it be, boys? You seem like waffle men to me.”

They didn’t watch my smile, but instead looked at my chest.

“We’re not here for breakfast, ma’am,” Navy Suit said. “We’re here to see you.”

“Me?”

Gray Suit pointed to the name tag on my chest. “Your name is Grace? Grace Burton?”

I nodded.

Navy Suit stood and offered his hand. “I’m Detective Hartwig, this is Detective Cable. We’re from upstate and have been called in to assist in the ongoing investigation-”

“Let me stop you right there, detective.” My voice was more acidic than necessary. “I know why you’re here. Everyone does. In a town with 1,034 people-”

“1,031 people now, ma’am.”

I stared at my feet. Hartwig moved into the booth with his partner and pointed across the table. “Please sit. We only want to ask a few questions.”

“If I refuse?”

Hartwig gestured to his coffee. “We could finish these . . . at the police station.”

I rolled my eyes then sat across from them.

Cable removed a folder from his inner jacket pocket and scanned the papers inside. “It says here you are 62 years old.”

“That’s correct.”

He smiles. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look a day over forty.”

“I get that a lot. I’m a vegetarian. What do you gentlemen want?”

Hartwig straightened his tie. “When you were 25 years old you were involved in an incident at this diner.”

My skin grew cold. “You want to know about what happened in 1987?”

“Yes. Particularly the events that lead to the death of your boyfriend at the time -” he looked at his notes - “Peter Callen.”

“Why do you want me to bring up painful memories, detectives?”

“Three people have been murdered in Edwards over the last few months,” Cable seethed. “We’ve been gathering information from the past about this small Mississippi town and your file came up. There have only been two major incidents of homicides in Edwards: now and in 1987. And you’re the only connection between the two.”

Hartwig quickly added, “We aren’t saying you’re a suspect, mind you, but we refuse to leave any stone left unturned. We’ve seen the briefs about your testimony from that night, but we want to hear it from your own mouth, Ms. Burton.”

“Okay.” I grabbed Cable’s coffee for myself and took a sip. The men traded glances. “My shift at the diner started late that night. I remember walking through the parking lot and being amazed. The moon was so full and bright it left shadows under the cars.”

---

I pulled my 1980 Chevy Citation into the lot and reapplied my lipstick while Bob Seger blasted over the radio. The song was from his newest album, Like a Rock. Great album by the way. Anyway, I got out of my car and walked toward the building. Like I said, the moon was so bright that night.

I’d been working at Silver Spoon Diner for two years, so I knew what to expect. The usuals ate earlier, before my shift started, so the only ones stopping in a diner that late were those society might deem uncouth: truckers coming back to empty houses; randoms just passing through on their way to Jackson; insomniacs wasting another sleepless night; people running from trouble or people running toward trouble.

I came into work every day with a smile on my face and that night was no different. Wendy, another waitress, greeted me with a hug, a Marlboro Red 100 propped between her lips. Back then everyone smoked. The diner itself could get foggy during busy hours from the secondhand smoke. Anyway, Wendy walked with me to the back while I put my personables in my locker.

Since I had worked at the diner the longest, I had a copy of the key that locked the front and back doors. I slipped it in my pocket then put on my waitress apron while Wendy went on about a new movie she’d just watched in theaters.

Wendy removed her cigarette. “Oh, you should have seen him, Grace. He was lifting her so high and spinning her around like she was weightless.”

“So I should go see it?”

“It’s worth the $3.50 movie ticket price to see Patrick Swayze. When he took his shirt off I was drooling . . . like, literally, drooling.”

“Big whoop. You know how Peter gets when I look at other men. He’s the most jealous boyfriend ever.”

Wendy kissed the air and rolled her eyes. “More Swayze for me then.”

She went to help customers while I made a circuit around the kitchen. Our cook, Penny, dropped some thin bacon on the stovetop with a sizzle. He was athletic and tall, but an injury took away his chances at a football scholarship. He was hilarious though, and worked his ass off.

“What’s up, G,” he called when he saw me. “It’s been a slow night. You’re lucky.”

“Slow night means slow tips.”

“Word. I feel that. I only have a few hours left until I’m outta here. Marco should be in soon to take my place.”

I went to the front of the diner right as a man in a tan suit came in. It was rare to find someone like that in here this late at night but I assumed he was traveling for business or something. I took the notepad out of my apron and offered him a smile. Smiles always increase tips.

“What’ll you have, darling?”

“Water and coffee to start.” He scanned the menu. “And since my name is Toast, I’ll have three pieces of toast. Strawberry jelly too.”

I jotted down his order. “Your name is Toast?”

“Robert Toast.” He patted his pocket then gave me a business card. “I’m a real estate agent. I’m traveling to Texas for a convention.” He held up his briefcase. “You in the market for a new home?”

I winked. “Depends how much you tip me.”

I left him laughing and went to the prep area to hang the ticket for Penny. Wendy found me with a worried look on her face.

“He’s such a fucking asshole,” she whispered.

“Who?” I asked.

“Bill. He told me he wanted some chicken breasts . . . hold the chicken.”

We all knew Bill. He was a trucker with irregular hours, but preferred to drive at night. He usually ate at the diner before he got on the road. He was young, around my age, and he had a thick bushy mustache and wore very tight jeans that showed his bulge. All the waitresses at the diner knew he wore them to try to impress us but it had the opposite effect. He was boorish, lewd, and a pervert. I told Wendy to switch customers with me and she obliged.

“Ah, Grace,” Bill said as I approached him with his plate of waffles and bacon. “Two waitresses in one night. It’s not the first time I’ve had two women in one night.”

“I doubt it.”

I turned to go but he grabbed my wrist. “Hold on, girl.”

I jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Feisty. I love em’ feisty.” He laughed harshly. “I dropped my straw on the floor. Can you bend down and get it for me? Bend really . . . really . . . low.”

“I’ll get a new one from the back.” I left before he could keep being a creep and went behind the counter to help a woman sitting with her young son. She had on a button-up shirt and her name tag said “Erin”. It was clear she’d worked all day in retail, probably a double shift. She looked absolutely exhausted but her child was wound up like a ball of energy.

“How can I help you, ma’am.”

“Hash browns and two waffles. Does that sound good, Jonah?” Her son tapped his little fingers on the napkin box and giggled. The noise was an irritant to his mother who patted him gently to stop. He didn’t.

Feeling bad for the fatigued mother and wanting to help in any way I could, I got close to the little boy and acted like I was telling him a secret. “If you’ll stay on your best behavior, and don’t make a mess, I’ll give you some free ice cream later.”

Jonah’s face lit up and he looked at his mother for reassurance. She nodded then mouthed “Thank you” to me. The kid stopped tapping the box and sat very still.

Fifteen or twenty minute...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/GN0515_ on 2024-10-19 22:54:17+00:00.

---

The sound of police sirens wailed loudly inside the room, but he didn't move. To be honest, I'm not even sure he blinked. He just sat there as he had the entire room in his chair, surrounded by stacks of books, each collecting a thin layer of dust that had made its home on them.

"So, is there anything else I need to know?" I asked curiously, staring at the man sitting in the chair. His eyes were droopy, almost as if he were asleep, his chair was wiry and uncombed, pointed in the air, and his almost white beard had little specks of drool. It was as if he were in a different world as I stood there in his little red and black checkered robe.

"No, he just sort of sits here all day watching police procedure shows," Bailey responded, parting her bangs with her hand. Her green eyes darted back over to him, as he still sat there staring through the TV. I could tell she was ready to get out of her green scrubs and pass over responsibilities to me. "Let me show you where to sleep."

"He sure does have a lot of books," I added as we walked out the room, entering a hallway with dark blue walls, dark-colored floors leading to a row of open doors. Each room was similar to the one the man was in, organized chaos, books on shelves, stacked on tables, the floors, and any other object that was available.

"Yeah, he was some sort of scholar, I think an archaeologist or something like that," Bailey replied, as we entered a room that had lime green walls, a queen-size bed nicely made with dark gray sheets and a slightly darker comforter, a relatively modern metal and wood nightstand sitting next to it.  A small lamp resting on top of it "This is you."

"Should I try to pick up and straighten up the place?"

Bailey laughed, "No, we're nurses, not maids. His son can pay for a cleaning service to deal with it."

"Gotcha," I said, as I laid my backpack on the bed and retrieved my phone charger, plugging it into the wall. "So, you said you already fed him his dinner, right?"

Bailey nodded, "Yep, all you have to do is put him to bed, and to be honest, sometimes if he falls asleep in the chair, I just leave him. He seems to just like being there with his shows."

"What does he usually do for breakfast?"

"I usually just cut up fruit with some yogurt."

"Seems easy enough."

“Yea, I would just relax, catch up on reading or sleep,” Bailey said, pulling out her phone and looking at the time. “So do you think you need anything else?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered, as Bailey headed back to the hallway. Her nose pointed to her phone as she texted furiously, and we walked towards the front door, passing the room with the man. Guns were firing on the television.

“It’s an easy gig,” Bailey remarked, as she pulled out a set of keys. They jingled her hand as she seemed restless to leave. “So, I will be back in a couple of days to take back over, but call me if you need anything.”

She hastily exited the front door, as I turned back walking to the room with the old man. The television was still blaring, I looked over to see his eyes were no longer drooped down, but were now fully closed. It looked like my night was going to be easier than I thought.

I waited for a few moments, before a dull snore came from the man. I debated whether to turn the television off, but decided to not bother before heading to my room quietly shuffling to my room so as to not disturb him. The bed was actually more comfortable than I expected, as I began to scroll TikTok to relax.

– 

It groaned as my eyes began to open. I watched the door crack slightly. The room was now dark; I must have dozed off while on my phone. My eyes were blurry, but the sound continued as the door opened further. "Hello?" I asked quietly, debating whether it was an old house settling or someone, like Bailey, checking in on me.

A light scraping noise came from somewhere I couldn't quite pinpoint. It was unsettling enough for me to reach to turn on the light. I sat up in bed to see something was out of place, but there was no one in the room with me, nor anything that could be making the scratching noise.

I got out of bed and stuck my head out into the hallway. It was dark except for the glow of the TV screen from the man earlier. I could hear a faint sound like people talking, as if he were deep asleep with the show still on. I closed the door and settled back into bed, turning off the light, and beginning to drift off again, when the door slowly opened once more. The creaking sound became louder as I heard the doorknob hit the wall.

There he stood. The old man.

His eyes were no longer closed or droopy, but open wide like a startled animal. He hunched over and slowly walked into the room with me, his hair still standing and his robe dragging on the floor. He looked around the room, his mouth agape, studying it from the floor to the walls and even the ceiling. I almost said something before I noticed something.

He slowly crept around the room before turning his sights on me. He held something tightly gripped in his hand, which made every hair on my body stand up and tingle. I could only get a brief glimpse, but it was enough to scare the hell out of me.

A knife in his hand.

I don't know why I pretended to still be asleep, but he inched closer to me, his eyes and mouth still wide open, as if he were walking like a zombie in the bedroom. He stopped at the foot of the bed, watching me as I pretended to sleep. I felt I was done for, but he just let out a strange chuckle before turning around and slowly shuffling out of the room.

I laid there, my mind racing, as I searched my bed for my phone, quickly grabbing it and hand while getting out of the bed. I quietly walked to the door, sticking my head out once again, this time I was greeted with creaks and croaks from wooden floors along with the sound of television.

He was walking around.

But I couldn't see him; he was in one of the other rooms. Where though? I just knew I had to get out of the house as quickly as possible. I walked as lightly as I could. The sound of him walking was intentionally heavy and menacing, wherever he was in the house. A few steps in, a loud sound came from underneath my feet. The hardwood floor had betrayed me with a light creak, but it might as well have been a scream.

"You don't have to hide!" a raspy, aged voice yelled as the footsteps picked up the pace, shuffling and dragging from somewhere nearby. I panicked as I pushed open another door in the hall and slipped in. "We can end this really quickly!"

The room was dark and musty. I could see the outline of a bed among more stacks of books. There were even books resting on the bed; it looked as if no one had used this room in years. "I'm going to find you!" the voice shouted menacingly.

The footsteps were coming closer. I had to hide as I looked around the room. Each piece of furniture, whether drawer, table, or even chair, had stacks of books upon it. I dashed towards the bed itself and crawled underneath, right before the door swung violently open.

"Are you in here?"

I held my breath, trying to hold back the urge to scream from the top of my lungs as I could hear him walk in. Each step he took my heart felt like it would leap from my chest as he carefully walked around.

“We are going to end this,” the voice screeched. “I’ve been waiting for so long for the right moment to do this.” 

He paused for a moment, staying stationary. I may have only been able to see his feet, but I knew he was looking. Not even a twitch came from me as I waited patiently, hoping he would give up in this room. After a few moments, he shuffled out of the room.

I peeked out to see the door still open, but the old man was nowhere to be found. I was just going to have to run for it. As I slid from underneath the bed and darted towards the hallway, I looked around to hear the old man yelling somewhere in the house, "I know you are still here."

I just ran towards the door, the television becoming louder as I came near the room where I had thought he had peacefully gone to sleep. As I got closer, I could see the light pour out into the hallway from the television, casting a shadow on the floor. He was in that room.

I don't know why I stopped to take a glimpse, especially being so close to freedom. But I did and saw a figure standing in the dark right in front of the television, as if he were watching his show again.

"I'm leaving and calling the police!" I yelled out, catching its attention. A strange hissing noise came from the direction as the figure began to contort, its head twisting around to reveal that it wasn't the old man; it was something else entirely.

It started to move quickly, each inch it got closer sounding as if its bones were snapping. As it wobbled its way towards me, I noticed that its skin was a dark hue of green, and its mouth was covered in crooked and sharp teeth. But something was missing. It had no eyes, not even eye sockets.

I started to move towards the front door again, but it moved faster than I could imagine. I felt wet limbs with a putrid smell grab onto me, tossing me down as if I were nothing more than a doll.

"Get off me!" I screamed from the top of my lungs as the creature pinned me down and bit into the air with a frenzy. I kicked and squirmed, trying to free myself from it as its mouth started to move closer to my face. I closed my eyes.

Then I felt something wet hit my face.

"I've been waiting for you to show again!" the raspy ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ilikecoolness132 on 2024-10-19 21:47:17+00:00.

---

I know this is going to take long time to explain. I'm not going to shorten it down or summarize it. Every detail needs to be said, even if this is the last thing I write.

My name doesn't matter. I'd tell you which street I'm on if I even knew. I don't, though. It could be anywhere, and I've been driving so long that I don't even remember much on which street I was on. It's no use going back, I suppose. I've already tried that, multiple times. My texts and calls aren't going through, and even this is slow and laggy to type. I don't know what else to do, as I know I probably won't leave this road. But I'll tell you how it happened, or at least all I remember.

My job is not desirable. It's just to get by, really. The night shift at the front desk of a motel. I have fellow co-workers, and I'm not scared of staying there at night. Plus, I enjoy the peace and quiet of the sleepy motel. Working with families complaining about too much noise in their room is the bad part. It happens too often, people mad at me for their neighbors. My job is what started all of this, really, if you think about it.

I had a pounding headache as I drove the 25 minute drive to work. I wasn't paying full attention to the turns. It isn't exactly fun to have to be at work at 8:00 pm every night and then finally get home at 5:00 am every night. That's why I figured I had a headache. Too much work, not enough sleep. I finally took a turn which set me off.

I drove on for a while, car rattling and bumping on what I thought was was my familar gravel road that meant I was getting close. I never saw anyone else on it. Just thick, calming, darkness all around my car. This road meant I was close, and just in time. I pulled out my granola bar to nibble on to hopefully ward off the hunger for a while. Just as I was ripping the ticked green wrapper, something caught my eye.

Just so everyone knows, the road is barely wide enough for two normal sized cars side to side. It is a back road, too, so usually no one walks or even drives on it. But things were different that day. There was a tiny body, one of a child, maybe, walking on the side of the road. It was kicking rocks as it went, little kid style, and swinging its short arms. This made me smile for a short second, before feeling a bit uneasy. Why was a child out on a nearly deserted road in the middle of the dark? I slowed down a bit to look closer. Maybe this wasn't a child at all? Maybe I'd got it all wrong?

No, this was clearly a little kid. Not only because of height, but the scrawny, awkward, shape of kids. I don't know how to describe it, but that was clearly a child. I felt this sense of dread as the little child stopped, staring at by car. His eyes were barely visible, but his head was turned in a way it was apparent. Then he started walking up to my car while I was still moving. I quickly pulled over, feeling a strange sense of dread.

The child stopped at my window, head down and shoulders sagging. He looked ashamed. "Mrs." he murmurs quietly, "get off the road." I frowned, a bit surprised at the kid's bluntness.

"I can't do that buddy," I said slowly, not sure what else to do, "Are you alright?" I'm a bit socially awkward, so I talk slowly and strangely sometimes, saying words I don't mean. Talking to children is even worse because of their honesty and tantrums, but I can't just leave one in the dark.

The kid looked up. His eyes were green and his hair was a curly black, matted into a rug on his tiny head. I nearly gasped at his bruised and dirt encrusted face. His lips were dry, cracked, and bleeding with multiple sores. I couldn't believe the shape he was in. Dirty, bruised, and pale-looking. His lips opened, making a choking sound that turned into words. "No," the boy smiled a bit. He was missing multiple teeth, and the remaining ones were tainted a sickly yellow. "I like my job."

I couldn't even process the words. My throat was too dry to cough out even a few words, so I just stared. The disheveled boy's smile morphed into a toothy grin. I wanted to speed off, but couldn't. I was frozen, watching the boy.

"Fine," he said cheerfully, "Keep going then." I couldn't just leave him here, right? He had to be in pain, at least a little. But I couldn't carry that boy in my car. My lips didn't let me say anything. My arms stayed as still as stone, not letting me open the door for the kid. I felt a feeling of dread, something not allowing me to let the dirty child in.

So I didn't. I stiffly nodded and revved my engine. The kid backed off, grinning almost creepily. I wish I would've listened to the kid before speeding off into the night.

I was speeding about two miles per hour over the speed limit. My phone ticked steadily over 8:00, so I was late. And though I was going fast, nothing changed. The forest around the gravel road stretched on infinitely, not thinning out at all. The turn I remembered being there was gone, and the fork that I knew should be there didn't come up. Maybe I'd gone the wrong way?

I slowed down to only a few mph, and pulled up my phone. It opened to the password screen, which I briskly typed in. 8:16. I was very late. Quickly, I swiped to my home screen. A blurry picture of my rolling dog. It didn't make me smile like always. I swiped up again, opening my apps. My dog remained in the back round of all the colorful icons.

After scanning my screen for a moment, I found the multi-colored icon of Google Maps. With one quick finger I tapped it. Suddenly, my screen was engulfed in light.

And I saw it.

The normal screen, showing the streets, was gone. It was a gray line against the white background. My icon indicated I was traveling along the gray line, normal and shining blue. But there were no other streets around. Just this one, a straight line. It's hard to describe just seeing something so blank that is usually full. And to top it off, the street doesn't have a name marked across it. And it looks all too long. There are no destinations posted along it, making it seem eerie and outright scary.

I gasped a little, looking up at the infinite stretch of gravel ahead of me. A shape cut through the darkness. Two small blobs of light, accompanying a vaguely humanoid shape. Except taller, with long and skinny legs and arms. It was clear it was looking at me, the blobs of light straight where a face would be. I let out a little squeal, turning around quickly.

I don't know how long it's been. I've tried calling 911, but it's not going through. Texting just pops up a red text saying my message hasn't been sent. My phone time isn't moving, staying at 8:26 pm. I'm not sure what to do. I'm terrified, seeing that thing everywhere I turn. It towers over the car, at least eight feet tall.

I need to stop. I feel weak, like I might vomit. I'm flying across the road, seeing that figure running with me. I think I might crash, but I'm trying to control the car. I've slowed as I'm typing this, trying to find a way out. But it just keeps going. I remember something else happened, but it feels like it's been days, yet it is still pitch dark.

And every time I look, that thing is running closer and closer.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EmmaWatsonButDumber on 2024-10-19 21:42:11+00:00.

---

I’m a resident in my 3rd year and I’ve just been transferred here. So far, I can’t say it’s been boring. Can you, ever? I’ve met countless patients with the rarest diseases, and been through a lot of difficult situations - I guess that’s the adrenaline inducing med life everyone craves. I was prepared to feel confused, disgusted, even scared… and, yet, not in this way.

I haven’t been too precise. Let me rephrase. The hospital I’ve been transferred to is in the middle of nowhere. I’m talking, forgotten village in a valley, almost no signal, maximum 300 people. Why would I take this job, you ask?

Well, they pay me well. And you know how difficult is for residents to actually make some money.

My parents were skeptical at first. “Why would they look for staff so desperately, that they’re willing to pay you that much?”

“Well, mom, frankly, it’s not my business.”

“It is, if they’re making you do weird shit.”

“Jo, no bad language around little Mel” my mother shushed my sister. “Will they, though?” She followed, frowning.

“I don’t think so. They’re just lacking personnel. Think about it. No one wants to go to Fucksville in the middle of nowhere and waste their time - pardon, I meant gain experience - for 7 months. They have to attract you in some way.”

“Okay, but call.”

“Or don’t.” My dad said. “Spare us. It’s enough I have to listen to you complain 24/7 here. Don’t want a mini you on the phone saying the same stuff.”

“All right.” I mocked him.

I really didn’t think anything interesting was going to happen anyway. Mostly old people going for the billionth check up just to get out of the house and make sure they don’t die and they live up to being 188, and kids with a cold.

I get there, and it’s worse than I imagined. I have to rent this “flat”, which is mostly the first floor of an old building in the central plaza (the 4 square feet town center), and stinks of cigarettes and alcohol worse than I do. I have a roommate I barely see and a landlord that instructed me from the beginning not to smoke. Hm.

The hospital is 2 miles away, in what I like to call the suburbs of this mega populated area. It’s a rotting building with mold in like half of the rooms, and a questionable basement, but at least the staff is nice. I don’t know how they passed all safety and health checks, but fuck if I care.

Anyway, I start, and there’s nothing unusual going on. I don’t have much to do, as I anticipated. Walk around. Do check ups. Draw blood. Assist. Talk to patients. “How are you feeling, ma’am? And how often do you say that happens? All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

I took some night shifts in the first weeks, but it was extremely boring and the mold was bad for my lungs, so I stopped.

Nothing interesting happened during the first few weeks. It was truly just me and the cold mountains, a lone and mysterious wolf against this darkness we call life. I don’t know what was going to kill me first - the mold, or the boring routine.

Sometime around 9PM, as I wanted to leave, one of the nurses approached me and asked whether I wanted to take an extra shift for the night. Before I opened my mouth to tell her kindly to fuck off, she said something that stopped me.

“We need help at the morgue.”

I paused, mouth open. I narrowed my eyes. “Who died?”

She didn’t answer.

“People really die here? Wouldn’t the population go down by like half?”

She scoffed. “You should really take things more seriously.”

I accepted, just to break this endless cycle of waiting around.

I was writing a report for an old lady, and she tried to make small talk. She looked at me, narrowed her eyes and asked me where I was from.

“Does it matter? I’m here now.”

“Of course it matters. You’re transferred to the basement now? They must really like you.” The old lady looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her anywhere in my mind. She wore this flowery coat and had blue eyes, that moved around a lot.

I frowned. “Yeah?”

“Mm. Yes. Tell me what you saw the next time we meet.”

“Okay?” Whatever that meant, I thought.

The winter air was really getting to me, so I closed the window, then remembered the mold situation and opened it again. When I did, as the glass moved, I saw the old lady’s reflection suddenly bending down and turning her head really quick, but when I turned to look, she was sitting in the same position, looking at me and smiling.

I looked back at the window’s reflection, and there she was, still bent down. I figured I must have been hallucinating due to the mold. The high pay was beginning to matter less and less.

Lights flickering, the air got considerably colder as I got to the basement. It looked depressing. And the hallways were really narrow, with yellow walls and creaking doors. For the first time, I missed the familiarity of my tiny flat.

There was one doctor there, bend down over something.

“Uh, hi. You’re Mr. Lake?”

He didn’t answer. He was humming something. I noticed he had his stethoscope on, so I patted him on the shoulder.

He didn’t flinch, just calmly turned around and looked at me. I saw a dead squirrel behind him, the subject of his examination.

“I was listening to some tunes, hi!”

“Inside… the squirrel?”

“Yeah! You get it.”

I stared at him puzzled as he stumbled to a drawer and pulled out something. “You must be Mr. Hannigan. Sign.”

“Is this… an NDA?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Um, I actually will worry about it. I’m not signing this. What’s going on?”

He paused and remained like that for a while. I could hear the creaking floors in the hallway. “Is there someone else with us?”

“Well, yeah. You’d think we were alone here? Who in their right mind would be alone here?” He laughed.

I frowned. “We’re together, we’re not exactly alone…?”

“God, you’re still talking. Be quiet, Mr. Hannigan. Sign this and be quiet.”

I don’t know why, but I did.

Dr. Lake went into the hallway and I heard some whispering, then he came back. “Okay, they’ll bring them in very very soon.”

“Them? There’s more?”

“Yeah, we die in pairs around here.”

“…Right.”

That was the least weird thing I'd heard tonight. I didn't even question it that much.

We sat next to each other in the cold room for a while, and nothing happened. Just waiting in the silence, disrupted by one ticking clock and the wind moving the branches outside. As much as I was freaked out, it was… interesting. I was a bit curious to see what was going to happen next and, judging by the non-disclosure agreement I had to sign, the night was not going to be uneventful.

"Is your name really Dr. Lake?" I asked.

The man flashed me a smile. "It used to be Blake, but I gave a letter up."

Then, right as he looked up to the door frame, his expression dropped. I turned to look, but nothing was there.

"They're here." he mumbled, half excited, half nervous, as he sprinted through the door. I followed and, to my surprise, someone was really there: a nurse wearing three crosses around her neck, bringing two bodies on two distinct tables. When she saw us, she nodded. Her face was made only from sharp angles and rough tones, and her eyes had no warmth, no movement, even when she looked at me. Her lips were paper thin and violet, and her hands - covered in cuts.

She didn't speak, but Dr. Lake thanked her and we pulled the two tables inside the room.

The post-mortem room was cold and sterile, its metallic surfaces gleaming under the harsh, clinical lighting that cast sharp shadows across the space. In the center of the room, the two stainless steel tables stood like grim altars, each one slightly angled with drainage channels for fluids. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, a sharp contrast to the heavy silence that seemed to settle over everything. Along the walls, cabinets held an array of gleaming surgical tools—scalpels, bone saws, forceps—all meticulously arranged for easy access.

A ventilation system hummed quietly, ensuring the air remained cool and sterile, while a sink in the corner provided a steady trickle of water, the sound a soft but constant reminder of the room’s grim purpose. Yeah, air ventilation. Good luck beating the mold. I thought, but noticed that this room seemed to be free of mold. It was almost as if it didn't belong to the hospital.

"Mr. Hannigan. I need you to take out a notebook and write down what I tell you."

I obliged, expecting instructions, initial observations or anything like that.

"Write. Rule 1."

Rule 1.

"Don't talk to strangers."

I smiled at the joke, then hovered my pen above the paper, waiting for the actual rule.

"You done?"

I looked up, still expecting. Dr. Lake was studying me, impatient. "Rule 2."

"Wait, rule one was..."

"Don't talk to strangers. Come on, hurry. We have to be done before the sun rises."

"What do you mean? I'm sorry, was that a joke?"

"I am dead serious. In this, uhm, area, you don't talk to no one. Just me or anyone you know. You see others working in the basement, you do not approach them. You don't talk to strangers."

I pressed my pen into the paper and distantly wrote don't... talk... to... strangers.

Rule 2. Always examine everything around. A death is not just the end of a life. It is a separation that bends the universe and snaps it in half. Such thing disrupts the atmosphere, so be mindful of your surroundings. Sometimes the clues are not in the dead body, but everything else around them.

Great, I thought. This doctor was fucking crazy. Maybe that's why ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheLastRiter on 2024-10-19 18:21:52+00:00.

---

Fourteen days. It has been fourteen days since my little brother and his friends were declared missing. Fourteen days since my family heard anything from Peter. He could be difficult, but he’d never just disappear like this.

Peter and his two friends, Michael and Corey, fancied themselves urban explorers. They enjoyed creeping through crumbling malls and abandoned theaters that people whispered were haunted. The police had searched every likely spot within a hundred miles and found nothing but old squatters and empty spaces. They shrugged it off, convinced Peter and his friends had taken off for spring break. But Peter’s phone, always glued to his hand, had gone straight to voicemail. And it stayed that way.

Frustrated with the lack of progress, I took a leave of absence from my job and returned to my hometown, determined to find Peter myself. The first place I went was our childhood home.

It was early morning when I arrived, and the house was quiet, or so I thought. My parents were awake, moving through the house like ghosts, their eyes hollow and tired. They hadn’t slept. How could they? Peter’s room was a disaster, made worse by the police rummaging through it for clues. His computer sat untouched in the corner. When I turned it on, I was greeted by my first obstacle, a password.

I tore through his desk, notebooks, and every scrap of paper I could find, desperate for a clue. A poster of some grungy, tattooed band caught my eye: Vexor. Peter loved that band. I typed the name into the computer. Incorrect it said bouncing back. I sighed, leaning back in his chair, frustration bubbling up. The room felt suffocating, as if Peter's absence left a void I couldn’t fill.

Then I caught sight of the poster again, reflected in the mirror. Backwards. Vexor read “Roxev.” It was a long shot, but I typed it in. The screen unlocked.

I exhaled, a small victory in a sea of uncertainty. I clicked through his files until I found a chat between Peter, Michael, and Corey. One message stood out: a link to a YouTube channel called The Unexplained Adventurers Club. I clicked through their videos which were well-edited shots of the three boys exploring decaying buildings and forgotten places. The latest video was of them at an old mill on the outskirts of town, and in the final minutes, they mentioned their next destination: St. Dismas Asylum.

I Googled the asylum and immediately felt a chill. It was an old, abandoned place, shut down decades ago amid rumors of human experiments. The photos online were grainy, but enough to show a crumbling building shrouded in decay. The idea of Peter and his friends exploring that place made my stomach twist. Still, if that’s where they’d gone, that’s where I’d have to go.

The drive to St. Dismas was long and oppressive. The sky darkened as I left the highway, and the backroads leading to the asylum were barely roads at all mostly just dirt paths winding through thick woods that seemed to close in around me. The trees were lifeless, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. My headlights barely cut through the gloom, and with each mile, the silence grew heavier.

Finally, after what felt like hours, I saw it. St. Dismas sat perched on a hill, towering over everything like a malevolent giant. It looked wrong, almost as if it was leaning toward me, beckoning me closer. The building’s jagged silhouette was barely visible against the night sky, but it exuded an aura of decay and abandonment. Yet, even from a distance, I felt eyes on me, like the asylum itself was watching.

I should have stopped. I should have turned back. But as I neared the gate, I spotted a Jeep Grand Cherokee, partially hidden by overgrown bushes. My heart hammered in my chest. It was the same Jeep the boys had last been seen in.

I pulled up alongside it and stepped out, the cold night air biting at my skin. My flashlight beam swept over the Jeep, and dread coiled in my stomach. Two tires were flat as if they had driven over something sharp. My breath caught as I tried the doors, but they were locked tight. The back hatch gave way after a few tugs, and I climbed inside. The keys were still in the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t turn. The battery was dead.

I rummaged through the glove box and found the insurance papers. Michael Cromwell. I was right, it was their car. But where were they?

I checked my phone again. No signal. Of course. I could go back, try to find service, but the thought of leaving them behind felt like abandoning them. I had to keep going.

The gatehouse beside the fence had a faint glow coming from inside. I hesitated, then entered, my nerves frayed with every step. The light inside flickered, casting long, wavering shadows. An old computer sat in the corner, but it was the bright orange button on the wall that caught my eye. It had to be for the gate.

With a deep breath, I pressed it. The gates groaned as they slowly creaked open, their rusted hinges screaming in the silence. I jumped, startled by the sudden noise. For a moment, I stood frozen, staring at the gaping entrance. There was no turning back now.

I passed through the gates, and they slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing through the air like a final warning. My flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the dry, brittle ground beneath my feet. The earth seemed dead, drained of life, much like the trees that stood sentinel around the asylum. In the distance, I spotted a single light in one of the upper windows. It shouldn’t have been there, there was no reason for a place like this to still have power.

I made my way to the front doors, their heavy oak frames bound with thick chains and a rusted padlock. I shook them, but they wouldn’t budge. My flashlight beam flickered as I peered through the grimy windows. Inside, I could see the outline of an old waiting room, but there was no movement, no sign of life. I swept the light around, looking for a way in, but the shadows seemed to twist and dance just out of reach, taunting me. I figured there must be a similar orange button inside the lobby to open the front gate again, there had to be or else I would be trapped here.

Then, I noticed the footprints. Three sets, leading around the side of the building, directly under the window with the light. I followed them, my flashlight flickering as if struggling against the oppressive darkness. The prints led to a metal trellis climbing the side of the stone wall. Several bars were broken, and my heart raced as I realized this was how Peter and his friends had entered.

I looked up at the window, the only sign of life in this dead place. I had no signal, no backup, and no way out until I found them. I took a deep breath, gripping the trellis. The metal flexed under my weight, but I climbed anyway, feeling the pull of something far darker than I’d expected waiting for me inside.

Hand over hand, I went until my fingers scraped against the rough stone of the window sill, and with a final heave, I pulled myself into the room, only to stumble and land hard on my chin, a cloud of dust erupting around me. Cursing under my breath, I rolled to my feet, the silence in the room heavy and oppressive, wrapping around me like a shroud.

The administrative room was oddly preserved, an old bank teller's lamp casting a weak glow over a desk cluttered with disheveled papers. Despite the dust covering nearly everything, some sheets bore the official stamp of St. Dismas, their pages oddly missing a layer a dust as though someone had been examining them recently. I rifled through the documents, noting the sterile language detailing procedures and consents that felt cold and clinical. A low hum pulsed in the air, reminiscent of faulty electrical wires crackling somewhere in the depths of the building.

As I approached the door, a sudden crash echoed through the hallway, sharp and disorienting. My heart raced as panic surged within me. I was seconds away from bolting back through the window when I hesitated. Peter could be in danger; I couldn’t abandon him, even if fear gnawed at my insides.

That sound was heavy and metallic but might have been the boys. What if they were trying to escape from somewhere? The thought froze me momentarily, but I steeled myself, pushed down the dread, and opened the door to the hallway.

Peering into the murky darkness of St. Dismas, I aimed my flashlight into the gloom. A long, hospital-style corridor unfolded before me, lined with doors that whispered secrets. Some were slightly ajar, as if beckoning me closer, while others were locked tight, guarding their horrors.

A crooked sign hung on the wall, the word "ADMINISTRATION WING" scrawled in blood-red letters. I quickly checked my phone, praying for a signal, but the screen remained obstinately blank. With every step I took, the linoleum floor creaked, each echo amplifying my sense of vulnerability.

Then, I heard it. A faint dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled along the floor above me. My heart raced. Was it Peter? Or was it someone, or something else lurking in the shadows? Perhaps a deranged ex-patient or a sadistic doctor conducting nightmarish experiments on the unwitting?

A shiver danced down my spine. Calling out would be foolish; I needed to remain hidden, to find the source of the noise before it found me.

At the end of the hallway, I rounded a corner and stepped into a grand atrium that ...

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