nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PostMortem33 on 2024-10-06 18:39:57+00:00.

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It’s not the best or the worst job, but the pay is decent.

At 4:59, one minute before clocking out, my manager sent the following e-mail:

Good morning, William.

I hope this e-mail finds you well.

I know this is super-late notice, but I’m going to need those presentations on Employee Relations, Training and Development, and Workplace Policies Updates tomorrow at noon.

We’re moving the deadline because I just got news the CEO will visit two days from now instead of next week as we all knew.

I trust you can send me the deliverables and whatever overtime you work will be  compensated.

You hard work is always appreciated by the company.

Warm regards,

James Miller

Head of Talent Management Division

 

I thought long and hard to throw the monitor out the window, but ultimately decided against it. This job provided my only income and although not something super-big, it was well above-average. So, I stayed put and began working.  I had 75% of the presentations already done. I figured the rest would take me anywhere between seven to nine hours. It shaped up to be the first time when I had to work past midnight.

The hours passed and I became more tired. My eyes hurt from the monitor’s bright light, yet I didn’t relent. I had to finish the work. When I’m working, I use focus mode on my documents, so I don’t get distracted. Thus, imagine how my mouth dropped when I saw the time: 2:30 AM. I didn’t even notice the passing of time. I didn’t understand it was humanly possible to sit for nine a half hours on a chair typing. Yet I did it and I was proud. I knew I had some discipline in me, but not this kind.

At 3:00 AM, I typed the THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION! message on the last slide of the last presentation.

“Time to head home, take a hot shower and drift off to the land of dreams,” I whispered to myself

Nights in the office are silent. You can’t hear anything other than the air-conditioning droning or the vents outside.

But, at 3:00 AM you never hear multiple furious knocks on the door. I jumped from my seat and froze with fear. I should’ve just turned on the lights and peak outside in the large hallway but didn’t. I waited to see if whoever were on the other side would enter. I called security to see if any other employees were still in the office, but only got a grumpy, negative reply­.

I moved with slow steps towards the door.

One, two, three, four knocks again.

What the hell was going on?

“Who is it?!”

No reply. Only a prolonged high-pitched scream.

I locked the door, turned on the lights and called security again.

“There is no one there with you, Will. You are all alone now,” said the security guy. The pitch of his voice had changed­­­—he talked like an old cassette recording on low batteries. He struggled to say the word and paused between them. It was as if he was just learning to communicate with another human being.

I didn’t understand what the hell had just happened.

Now, whoever was on the other side banged on the door. The door unlocked itself and opened slowly. My heart nearly shattered into a million pieces. I couldn’t move and the only way out was death­—I had to submit to paralysis and dread. The door opened all the way through. Whoever had knocked earlier had vanished.

On the other side of the door—where the hallway should’ve been—I saw an albeit crooked replica of my office.

Eight cubicle desks. Eight telephones. Eight computers.

All of us eight employes standing on the chairs; hands frozen on the keyboards; lifeless eyes staring into the monitors; mouths wide open. All of them sat in the exact same position and did the exact same thing.

What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t jump out the window. It was too high, last floor of a 33-story building.

“What the fuck is this place…?”

The windows in this room were opaque and I couldn’t see anything outside. At the far end corner, I saw a red door. My office didn’t have one, but I knew I had to go through.

I didn’t want to touch anything because I didn’t know what the whole place was. I glanced here and there at everything as I walked: the numbers on the telephones were not in order, texts on the monitor didn’t make any sense—they looked like scribblings of mad men.

I couldn’t help but go and observe this version of myself. Will-2 had marbled skin. I touched it. Upon careful inspection, I noticed it was a plastic crust over the body. Will-2 was trapped inside a plastic prison. I gently run my fingers on his face. It was cold and shiny. His eyes started moving and stared at me with fear.

He wanted to say something, but only an “Anh” came out.

I moved back two steps, and our visions met. Tears formed in his eyes, and he tried speaking again.

“Aaan. Eee ih ahmin…”

The door to this office closed shut. Steps began running in the distance—heavy, thunderous, and violent.

All eight plastic people tried speaking at the same time.

“Ru… eee is chhhooomiiii”

I could sense the fear under all that plastic. Helpless versions of me and my other colleagues, trapped here forever and cursed.

“Ruuuun… He is coming…” Will-2 said. The plastic under his lower jaw had broken and he could say the words at last.

“Who is coming?” I asked.

“Run, he is coming. Run, he is coming. Run, he is coming,” he just kept on repeating those words like a broken record.

Something tried getting inside the office, forcing the doorhandle, and pushed it down multiple times. I ran toward the red door not looking back for anything in the world. After getting to the other side, I immediately turned and locked it.

I managed to escape by mere seconds. Whoever forced the other door had managed to get through in the office. I heard screams of agony, slashing sounds and bodies thrown around the room. The violent impact with the walls broke those people’s bones. I had my back against the red door and heard nothing for a few moments. The sudden sounds of someone ripping flesh and skin made my stomach churn. Whatever or whoever was in there chomped on those people and their organs. It sickened me and I knew there and then I was mere prey. An apex predator was breathing behind my neck.

Again, I found myself in a large room. The dim light made it creepy as hell to be in there. It was yellowish and sickly, casting cancerous hues on the cream carpet and greige walls. The room was symmetrical. To my right there was a dark corridor, devoid of life. I tried glancing into that darkness. The more I stared, the more I could sense something in there watched back with hungry eyes.

To the far-left side the same corridor, but that one wasn’t dark. I could see a light flickering at its exit.

From the darkness, acoustic music began playing­— dark and haunting. It sent icicles of fear straight to my heart. The tune was sad at the same time­—a musical proof for the existence of depression. What if this was a dirge, a song for the end of my life?

The music stopped and it was replaced by a high-pitched shriek. Whatever that was, it certainly was not human. I ran as fast as I could to the other end of the room where the light flickered with more intensity. It was nerve-wracking to say the least.

As I ran, I heard footsteps coming from that darkness. Again, I didn’t dare looking back. The light flickered and flickered and flickered endlessly. The scream grew louder and more violent. Tick-tock, the sands of time flowed faster in the hourglass. I made a sudden left turn in the corridor. The hungry thing behind me hit the wall, screamed in agony and frustration, but didn’t let.

Now, I saw a door with a red neon EXIT sign above. Surely, that had to be my way out.

I felt something clawing at my ankle. It hurt like hell and warm blood soon came out. I fell and had no other choice but to glance at what abomination hunted me. I’ve tried avoiding it so much, but now I was put face to face with the terror.

It was none other than my boss, James Miller. His skin was grey and  crazy eyes bloodshot. The nails of his hands were black and sharp. His office suit, tie and shirt stained with blood.

He still had bits and pieces of flesh and skin from when he consumed the alternate version of me and my colleagues.

“Did I say you can leave? Why didn’t you finish your presentation?”

“Get off me, you fucking freak!”

He lunged at me and was now standing atop me. He wanted to bite my neck and kill me right there and then.

“You and everybody else are made of plastic, you have no feelings for this company. I’ll kill you and hire someone better!”

I had a pen inside the chest pocket of my shirt. I tried keeping Crooked Miller off me with my left hand and grabbed the pencil with my right. I put him right in his artery and blood gushed out everywhere. It rained red on my face and body. Miller felt lifeless on the floor beside me, trying to breathe but choking on blood. His right leg twitched as his heart gave its last beat.

I walked with a limp towards the door. Freedom at last.

Except not, I was still in my office with the THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION! last slide of the last presentation.

The cuts on my ankle still hurt. The blood was almost black now, congelead.

Before I could come to terms with what had happened, I heard someone banging violently on the office door.

I answered. The security guard was just checking in. I still am not sure what had happened, but I managed to go home immediately.

It was 3:00 AM again.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/JamFranz on 2024-10-06 18:36:26+00:00.

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It began a week ago, with a text from a number – a name – I never thought I’d hear from again.

‘Hey baby’

I nearly dropped my phone when I read the text from Rosalie. I ignored it, because I knew there was no reason for her to ever contact me again. It had to be a prank.

She texted again the next day

‘I miss you. Did you miss me?’

I ignored that too, until she sent a picture of herself – pouting. She looked just like I remembered, minus the nose ring.

‘I look good, right? ;) Better than you thought I would?’

She did look good, far better than she had the last time I’d seen her. I began to doubt the details of our breakup. Maybe it hadn’t gone like I remembered. Maybe I’d made a mistake.

‘Belize has been kind to me. That’s where you told people I went, right? When you got bored of me?’

That got my attention. ‘What do you want?’

‘I just want to talk. In person. I want to know why.’

I shouldn’t have gone to meet her. I should’ve ignored the texts. But I needed to know how she was contacting me after all these years. 

‘Does anyone else know the details of our break up?’ I never bothered meeting them, but I was fairly certain that her family never liked me. ‘Does anyone else know we’re talking again?’ 

‘No.’

I decided to take a chance.

‘Where do you want to meet?’ I finally sent back.

‘The place where you left me.’

I paused for a moment – even better. The thought made me smile for the first time since she reached back out to me. 

I agreed.

As I made the long drive out, down the winding country roads, I felt a pang of doubt.

I told myself I had nothing to worry about. I’d dumped her once already, so I’d hear her out, and then I’d do it again. 

For good, this time.

As I pulled up, a lone figure stood on the outskirts of the dark trees, squinting at the sudden brightness of my high beams. 

There she was, Rosalie. It was really her, in the flesh.

I shouldn’t have gotten out of the car – It would’ve been so easy to end it then and there – but like an idiot, I wanted to do it up close in person, with my own hands.

Again.

So, I left the car, discretely tucking the sheath of the knife into the small of my back, slowly closing the distance between us. 

Just like old times.

She was covered in mud. A strange, dirt streaked smile was plastered across her face as she stared at me from across two freshly dug holes.

For a moment I wondered if she truly was back in the ‘flesh’ after alI. I felt a pang of something so foreign to me, that it took a moment to recognize what the feeling was.

Fear.

I was so distracted that it took me too long to notice the differences.

“Your tattoos are gone.”

A sad little smile softened her features, “Tattoos were always Rosalie’s thing, not mine.” she continued on, in response to the confusion that surely must’ve been written across on my face. “Mom used to tease us that she was glad Rosalie got so many – it made it easier to tell us apart.”

I stared, comprehension dawning on me as her smile disappeared.

“You aren’t her.”

“No. No I’m not. Death is forever, Jonathan. There is no coming back.”

I looked down into the first hole, the one closest to me.

Torn fabric punctuated by slender bits of white gleamed up at me, stark against the dark soil.

Rosalie.

She was still there, in that shallow little grave.

Right where I’d left her.

I ventured a glance into the other, much deeper pit, where a crude, rectangular, particleboard box sat open. 

I looked back up just in time to see the moonlight glinting off the metal of the shovel before it connected with my head.

The rest is fuzzy:

A vague recollection of her tossing my phone and some other device at me as she closed the lid.

The sound of her muffled voice, saying something about maybe I should try calling the police.

She must have shoveled the dirt back on top of me, because I cannot, for the life of me, push the top open.

I’ve called the police and I’ve given them my location, but I’m not sure if they even believed me, much less if they’ll make it here in time.

My reception is spotty – I’m frankly shocked I even have any – but If anyone is reading this and is nearby, please come find me before it’s too late. 

I’m in the woods outside of Fall’s Mill, about ten miles east of route 24.

And, about six feet underground.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stemponik on 2024-10-06 09:43:22+00:00.

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I haven’t slept much these past couple of weeks. Listen, I don’t really know where to begin with this whole ordeal. It’s just been weighing on my mind lately, and no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to get it out of my head. So, I thought I’d write it down. I’m in my second year at university, studying chemistry (rather boring, I know) and I had a friend studying astronomy, called Garth. He was staying late one night, he’d been ill for a week and needed to catch up on some coursework, I decided to accompany him because I honestly didn’t have anything better to do.

So we’re sitting in the study hall, just us, Garth across from me taking notes from his brittle laptop that was probably top-of-the-line back in 2012, and I’m bored out of my mind: nothing interesting on my phone, I don’t have the energy to read any books and I sure as hell wasn’t going to do any of my own work. My eyes dart around the room for anything to distract me, and I do mean anything, there’s a brief moment where I contemplate getting up and repeatedly flicking the light switch on and off. Ultimately I don’t do that, because I’m not that much of an asshole. Instead, my eyes finally land on something else. At the back of the room, facing a large glass window, is a telescope.

The telescope is big. Not huge, mind you, just bigger than any telescope I had seen up to that point. It’s an ashen-grey colour, with deep red highlights on all the shifting sections of the device. It looks expensive, and I don’t really want to be in even further debt, so I touch it slowly and methodically, making sure that everything is held as securely as it should be. Its weight is supported enough for the worry in my brain to instantly evaporate, replaced just as quickly with newfound curiosity.

I’ve never been much of a space guy, it just never really caught my interest in comparison with the other major sciences. Yet there I was, almost giddy as I put my eye to the viewfinder, only to be met with pure, oppressive darkness. No lights, no stars, not even a moon. But, that was quickly rectified when I unscrewed the lens cap. Not my proudest moment, all things considered.

But here’s where it gets interesting. The way the window was installed gave me a clear view of the moon, the white beacon visible through the upper echelon of the window. I put my eye back on the viewfinder and quickly panned the telescope so that it was facing the moon– this telescope had some good zoom on it; I was able to make out all the different craters and rocks that scattered the moon’s surface, and despite my general apathy for space and astronomy, I found myself feeling an almost child-like wonder as I gazed upon this faraway land.

Then suddenly, while slowly adjusting the lens focus in an attempt to get an even clearer picture of the moon’s surface, I saw something move. My breath froze and my heart raced as I pulled myself away from the viewfinder. A pause. I look over at Garth and he’s still buried in his work. My brain tries its best to rationalize the movement as something natural: too much caffeine and not enough sleep, knocking the telescope slightly, straining my eye to see clearer.

I sigh, relieved, finding it almost laughable how easily I had scared myself with something so trivial. I bring my eye back down to the viewfinder to get another look at the moon, and that’s when I see it again.

It hasn’t stopped moving since I last looked. It’s big, it had to be if I was able to make out from such a distance. The thing looks almost human, but I wasn’t able to get a good enough look at it. Its skin looks almost identical to the dust that coated the moon itself, the only reason I was able to make out its rough shape was because of the harsh shadows that shrouded its body, leaving its silhouette trailing on the floor behind itself. Again, I could barely make it out, but it looked as if you got a stick-bug to stand up on its back legs. My breath once again gets caught in my mouth, but I don’t pull away this time, this feeling of unease creeps over me. I was already terrified, but this was something else; it felt like if I continued to stare something bad would happen, but no matter how hard I tried, how hard I pleaded with myself to move, I just wouldn’t budge, not an inch.

My eyes are still fixed on the thing when it stops moving. It turns its head to look at me, at least that’s what I think it’s doing, it’s hard to make out all the details, but I know it's looking at me. You know that feeling, when it feels like something is watching you, the moment its head stopped moving that feeling seemed to burrow itself deep into me.

Despite it being too far to ever be able to see me directly, I know it's looking at me. Not looking at the earth, not looking at my country, looking at me. Directly at me.

The thing seems to raise a hand to point at me, and it's then that I find the motivation to step back out of the viewfinder and away from the window, pushing myself backwards as quickly and forcefully as I can, slamming against the wall on the other side of the room. The moment I do, the feeling stops.

“Holy shit, dude, you okay?” Garth asks, turning to look at me the moment he hears the crash of my back hitting the wall at a worrying pace. All I can do in reply is point a shaky hand towards the telescope. He eyes me sceptically, as you’d expect, and gets up to walk towards the telescope. He puts his eye on the viewfinder. “Are you fucking with me?” He turns to look at me with a pissed-off expression. “Why’d I fall for your shit, dude.” He goes back to his stuff and picks it up, quickly leaving the room.

I don’t want to be on my own with that telescope or that moon any longer than I have to. Getting up, I make a hasty escape towards the door Garth left through, and before I make it through the door, I take one last look at the telescope in the corner of the room. Its lens cap is still neatly discarded on the floor, and I don’t have the courage to go put it back.

It's been two weeks since that night, and strange things have started happening. For a while now, virtually every time I looked at the moon, I could feel it looking right back at me, once again not at the earth, but at me specifically. And I’m positive that it knows that I know. I’ve also been having these weird dreams– well, dream to be specific. It’s the same one almost every night.

I’m lying down in my bed, paralysed from the neck down, and that thing is in the room with me. It’s far too big to fit inside normally so it’s hunched over to what must be a painful degree, with its long grey fingers gripping the end of my bed like a vice. I can see it no clearer than when I first saw it all those weeks ago, its features are shrouded in a shadow that engulfs my room. The only actual notable features I can make out are the thin, wet hairs that pool on my legs, and the fetid odour that seems to emanate from them. Every time it’s there I feel the need to wretch as the putrid smell creeps towards me. Its ragged breathing is devoid of any rhythm, as if it's learning how to breathe for the very first time in its life, constantly having to remember to use its lungs on our oxygenated planet.

And then I wake up.

Though, in all honesty, I don't think I'm dreaming. There's been a few moments when I awaken from the prolonged state of sleep paralysis and find myself feeling that exact same sense of foreboding that I experience when I look at the moon. It's always far too dark for my brain to make out anything in my room, but sometimes, just sometimes, I can feel the disgusting sensation of its long, slick hair slithering away from my legs and out of my room. I could put this down to my brain still being in some sort of sleep state when I wake up, and that would make perfect sense, if not for the fact that every time it happens, my legs are soaking wet; not from sweat, or any other natrual fluids– no, this is far too oily to be anything human. It can’t be.

I get up and look, and just like every time before it, a dark trail of something leads directly from my bed, across my floor and out of my window. I shudder at the picture my brain conjures of how this thing would have to contort itself just to fit through my window.

It’s like that almost every night, it’s gotten to the point that I dread going to sleep at night, and actively try and stay awake for as long as I can. It’s not a healthy lifestyle, but in all honesty, I prefer unhealthy to dealing with that thing.

But something else happened. Something far worse happened than recurring nightmares, and it firmly planted the fact this thing was real in my mind. About a week ago Garth stopped showing up to class. He had been getting worse before then, a little slower to react, too tired to bite back whenever someone insulted him, eyes sunken and dreary. I didn’t understand what was up with him at first. I wish I never found out.

Three days after he stopped showing up I went to his flat, just to check up on him. I raised my hand and knocked on the door, and waited. No reply. So I went to knock again, and that’s when it hit me. That stench. That foul, wretched stench. The stench of death. I was too scared to do anything, so I ran. I ran out of the university accommodation until I could run no longer. I didn’t know what to do.

I ended up contacting the staff who run the housing asking to check in on him, hoping– praying that he was alright. But, sadly, I knew deep down wh...

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

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HeatConfident4673 on 2024-10-06 11:55:30+00:00.

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You know, they never really notice the small details. People are so caught up in their little lives, rushing from one place to another, worrying about things that don't matter in the end. No one cares about the people who disappear. Especially if they don’t fit the picture of what society calls ‘beautiful.’

Let me tell you a story. My story.

I’ve always had a fascination with beauty—what makes someone truly radiant. It’s not the makeup or the surgeries or the photoshopped images everyone obsesses over. No, it’s something much deeper, something hidden beneath layers of skin.

But they—the women society overlooks—had no idea. They thought they were invisible, unworthy, unlovable. Heavyset, curvaceous, they carried their burdens in more ways than one. But I saw them. I saw the potential in them.

At first, I didn’t know what I was searching for. I wandered, lost, just another ghost in the crowd. Until one day, I stumbled upon it by accident—the answer to eternal beauty. The right mix of ingredients, the perfect combination that no lab, no factory could ever create. Something raw, natural. You see, it’s not the fat itself. It’s what it becomes.

My first subject, I found her on the outskirts of town. She was waiting for the bus, staring at the ground like she was ashamed to exist. Her body was perfect for my experiment. Voluptuous, soft. The kind of figure society mocks and sneers at. But I knew better. I could make something exquisite from her despair.

She never saw me coming.

In my workshop, hidden beneath the earth where no one could hear the screams, I set to work. The smell of blood and oils mixed together, filling the space with something both revolting and intoxicating. I was nervous at first. But once I peeled back the layers—literally—I knew I was onto something extraordinary.

It didn’t take long for the first batch to be ready. A soap, pure and smooth, so luxurious you wouldn’t believe what it was made of. Her flesh became something else entirely. Beautiful. Desirable. I even tested it on my own skin, watching as the lines of time faded, as my complexion became brighter, clearer. She had given me a gift, and she didn’t even know it.

I sold my first bar to a boutique downtown. They had no idea what they were buying—just that it worked like nothing else on the market. It flew off the shelves. The more I made, the more they craved it. The soap, the serums—they became a sensation, a hidden secret among those seeking perfection. They’d never guess. They just wanted to be beautiful.

But beauty, you see, is a currency, and I’ve perfected how to trade in it. Those women, they were never appreciated for what they truly could be. Society mocked them, ignored them, made them feel small. But in my hands, they became something more.

They became...useful.

Do you know how easy it is to find the next one? They always sit alone, trying to make themselves smaller, hoping no one notices them. But I do. I always do. They’ve become part of something greater now. Something the world craves, though it doesn’t even realize it.

You might be wondering if I feel remorse. Guilt, perhaps? No. Not at all. I’m giving them the chance to be part of a legacy. They become the very thing they always wanted to be—desired, cherished, needed. Isn’t that what everyone longs for?

So, if you ever feel the smooth glide of an unfamiliar soap on your skin or notice your reflection looking a little too radiant after using that new serum, remember this: beauty has a price. And someone, somewhere, paid it.

Who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll be next. After all, perfection is hard to come by. And I’m always looking for the next perfect ingredient.

4o

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StormSpring on 2024-10-05 21:29:30+00:00.

---

I think I found a fake town. Its name was Kirwick, and if you’ve never heard of it before, that makes two of us.

It was the summer of 2005, and it all started when I was on a road trip down I-85, headed to Atlanta from North Carolina. A thunderstorm rolled in, and my GPS began rerouting me down endless backroads. After a while, I decided it would be better to get off the road entirely and took the next exit I saw. The exit sign said "Kirwick" in old, peeling letters, like it had been there forever. My gas light had come on, so I figured I might as well find a gas station. The road led me into a small town that looked like it belonged in an old photograph from God fucking knows when—faded colors, identical houses, each with a single light on behind a curtain. The streets were empty, and the only sound I could hear was the distant rumble of thunder.

I found a gas station that looked half-abandoned but still working. The pump was one of those old ones with the rolling numbers. I had to go inside to pay, and that’s when things got weird. The guy at the counter looked about my age, maybe early twenties. He was wearing a gas station uniform that was too big. The nametag just said 'Employee', with a faint stain on the collar. No job title, no name. Just fucking 'Employee'.

He smiled at me, but it was like he was waiting for something. His eyes looked empty, like he was physically looking at something behind me, and his smile kept twitching, like it hurt to hold. He didn’t blink. He didn't ask how much gas I wanted; he just punched something into the register, nodded, and handed me a receipt without looking at me. When I glanced down, the receipt said, "Welcome to Kirwick." No amount, no price, just that.

Back outside, I started filling up, but I noticed something strange. There were people—lots of them—standing in their yards, all staring in my direction. No one moved. Not even a little. I waved, trying to be friendly, but it was like they were made of wax. A little boy on a tricycle at the corner didn’t blink as rain dripped from his nose. The hair on my neck stood up. It felt like I had wandered onto a movie set and no one had told the extras they could stop acting.

Once I filled the tank, I knew I had to get the fuck out of here. I bolted into my car and started driving toward what I thought was the highway, but the roads kept twisting and looping, taking me past the same places over and over. The post office, the diner, a hardware store—each one repeating.. And every time I passed the gas station, the same attendant was standing in the same spot, looking right at me, with that same fake smile.

The first loop, I passed what looked like a park. There was a swing set, with one swing gently moving back and forth, even though there was no wind. A man was standing beside it, holding the chains of the swing, staring straight ahead. I slowed down, thinking maybe he could help, but as I got closer, I noticed his eyes. They were wide, but there was no expression—just a vacant stare that seemed to look right through me. He never moved, not even when I drove right past him. It was like he was frozen in place.

Second loop, I passed a small convenience store. The lights inside flickered, and there was a woman at the counter. She was staring out the window, her head tilted slightly, like she was listening to something only she could hear. I watched her as I drove by, and for a second, I thought I saw her mouth move, whispering something. I couldn't hear it, but I could see her lips forming words. The way her eyes looked, almost glassy, made me shiver. It felt like she was repeating something, over and over, a message meant for me, but I couldn’t understand.

The strangest loop, the third, was when I saw a group of children standing in a circle in one of the yards. They were all holding hands, heads bowed, like they were praying. I slowed down, trying to see what they were doing, but none of them looked up. There was something piled in the middle of the circle—a mound of something dark, covered in a cloth. I wanted to stop, to see what it was, but my instincts screamed at me to keep moving. The kids never moved, never even flinched as I drove by.

By the fourth loop, I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands hurt. I pulled over, desperate for directions, and knocked on the door of a small blue house. An elderly woman answered, her eyes just as empty as the guy at the gas station. Her smile was the same too. I asked her how to get to the interstate, and she pointed to a sign that said, "You Are Home." I felt a chill like nothing I’ve ever felt before—deep and cold. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

The fifth loop, I tried to find my way out by taking a road that seemed different, one I hadn’t noticed before. It led me past a park, with swings that creaked in the wind. There was a girl sitting on one of the swings, her back to me, slowly rocking back and forth. I slowed down, squinting through the rain to get a better look. Her hair was long and dark, and she wore a bright red coat. I rolled down my window to call out to her, to ask if she needed help, but as soon as I did, she stopped swinging. The air went completely still, and she turned her head just enough for me to see the side of her face. It was blank—no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, pale skin. I hit the gas so hard my tires squealed, and I didn’t look back until I was sure the park was FAR behind me.

I finally got out just as the sun was coming up. I don’t remember how. It’s all a blur of turns and backroads that eventually led me back to the interstate like it was spitting me out. I drove all the way to Atlanta without stopping, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see that gas station guy in my back seat. At one point, I thought I saw a shadow move behind me, just for a second, and the sound of my tires splashing on the wet road echoed in the silence.

When I tried to find Kirwick on a map later, it wasn’t there. No record of it, not on any official state website. With the advent of Google Maps, I've been checking every week hoping that maybe, just maybe, it'll show up. It genuinely feels like the place had never existed, like it had been made up just for me for one strange, endless night. I’ve thought about going back, but something tells me if I ever did, I wouldn’t make it out a second time.

Even all these years later, sometimes, in the middle of the night, I dream about Kirwick. I see the gas station guy, his blank stare piercing the dark, his smile getting wider in a way that doesn’t seem human. I hear the whispers of the people in the town, voices echoing through my dreams, saying things that don’t make sense. It’s like they’re trying to tell me something, but the words are always just out of reach. Sometimes, I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, and I swear I can still hear those whispers, like they're coming from just outside my window.

The reason I'm telling you all this is because the other day, I swear I saw a car with a Kirwick bumper sticker. It was at a red light in Atlanta, just two cars ahead of me. My heart sank, and I felt that same chill. I tried to catch up to it, but as soon as the light turned green, the car vanished into the traffic, like it had never been there. I even tried to follow the direction it went, weaving through cars, but there was nothing—no sign of it anywhere. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a warning, like Kirwick was reminding me that it was still out there, waiting.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-10-06 05:38:39+00:00.

---

We were a small documentary team, eager to explore how wildlife adapted to Pripyat's irradiated wasteland. It was me, Sam, Claire, and our Ukrainian guide, Viktor. For a week, we filmed the strange yet hauntingly beautiful ways in which nature had not only survived but evolved to thrive in this toxic environment. The animals, while still recognizable, bore subtle signs of their adaptations. The birds, for instance, had lost their vibrant hues; their feathers were now muted shades of gray and brown that allowed them to blend seamlessly with the desolate landscape. They flitted through the ruins, appearing almost ghostly against the crumbling concrete and rusting metal.

Moths that once displayed delicate, intricate patterns now bore markings adapted to mirror the twisted trees around them. Their muted colors helped them remain hidden among the charred bark. Even the deer we encountered had changed; they were slightly larger, their bodies more muscular, as if nature was pushing them to survive in a harsher world. Their coats were thicker, more suited to the unforgiving environment they inhabited.

The city itself was a mausoleum of concrete and steel, a place where time had stopped, yet life—however altered—had persisted. That’s what made Viktor’s offer all the more enticing. He told us about a place off the regular tour route, an old cooling pond just outside the city. It was dangerous, he warned us, but the animals that lived there were like nothing we had seen yet. He agreed to take us, for a price, of course. We couldn't resist the pull of capturing something unique, something no one had ever filmed before.

As night fell, we packed up our gear and followed Viktor to the cooling pond. The Geiger counters in our hands clicked steadily, but it wasn’t until we neared the water that the sound began to grow louder, faster. The pond itself was still, cloaked in a dense fog that rolled off its surface. We set up our cameras along the edge, scanning the water for signs of movement.

At first, nothing. Then, ripples. They were small at first, subtle, like the wind had brushed the surface, but the air was completely still. The water began to churn, and something massive rose from the depths. My heart pounded as the shape emerged—a grotesque, nightmarish form.

It was a creature that defied explanation, part human, part eel, its body slick and writhing with slimy, eel-like appendages. Its face was a twisted mockery of a human’s, its too-long fingers twitching with unnatural movement. A horrid mouth full of sharp, curved teeth gaped wide as it moved with terrifying speed, its eel-like body slithering across the ground.

Before any of us could react, it lunged. Sam’s scream filled the air as the creature wrapped its many fingers around his ankle and dragged him, kicking and clawing, back toward the water. Claire tried to run after him, but Viktor held her back, shouting that the radiation was too high. The Geiger counters were shrieking in our ears now, the noise deafening, but nothing could drown out Sam’s final scream as he disappeared beneath the water.

We didn’t think. We just ran, stumbling blindly through the darkness. The city had transformed into a twisted maze, and we were lost. Viktor, who had been so sure of his path before, now looked terrified. "This isn’t right," he kept saying, his eyes darting around in the dark. "This isn't the path."

We finally found refuge in an old, decaying building. The walls groaned as the wind pushed against them, and we huddled inside, our Geiger counters still clicking softly. Hours passed in a tense silence, and exhaustion eventually pulled us into a restless sleep.

The shrill sound of the Geiger counters jolted me awake. My shoulder felt wet, and a searing pain shot through me. I reached up, my fingers coming away slick with a liquid that burned my flesh like acid. I screamed as the substance began to dissolve my skin before my eyes, and despite Claire and Viktor’s frantic efforts to clean it off, I caught a glimpse of bone beneath the damage. Panic surged through me, and when I looked up, my breath caught in my throat.

Above us, perched on the rotting rafters, was a pack of dogs. The ferals of Chernobyl stared us down, their bodies ravaged by years of radiation exposure. Their fur was patchy, skin stretched tight over their skeletal forms. Their eyes, once sharp and animalistic, were now dull and clouded with madness, driven to insanity by the poison in the air.

One of the dogs growled, its lips pulling back to reveal blackened gums and jagged, rotting teeth. It lunged, and I barely dodged its snapping jaws. Viktor grabbed me by the arm, hauling me to my feet, and we bolted out of the building. The dogs chased us through the crumbling streets, their mutated forms fast and relentless, driven mad by hunger and sickness.

We ran blindly through the alleys of Pripyat, stumbling over debris and rusted-out vehicles. The dogs were relentless, their howls echoing in the dark, but somehow we managed to lose them in the tangled ruins. Viktor found the road back to the van, and we piled inside, slamming the doors shut just as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. He floored it, the engine roaring as we sped away from the nightmare we had witnessed.

But it was too late. My body ached, nausea churning in my stomach. I leaned out the window and vomited, the bile burning in my throat. The radiation had gotten to us, seeped into our bones. I could see it in Claire’s face, in Viktor’s shaking hands.

I don’t have much time left. None of us do. If you’re reading this, please, heed my warning—don’t come here. Don’t let your curiosity lead you to Chernobyl. The radiation isn’t the only danger. There are things here that no camera should ever capture, things that will haunt you long after the Geiger counters stop ticking.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/fainting--goat on 2024-10-06 03:19:11+00:00.

---

Previous Posts

I was knee deep in a swamp.  The sky overhead was a flat matte gray, the sort of inoffensive color you paint the walls when you don’t know what else to do with a room.  It was raining, the water neither hot nor cold, but the exact temperature to be unnoticeable against my skin.  There were high points of ground, swells in the terrain where the water thinned and I could see gray grass underneath the surface of the water.  There was nothing above the water level.  The rain fell steadily, just as it did on campus, and perhaps this was the reason why the town hadn’t flooded yet.

It was all coming here.  The rain released from its tormenter, falling incessantly, and flooding into the gray world.

I supposed that I could plant the seed and then try to find a way out, but something told me that this wasn’t the right spot for it.  I was seeing the effects of the rain, but it didn’t feel like this was anything other than the fringes of the rain’s influence.  I had to get this right.  I’d only get one chance, otherwise, the seed would be wasted and it’d do nothing but eat away at Grayson in bits and pieces.  Or worse, it would do nothing at all.

And when the gray world could no longer contain the rain, when things twisted and shifted beyond tolerance, then it would overflow onto campus.  I’d heard stories back home about what happened when a malevolent ancient claimed a parcel of land.  Slowly, person by person, the town would dwindle into nothingness.  People would either leave, unable to tolerate the oppression in the air, or they would die.  This sort of thing didn’t happen often… but it did happen.

Oh, we’d call it due to an economic downturn or something like that, but a ghost town is aptly named.

I began slogging my way through the water.  Seek the highest hill was the way to escape the gray world, but I wasn’t certain that was what I was looking for.  I was looking for anything at all, anything that would help me understand what I was to do with the seed.  It burned when it touched my bare skin so I carried it swaddled in my shirt, tucked against my chest.  

I walked for what felt like a very short time and a very long distance.  I could feel the world turning underneath my feet, rotating on its axis, but the scenery never changed.  I walked through the water, skirting the areas where I couldn’t gauge the depth, trying to stay on the swells where there were only a few inches of water.  The rain soaked through my clothing but I wasn’t cold, not with the stone radiating heat through my shirt.  Its presence felt comforting.  Somehow, it made me feel like I was doing the right thing.

Then I saw something up ahead.  A person.  I sloshed through the water towards it, nervously, because this was the gray world and I couldn’t trust that anything here was safe.  But they didn’t move, just stood there and stared at their feet, and as I grew closer I realized that I recognized who it was.  I broke into a run with a cry, my heels kicking up sprays of water, and I ran as hard as I could to where Maria stood all alone.

She raised her head and stared through me as I approached.  I came to a stop in front of her, panting, and wrapped both arms around the stone at my chest to shield it from her.  It was already covered up, but I didn’t dare let her touch it.  I couldn’t let it pull her inside as it’d almost done to James.

“Maria?” I asked.  “It’s me.  It’s Ashley.”

Her gaze sharpened.  She stared at me for a moment and then she smiled, a tentative, trembling gesture.

“I was waiting for you,” she said.  “I knew you’d come for me.”

For a moment I was speechless.  Then I began to cry, in relief, and with the heavy weight of her words.  She’d waited for me.  Because she knew I would come.  And I wanted to tell her that I didn’t know what I was doing here, that I was scared and confused, but I didn’t say anything at all.  Because she already knew all that and she’d waited for me anyway.

“I’m here now,” I said instead.  “You’re not alone.  I’m here.  We can go home together.”

“Go?” she asked, puzzled.  “But I stayed right here.”

Her words didn’t make sense to me, but that was to be expected.  She was caught between life and death and all of her focus was on holding onto herself.  I had to be patient.

“Right,” I said. “You didn't want to wander. That's smart. But we need to find the highest hill if we're going to get out of here.”

I grabbed her hand. It was reassuringly warm. She was alive. I just needed to get her back into her body. I tugged, trying to pull her with me so we could keep walking in any direction, searching for any change in terrain. Any at all.

“I found a hill”, she whispered. “There was something there.  It was… a bird?  But also the sky.  Yes, I think it was the sky.  It told me I could go with it and it’d keep me safe from everything.”

The master of the gray world.  She’d met it and she’d chosen to wait for me instead. I nervously licked my lips. Somehow, it felt worse now that it wasn't just me I needed to save. I had to plant the seed and then get us both out. I took a deep breath. Maria was still talking.

“It sent me here,” she said. “Even though it’s not safe.  That’s what the sky said.  But there’s not many things around here anymore, so I suppose it didn’t need to worry about me.”

Maria was rambling.  I looked around us, trying to figure out what was special about this particular spot.  It was no different from everything around us, as far as I could see.  Just another swell of land, the soggy grass swaying underneath a few inches of water.  Beside me, Maria fell silent.  I glanced at her and noticed that she was looking at something, her gaze unfocused, her lips half-parted.  She was looking down at our feet.

So that’s where I looked as well.

And all around us the water was black instead of silver, the gray sheen was gone and so was the ground, there was nothing but the dark depths below us as far as I could see, like spilled ink directly below my feet -

I gasped and tore my gaze away.  I stared at the sky instead and at the raindrops covering the lenses of my glasses.  

“Is this… where you entered the gray world?” I finally asked, trying to keep my voice even.

“Entered?  I - I was pulled -”

Yes.  It was.

“But I fell for so long, through so much darkness,” Maria said and there was an edge of wild panic in her voice.

I squeezed her hand, distracting her from wherever her thoughts were veering.  She couldn’t lose herself.  Not when we were so close.

Then I looked down again and this time, I didn’t stare into the depths of the water.  I stared at my ankles, at where the water formed a silver ring, and then I swept my gaze out from that and I looked at the surface of the water, searching for a reflection, searching for something to ground myself on.

And I saw a shape, a person, except it wasn’t me.  It wasn’t me at all.

It was Professor Monotone.

I admit my brain short-circuited a bit at that.  I mean, of all the things I would have expected to see in the water of the gray world, that was not it.  But after a moment my brain kicked in again and I realized his back was to my point of view and he was speaking, he was gesturing, and then I saw who he was speaking to.

It was Cassie.  She faced him with her arms crossed, scowling bitterly.  Behind her was Josh and James… and Grayson.  Josh and James were holding onto Grayson’s arms, one to either side of him.  His eyes were wide with terror and I realized he couldn’t stop them.  He was in a human body, inside dying flesh, and there was no rain inside the power plant basement.  They were dragging him closer to the edge of the pool, dragging him closer to where I waited on the other side.

“I’d rather die!” he shrieked at them.  His voice was muffled, almost inaudible, like he was deep underwater.  “I’d rather be undone entirely than be trapped like this!”

No.  This wasn’t what I wanted.

“Let's go,” I said to Maria, my voice right with urgency. “I think we're in the right spot.”

I tried not to think about what I was doing.  Any hesitation and I might freeze up entirely, but I’d figured that out and I knew the trick to get around.  Just don’t think.  Get that first step out of the way and everything else would follow.

I took a deep breath and I jumped.  A short hop, enough to get my feet out of the swamp, and when my feet hit the water again they kept going.  There was no more ground.  I was falling, plunging straight into water, and I recognized this place.  I knew it, for I’d seen it in Grayson’s terror.  This was his realm, this was where all the water went, an empty void where he was alone, stretched across the entirety of the ocean, existing only from moment to moment as each raindrop fell and was absorbed into the earth.

I looked up.  I could see, far above us, my friends.  Their faces were blurred from the water, but I still recognized Josh and James and Grayson, leaning over the surface of the pool.  Cassie wasn’t visible.  No doubt she was tying up Professor Monotone and keeping him from stopping them.  I felt a little bad for pitting him against Cassie.  That wasn’t a fight he could win.

Then they threw Grayson in.  

He struggled, trying to swim up, but it was like the water was sucking him in and he twisted, thrashing, flailing with his hands as if he was trying to knock it away f...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fx7ezz/how_to_survive_college_a_story_about_the_rain/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/therealdocturner on 2024-10-05 22:42:53+00:00.

---

I had left San Francisco for the town of Bass Lake up in the mountains. I had been there before, but never by way of the route my phone told me to take. The road had not been paved in quite some time. It was cracked, crumbling, and dotted with potholes for so many lonely miles. I wasn’t able to drive very fast. The open pastures, deteriorating barns, and rocky hills showed no signs of anyone, and I hadn’t even seen another car for over an hour. I was on my way to a family reunion, and I didn’t even have enough service to make a call to my family to let them know that I was going to be late.

I was deep into the foothills when an unfortunate urge struck. It was either run off somewhere into the weeds, or hope and pray that I came across somewhere with a bathroom very soon. Just as I had resigned myself to crapping in the open wilderness, I had finally come to something that looked like it used to be a gas station.

I pulled up, grabbed some fast food napkins out of the glove box, and walked out into the smoky autumn air of Central California. All the oak trees had been ravaged by a fire some time ago; gnarled and girthy sticks of alligator skinned charcoal amongst waving weeds of a golden brown. The solitary gas pump was rusted over and the windows of the station had been broken long ago. It was an apocalyptic scene to be sure.

Around the side of the building, I found an open door to the bathroom. When I opened the door, the moldy smell was overpowering. The walls were covered in graffiti, an orange fungus was making a slow creep down the walls from a downward bulging ceiling, threatening to collapse at any moment. Half the sink was broken on the floor, and the mirror that hung over it was brown around the edges and giving off a distorted reflection of the scummy toilet against the opposite wall. 

The fetid swill in the bottom of the bowl had an oily sheen over the top of it. I swore that I saw the thick liquid inside move slightly, but I convinced myself that it was my imagination. The need to go was too great to care.

Everything went dark as I closed the door behind me, so I turned the light on my phone and went to business. The harsh light pointed upwards as I layed the phone down on the top of my left foot, and I saw that someone had drawn a large smiling face on the ceiling with large X’s for eyes.   I tried not to look at the clownhouse version of myself in the mirror while I strained and hovered. Instead, I turned my attention to the discolored walls and started reading the graffiti. Besides the usual profanities I noticed something unsettling; several warnings not to look in the mirror. The largest message on the wall was written directly over the mirror.

“PLACES LIKE THIS ARE ABANDONED FOR A REASON…”

My stomach knotted when I heard guttural, unintelligible whispers coming from the mirror. All the straining ceased as my muscles let go and everything came rushing out at once, splashing the putrid contents of the toilet bowl all over my ass. I realized that my reflection was no longer in the mirror. I felt the room turn cold, and I began to see my breath in the light. The whispers began to get louder. I didn’t even clean myself before I pulled up my pants with shaking hands. 

I wanted out. 

As I reached for the door, something in the shadows pushed my shoulders from behind and I pitched forward. My face crashed against the mirror while my phone fell to the ground. I felt pressure from behind, as if someone was grinding my face against a reflective surface that was not displaying what was happening in front of it. I pushed against the wall against the force from behind, but it was no use. 

The whispers erupted into an ungodly cacophony of laughter. The mirror began to crack, and I felt my nose tear and rip as my face was pushed through it.

Everything went dark. Then I began to see visions. That’s the best way I can describe it.

I was in darkness save for a small square of ghastly light in front of me. I was staring back through the other side of the mirror. Another version of myself was staring back at me. It spoke in a voice that wasn’t mine.

“Thank you.”  

It walked out of the bathroom, leaving me screaming inside of my prison, slamming my fists against a surface that was no longer cracked.

Darkness again… and then just thoughts…

I have been here for so long now. The whispers never stop. I never see what makes those sounds, but I can hear them, the things moving just beyond the light.

I stay close to the mirror. I can feel my mind slipping, going dark.

I fear I’m becoming one of them, feeling an urge that gets stronger to leave the light.

I could feel the strain of my arms again. That’s what snapped me back into reality, and with all the strength I could give, I pushed back. Blood erupted from my face and sprayed everywhere. I was in the bathroom again. My face was inches from the bloody mirror where I was not reflected.

I pushed with my arms again, and broke free from whatever was behind me. I opened the door, and threw myself out onto the crumbled pavement outside.

I was on the ground, sitting in my own mess and bleeding from my face. The hot wind warmed me and I looked back through the door to the bathroom. Everything had looked as it did before I went in. There was no crack on the mirror.

I jumped in my car and drove back the way I had come, no longer wanting to continue on the road that my phone had taken me down.

To this day, people have told me that I might have had an immediate reaction to whatever mold may have been inside of that bathroom, but the patchwork scars I have on my face now and the vivid memory of it all speaks to some other explanation.

Some places are abandoned for a reason.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Tencoach on 2024-10-05 22:07:33+00:00.

---

It was late at night, and my wife was asleep. With a small table light on, I sat alone downstairs on my laptop, searching well, I'll leave that to your imagination. I heard a slight creak from upstairs, but I'm used to those little creaks. This had been my routine for the last several months.

Our marriage wasn't always like this, but recently we have been drifting apart. She's become distant, and it's like she's just going through the motions. Sex consists of me lying on top while she stares at the ceiling. We are still a young couple in our early thirties, but unlike our friends who stayed together because they had kids, we enjoy our dinner parties and game nights too much. But now, our marriage had become stale, and we were too afraid to be left on the shelf.    

I finally relieved myself, to put it politely. Like every night before, I went through the ritual of deleting my internet browser history. I had no choice, as my wife often uses my laptop to order stuff. As I went to press delete and cleanse my soul, I noticed a site called "Sinister." That's strange, I didn't recall ever visiting that site. I clicked on the link and it took me to a dark web forum page. And there is no way my wife's been on here. She's the definition of vanilla.

Against my better judgment, I decided to read the page, and there was a conversation between two usernames, "Gus," the name of our cat, and the other, "Haystack." I scrolled through the messages, and my eyes widened in shock. My wife had hired a hitman to kill me.

I slunk into bed beside her. I laid flat on my back, wide awake. Every time she stirred or turned over, I flinched. Should I leave? Should I call the cops? Why does she want me dead? All these thoughts raced through my mind.  

The next morning I was shattered. I didn't sleep at all. How could I after finding out my wife hired a hitman to kill me? We have a routine before work where Alice brews the coffee while I prepare breakfast, usually porridge and fruit. Yes, we are one of those health-freak couples. While we eat breakfast, we rarely converse. Over the years, we've slowly run out of things to say.

Out of the blue, Alice asked, "What have you got on today?" I stared at her. She never asks me about my day. Why is she asking now?

I stayed vague. "Just a lot of meetings." Alice continued, "Any important?"

Why is she probing me? Is she looking to inform the hitman to my whereabouts?

"Brad and I have a meeting with the board over the merger," I replied.

Alice quietly left the table.

I couldn't concentrate at the board meeting. There's no way my wife, who I exchanged vows with, could have hired a hitman. I was in a nightmare, and I was ready to wake up.

"And the timescales?" the CEO asked. A round table of suits stared at me. I snapped out of my trance. "Yes, the timescales are fine," I replied.

As I left the board meeting, my business partner Brad caught up to me in the corridor. Brad was a little older and had a speckle of grey in his beard making him distinguished.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. "Sorry, I couldn't sleep last night," I replied.

Brad smiled, "Go home, get some rest. You need to be at your best tonight." "Tonight?" I asked. He looked at me funny. "Yes, our weekly game night. You're hosting."

With everything going on, I had totally forgotten.  

It was getting late at work. Everyone had left the office floor. I sat anxiously in my cubicle, too afraid to go home. What if the hitman was waiting for me to leave? After all, my wife would have likely informed the hitman of where I worked. A cleaning crew entered the office floor. One guy had a skull tattoo on his arm. Is he here to kill me? I told myself to stop being crazy. I had a game night to host.

I entered the office's underground parking garage. The lights switched on as I walked to my car. I heard footsteps from behind and turned sharply. A security attendant politely nodded. I took a deep breath. If that was the hitman, I would already be dead. I would never have seen it coming.

On my journey home, I kept glancing in my rear-view. An SUV was keeping its distance. Up ahead, the stop light turned red, and I was forced to slow down. The SUV pulled up beside me at the lights. I looked across but couldn't see anyone through the blacked-out windows. My heart was pounding. The light turned green, and the SUV drove off in another direction.

Back at home, we hosted our game night with two other couples. One couple was Allen and Jules, who always told stories of their latest wine tasting weekends. They were incredibly superficial, but that's why we liked them. And then there was Brad and his devoted wife Cara, who weren't drinking tonight. They were going through their third IVF cycle.

My wife chose the adult game "Bad Choices," which was ironic as it's designed to find out your darkest secrets. I somehow managed to keep my composure during the game. Everyone enjoyed the questions, giving silly answers. Alice was the life and soul of the party. How can she act so sociable after what she's done? Did I even know her?

It was my turn, and I decided this was the perfect opportunity to slip in my own question. Would you ever hire a hitman to kill your significant other? My aim was to get Alice to confess in front of everyone.

As I was about to ask my question, Alice stood up and asked, "Would anyone like more wine?" Jules quipped, "Do you have a 1920 Bual?" Allen looked at Alice. "He's such a bitch." Everyone laughed.

Alice went into the kitchen, and Brad joined her. "I'll help you pour."

A few minutes later they arrived back, and Brad is drinking a glass of wine. Cara looked down and sipped her water. I took a deep sigh and asked a question on the card. "Have you ever looked through your spouse's phone?" Everyone put their hands up.  

After the couples finally left, I waited for my wife to go to bed. I went back on the dark web forum. I still wasn't convinced my wife ordered the hit. What if it was just a fantasy? That would be disturbing, but at least my life wouldn't be in danger. I scrolled through the rest of the forum and saw dozens of spouses ordering hits. At what point did their love go rotten?

I re-read my wife's chilling conversation with the hitman. There was no doubt she had ordered my death. It was like I was nothing more than a bug waiting to be zapped. I violently hurled into my waste paper bin. I wiped the vomit from my mouth and reached for my cell to call the cops. I couldn't make the call. Even though my wife despised me, I couldn't bear for her to spend the rest of her life behind bars.

Okay, there must be another way. Maybe I could get the hitman to call it off. I set up a new profile and messaged the hitman asking to meet. I stared at the screen, awaiting a response. I had no idea how long it takes hitmen to reply.

A few minutes later, a message appeared from the hitman. "Why?" I quickly typed, "I need you to take special care of my wife." Yes, I know I'm incriminating myself, but it was the only way to get the hitman to agree to meet me. The hitman answered, "Seal's tonight."

It was now 1 am. I snuck out of the house and drove to Seal's bar, which was located by the docks. I glanced out of my window as I passed the dark waters. I arrived and parked close to the entrance, just in case I needed to make a quick getaway. I tentatively entered the dive bar. Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to leave. The bar was nearly empty, with only a handful of unsavory characters hunched over their drinks. They all looked capable of killing a man. One already had.

I ordered two beers and sat alone at a table near the back of the bar. I took a sip of beer, but my hands were trembling so much I spilt it down my shirt. I waited for over half an hour. This is batshit crazy, I thought. As I got up to leave, a tall, thin, middle-aged guy with long, greasy hair swiveled the chair in front of me and sat backward on it. His hawk eyes pointed to one of the beers. "Mine?" I struggled to speak and just nodded.

The hitman took a long swig of beer. "Are you a cop?" he asked. Before I could answer, he sniggered, exposing his rotten meth teeth. "Cops don't waste beer."

I realized he had been studying my every move since I arrived.

An awkward silence. "I found a message," I stuttered. "Let me guess, you want me to stop the contract?" he interrupted. "Yes, how did you know?" I enquired. "Gus has the same IP address," he replied.

How stupid of me, I should've used a VPN. In my defense, I am running on fumes.

I took a deep swallow. "It's been a misunderstanding."

The hitman casually lit up a cigarette. He seemed so at home like he's had this exact same encounter before.

"She's already paid," he said. "I can pay you more," I blurted out.

He leaned in close and spoke in a hushed tone. "Money isn't the only reason I'm in this line of work."

His words shocked me to my very core. He stood up. I panicked.

"I can pay you more to kill my wife!"

I couldn't believe what I had just done. If someone had told me a few days ago that I would order a hit on my wife, I would have had them sectioned.

Old school, the hitman wrote a figure on a piece of paper along with his offshore bank account details and slid it across the table. "Twenty-four hours," he stated. I watched him leave the bar and flick his cigarette to the ground.  

That weekend, something odd happened between myself and Alice. We were...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NotJustSomeNumbers on 2024-10-05 19:06:50+00:00.

---

My grandparents owned a cabin beside a lake. They rented it so they would have extra funds for their retirement. If it wasn’t being rented out, they offered to let me stay for the weekend. Normally I refused but an old friend of mine contacted me recently to catch up. I had some time off and the cabin was free. We arranged a trip down to the lake. She was going to bring her husband I’ve met a handful of times. She also suggestion to ask another friend of ours to join us. We all grew up together and there were enough rooms at the cabin.

I arrived first and had gotten started to unpack when Brooke and her husband came walking down the trail. The path to the cabin wasn’t large enough for cars so they had to park a few minutes away. There were other cabins near us, but all of them were further down into the woods. At night you could see the lights through the branches and sometimes hear the neighbors.

She hugged me and I helped them with their bags. Her husband was shorter than her with large glasses that made him look almost insect-like. His cheeks were red from walking such a short distance. I doubted being at a cabin was his sort of thing but he came along for Brooke.

He nodded along when I started to chat away about the good old times with Brooke as we walked inside. A knock came from the door and I rushed over to answer it. We were expecting another couple. Jason and I grew up together. At some point, we had been as close as brothers but drifted apart after he was married.

“It’s been forever! Did you have issues finding the place?” I asked him and peeked my head out the door looking for his wife.

I didn’t see her and he walked past me into the cabin setting down a single bag. We had been to the cabin together before but this was the first time he was the one driving.

“No, the GPS made it easy. I didn’t stop to eat on the way. Do was have anything?” He asked and didn’t address the fact he was alone.

I gave Brooke a look which she returned signaling me to keep my mouth shut. I was a noisy person and I really, really wanted to know the gossip but I respected my friend more.

After a batch of sandwiches, we all got changed to go swimming. It was still hot a humid out despite being so close to autumn. Brooke and Erwin stayed on the beach. She wanted to get a tan and he had a pile of books to read.

I followed Jason to the edge of the dock. My grandparents had left behind their fishing gear. I’m sure it was all high-end stuff, but I didn’t know the first thing about it. I set it all down and got a pair of chairs set up so we could catch dinner after we were finished swimming.

“Do you have your phone on you?” Jason asked.

I shook my head confused over the question. My swim trunks didn’t even have pockets. Without another word, he easily lifted me and dumped my protesting body in the lake. I splashed back to the surface spraying water in his direction. My hand shot out trying to grab him by the ankle to drag him in with me but he was faster. We were both laughing as I failed to get him into the lake. I rushed over to the beach stepping on sharp shells of freshwater mussels that came back with the current every night. My wet feet slipped along the dock towards him. I grabbed Jason around the waist but I was again, tossed into the lake.

We repeated that for a few minutes until we both were tired. I doubted we would catch any fish after all the action by the dock. He picked up a fishing rod to bait the hook. I watched him and then made him do the same for mine. He called me a baby for not wanting to touch the worms. They’re just gross. That’s all there was to it.

There wasn’t much else to do besides relax in the sun feeling the cool breeze coming off the lake. I had brought my old Gameboy with a Zelda game to try and beat later. When we were younger, I always brought the same game with me every time we came to the lake. To this day I haven’t beaten it. I hoped with an adult brain I could finally see it to the end.

“What have you been doing these past few years? Any kids on the way?” I asked Jason while we sat in lawn chairs watching the ripples across the water.

I saw his face turn sour for a moment. Brooke never wanted children. She always knew that. But Jason was a good church boy who wanted a big family. The fact he didn’t have one yet must have been a sore spot that I just poked at.

“We’re working on it. You know how it is.”

I didn’t but I nodded being smart enough to not respond.

“What about you? Dating anyone?”

I shook my head feeling a batch of sweat start at the base of my neck. I wanted to avoid the subject of my dating history on this trip. I suppose when you get older you have fewer things to talk about aside from your job or who your partner is.

“Still looking. You know how it is.” I added with a smile repeating his words.

He let it slide which was a relief. To my surprise, we did catch something. A flat unappealing fish bit his line and Jason easily reeled it in. We tossed it back barely looking at it. Shortly after I hook a long and fat victim that would be perfect for that night's dinner. He removed the hook for me. The fish met my gaze and I swear it was silently begging me to spare its life as it gasped for air.

“It’s kinda cute...” I told him hoping my friend got the hint.

He rolled his eyes and sighed. Carefully he set the fish back into the lake and let it swim off to freedom.

“We have enough food for the weekend. And I don’t feel like being the one to clean it. I know you wouldn’t.”

I let out a smug laugh agreeing with him. He often did the dirty jobs I didn’t feel like and we both knew it. We had meant to help with dinner but Brooke already got it started by the time we gave up fishing. Cooking was her favorite thing so I didn’t feel bad not doing more to help. She was the motherly type so I always wondered why she never decided to have kids.

The cabin was large but only had a few rooms. A bedroom off the side had been claimed by Brooke and Erwin. The bathroom was about the same size as the bedroom next to it. We all took turns using the shower after dinner to wash away the smell of the lake.

I walked out into the large living room before I had fully put on my shirt. Jason had been waiting by the door to use the washroom next. He caught a glimpse of a tattoo on my side. He grabbed my shirt and lifted it to get a better look at the three-inch pink Care Bear he had never seen on me before. I had worn a shirt while swimming and silently swore to myself because he saw my shame so soon.

“How drunk were you when you got this?” He commented eyebrows raised.

Erwin was nose deep in a book but Brooke looked over at us with a nervous expression. She knew something I had been hiding from Jason for a while.

“I lost a bet. Needed to man up and get it. I haven’t been able to afford to get it removed.” I lied.

He accepted the answer and moved on. Once the bathroom door was closed, Brooke and I sighed. Jason didn’t need to know I actually got a matching tattoo with my boyfriend at the time. It was a dumb choice and he would mock me for it. But he also hadn’t been very accepting in the past. Since I never came out and told him my dating preferences, I wasn’t entirely certain how he would react. Brooke had been pressuring me to just tell him. It did feel wrong to keep such a big thing from him. I simply wasn’t ready for that talk with my oldest friend just yet.

There was enough room for us to gather around a table in the living room. The plan was to play a board game. It soon devolved into chatting and retelling old stories. I had thought Erwin would be bored listening to us talk for so long. Rather he was very interested in asking questions here and there. The longer I spent with him the more I realized he was perfect for Brooke. I was glad that they found each other.

Finally, the pair decided to turn in for the night a little after one AM. Jason took the loft up the steep stairs and that left me with the couch by the fireplace. It was still too warm to light it at night. The lights went off casting the cabin in a deep darkness. You never realize just how bright the city is at night when you’re away from it. We all called out one final goodnight.

I considered playing the Zelda game for a little bit but decided against it. I had all weekend for that. It was quiet and perfect for easily drifting off. I fell asleep quickly. It felt like I had only been out for a minute when a noise caused my body to jolt. It was a loud rumble sounding like thunder that shook the entire cabin. The digital clock nearby said three AM.

I was going to fall back asleep but I heard Jason whisper over to me from the loft.

“Did you hear that bang?” His low voice came from the dark.

My eyes adjusted and I realized it was brighter in the cabin. The sun hadn't started to rise yet. Glancing outside I spotted a strange orange glow in the sky. My brain worked slowly. There wasn’t a forest fire outside, right? Jason noticed the odd sky and started down the stairs at the same time Brooke came out of the bedroom. Erwin soon followed behind fiddling with his glasses.

“Do you think it’s a storm?” I asked now that everyone was awake. I didn’t want to consider anything worse than that.

A chill came through the air causing me to pull the blanket around my shoulders. Brooke felt the cold as well. Erwin held her, rubbing her arms to calm both of them down. ...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HerScreams on 2024-10-05 13:53:28+00:00.

---

I arrived in Shanghai under a haze of jet lag and grief. The city’s chaotic energy did little to ease the numbness that had settled in my bones. I hadn’t returned to China since I was a child, and even then, it was a fleeting visit, a brief encounter with distant relatives I never thought I’d see again. Now, I was back to settle an estate that felt more like a burden than a gift.

The death of my uncle, a man I barely knew, had summoned me here. I had only vague memories of him from my childhood, blurry images of a quiet man standing at the edge of family gatherings. When I was contacted by the lawyer handling his estate, the news didn’t hit me with the shock one might expect. Instead, it felt like a summons, an obligation to a man whose life had been a mystery to me. Still, I accepted out of duty more than curiosity, and now found myself in the heart of a city that thrived on life, while I felt nothing but the weight of death.

After dealing with the legal formalities, I wandered through the neon-lit streets, the skyscrapers towering above me, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out like fingers in the night. The lawyer had been distant, dismissive even, handing me the keys to the old family property with little more than a formal nod. "It's all in your hands now," he had said, and the words echoed in my mind, heavy with implication. What did he mean by that?

I found myself by the river, watching the lights from the Bund reflect on the water. The city hummed with life around me, but it felt as though I was drifting, disconnected, a stranger in my own family’s history. That’s when I saw him.

He stood casually by the railing, his silhouette illuminated by the glow of the skyline. There was something about him that caught my attention immediately. Perhaps it was the way he stood, confident yet reserved, or the way his eyes flickered toward me before I had even realized I was staring. He didn’t belong to the crowd; that much was clear. He seemed... separate, like a fragment of the night itself.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

His voice was smooth, almost melodic, breaking through the ambient noise of the city. There was a warmth in his tone that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise, an unsettling, magnetic pull.

I hesitated for a moment before responding. "It is," I said softly, unsure why I was suddenly nervous. His gaze was intense, almost too intense, but there was an undeniable charm in his smile. I found myself drawn to him, feeling a spark of something I hadn’t felt since I’d arrived, a connection in a place that had so far made me feel utterly alone.

"Lei.. he introduced himself, holding out a hand. His grip was firm but cold, a subtle chill that lingered even after he released it.

We fell into an easy conversation as we walked along the riverside, the lights of the city shimmering on the surface of the water beside us. Lei was charismatic, attentive in a way that made me forget, if only for a moment, why I was even in Shanghai. He asked about me, about my life, but deflected when I asked about his. Mysterious, I thought. Maybe a little too mysterious, but I was intrigued. After all, what harm was there in a little distraction from the heaviness of death?

By the time we parted ways, exchanging numbers, I felt a strange sense of relief. For the first time since I’d arrived, I wasn’t alone. But as I made my way back to the sleek, modern apartment I was renting, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lei had been watching me long before I had noticed him.

The following days passed in a blur of paperwork and phone calls. The estate had more complications than I expected, deeds, assets, and family relics I had never heard of. Each conversation with the lawyer brought new surprises, like my uncle’s ownership of an old house tucked away in one of Shanghai’s forgotten districts. The thought of going there alone made me uneasy, so I kept putting it off. Something about the way the lawyer had brushed off questions about the house felt wrong, as though he didn’t want to talk about it.

But in between the stress, there was Lei.

We had been seeing each other almost every day. Dinners, late-night walks, and quiet conversations in quiet cafes. It was easy to get lost in his charm, his ease of conversation, the way he seemed to understand everything without me having to explain. Still, I couldn’t help but feel there was something he wasn’t telling me, something just beneath the surface. He would smile, but sometimes the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

One night, after a particularly grueling day dealing with the estate, Lei invited me to his apartment. The invitation felt natural, a progression in what had quickly become a relationship .

His apartment was on the outskirts of the city, in a high-rise that seemed out of place among the old neighborhoods it towered over. The interior was modern, sleek, and spotless. Yet it felt sterile. There were no personal touches, no photos or signs of a life lived. Just perfect, polished surfaces.

“You must be exhausted,” Lei said, as he poured me a glass of wine. I nodded, trying to shake off the unease creeping up my spine. The warmth of the wine helped a little, but the coldness of the apartment clung to me.

As we sat together on his pristine couch, I couldn’t help but notice how still he was. Too still. His movements, usually smooth and graceful, now seemed rehearsed, like each gesture was part of an intricate performance. And then, for the briefest moment, I saw it.

A crack.

It was small, barely noticeable, but it ran along the edge of his jawline. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but when I blinked, it was gone, as if it had never been there. My breath hitched in my throat. I wanted to ask him, to say something, but the words died before they left my lips. I stared at my wine glass instead, forcing myself to relax, to ignore what I had just seen.

“Is something wrong?” Lei’s voice cut through my thoughts, soft but probing.

I shook my head quickly, plastering on a smile. “No, I’m just... tired.”

He watched me for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, before nodding. “Of course. It’s been a long week for you.”

His hand touched mine, cold against my skin, and for a second, I could swear I felt that same crack beneath his fingers. A chill raced through me, but I said nothing.

The days that followed should have felt normal, but nothing did. My work with the estate became an afterthought, replaced by an obsession I couldn’t shake: Lei. Something about him gnawed at my mind, filling every quiet moment with unease. I kept replaying that night in his apartment, convincing myself that the crack I’d seen was just a trick of my exhausted mind.

But the more I tried to rationalize it, the worse the feeling became. It wasn’t just that. He was changing, or at least, my perception of him was. Small things, barely noticeable at first. His voice would sometimes sound too smooth, almost unnatural. His movements, always so graceful, seemed too deliberate, like they were mimicked rather than natural.

And the dreams... They started shortly after that night in his apartment.

In the first dream, I was standing at the foot of Lei’s bed. He was lying there, asleep, but something was wrong. His face was smooth and flawless as always, but then, slowly, the skin began to peel away. It didn’t bleed, and there was no pain, just layers of flesh slipping off, revealing something hideous underneath. A twisted, contorted face with hollow eyes that stared back at me. I tried to scream, but no sound came.

I woke in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, the sheets tangled around me. It was just a dream, I told myself, over and over again.

The next few days passed in a blur of paranoia. Every time I met with Lei, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me too closely, studying me. And the crack I’d seen that night? It started appearing more often. Sometimes it was on his jaw, sometimes his hands. Each time it would disappear before I could get a second look, but I knew it wasn’t just my imagination.

One afternoon, I decided it was finally time to visit my uncle’s old house. The place had been left untouched for years, gathering dust and sinking into disrepair. The lawyer’s vague descriptions and dismissiveness had only fueled my curiosity. I had been avoiding it, reluctant to confront whatever history might be buried there, but the weight of uncertainty was starting to suffocate me.

The house stood at the end of a narrow street, hidden among overgrown trees and faded stone walls. It was a stark contrast to the sleek, modern apartment I had been staying in. Everything about this place felt old, forgotten, like it belonged to a different era altogether. I pushed open the creaking door, a rush of stale air hitting me as I stepped inside.

I spent hours going through piles of papers, yellowed books, and fading family mementos. My uncle’s life was scattered across the rooms, half-forgotten, and for a while, it felt like I was drowning in someone else’s memories. The deeper I dug, the more disoriented I became. Dusty photographs, letters written in fading ink, items that seemed to have no connection to me at all.

At the bottom of a worn leather box, buried beneath stacks of old papers, was an old photograph. The paper was fragile, worn around the edges, but it was the faces in the picture that sent a chill through me. I stared at the image, two men standing si...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Tehfiddlers on 2024-10-05 19:34:14+00:00.

---

I’m a nurse – I tell a lot of stories to curious people who tend to regret asking right after. It’s hard to find another job that matches the sheer breadth of human suffering I’m exposed to daily. The human body is an unbelievably beautiful and complex organism that can contort and be contorted in some wildly obscene ways, and I’ve had my fair share of horrible sights in my time. Wounds fester, gallbladders fill with stones, forks get stuck in eyes. We are precious little things, and the same body that can survive a fall from a plane can die from a stubbed toe. Not that I figured the survivor of the fall particularly wanted to live at that point. Anyway, my point being, everybody who’s ever spent any time in a hospital has seen something gnarly that they’d rather leave behind forever. Even sitting in a waiting room can lead to boredom that can lead to a peek through a door that can lead to a burn victim convulsing in his bed – I always hope that the folks who take that home with them develop a new appreciation for life and empathy for their fellow man.

Personally, I worked on the floor that said burn victim was treated on, and his moaning made me grind my teeth all night. Sometimes I want to put my head through the wall as payback for the godawful thoughts I’ve had about people who were suffering and dying with the audacity to do it near me. It’s not a job for everyone. It’s hardly a job for anyone. But you get used to it. You sit in it and live with it. The hospital becomes this third place that no one else can really see. You look at a bed in the corner of the room and you remember the last three people that died in it. The fourth’s face is already gone. It’s good to remember, to appreciate, to hold the knowledge that they were real, they thought and felt, and it can fuck you up if you let it. It’s only now that it’s flooding back in; I let it flow through me, it hits and it goes, the wind doesn’t knock me over, but little bits get stuck. They itch, bad. Now I’m there again. I think I might be done with hospitals soon.

It’s been a couple years. Back then, I was at work every day and almost every night. My divorce sucked bad and I thought it might kill me if I spent any more time at home than I had to. I’m good at my job: I can autopilot for days. Sometimes I sit in my car afterwards and can’t remember a single thing I said or did the whole day – nobody’s ever complained, nobody’s ever given me shit from above. I’m not a surgeon or anything, I wasn’t cutting hearts open with my eyes closed. I was often checking on people who were bedridden, replacing bedpans and listening to them complain in one ear as it went out the other. There’s nothing better to tune out. When I’m in that building, I’m a nurse, not a person. I work and I forget.

That kind of fugue state is not good for you, to say the least. I’d highly recommend trying your best not to get disconnected from reality like that — when it breaks and you come back to the surface, it hits like a truck. It kills. I know it.

In those weeks I spent on autopilot, I slowly realized that I only remembered a single thing from every work day. One patient, in one room. He was an older man who’d been transferred from another facility after spending over a year in a coma. He was just some guy, some normal guy who, according to his family, had fallen unconscious while at home and never woke back up. They visited him sometimes, almost always alone, two young men and one older woman who would just sit with him for an hour or two and whisper to him, like he could still hear. It was a sweet gesture, I thought; too many people are left by their families to rot in their beds. I think unconscious people still have some sort of awareness of reality, even blurred through the impossible layer of a coma. They were always leaving when I came in, sparing me a glance or two before hurrying away. One of the young men always had a certain angry tiredness to him, the circles under his eyes making his frown sharper. He always spent the least time visiting and held himself with a certain rigidity, hands always in his pockets. I was curious, somehow, wondering who they were to him. And, stranger, wondering why I cared at all. At the end of every day, I could only vividly remember being in his room, seeing him with his eyes closed, watching those people whisper and stand and leave. I didn’t care about anything else. But I always remembered that, and only in retrospect. It started to keep me up. I worried my mind was making choices for me.

It was always the same: I’d walk into his room. He was laying there on his back, still, eyes closed. His hands were always clasped over his chest, right over left, and his body was totally straight. I know some people find that creepy, like a corpse in a casket, but I sleep like that too, so it never bothered me. He just seemed so restful. I don’t know what it’s like to be in a coma, but looking at him, I always had a twinge of jealousy. Imagine the rest, the weight off his shoulders. Dreams or empty silence, I thought I’d rather be him than go back to my house and my husband again. So, I always tried to make him comfortable. If his visitors had been by, they often left his head pointed to the side and his pillow jostled into a weird spot that didn’t seem great for his neck. The blanket was always sloppily moved onto him, like they’d fussed with it and forgotten how to set it back up. I figured, why judge them for trying their best to make their loved one more comfortable? Who am I to know what he liked? Regardless, I tried my best. I’d readjust him, fix the curtains at the window, clean up his bedside table, and move the hair from his eyes. It always felt like the right thing to do. I always thought that he had a mild little smile on his face, an upturning at the corner of his lips, something slipping through from his dream, or vice versa. Maybe I made him a little happier, then. I started to focus harder at work, be present, work with the other older patients in my area of the hospital. I slept well.

A few months into his stay, I ran into the tired young man on his way out of the room. His hands were out of his pockets for once, and he was clutching them together with a strange tightness. He was grimacing and breathing heavily. I felt my heart jump. I don’t know what it was. I’d decided to bring flowers, and nearly dropped them as he pushed past me and vanished down the hallway. I had to stop for a moment before I could make myself enter the room.

The man in the bed was still there. He was still on his back, and his hands were still clasped together. The blanket was halfway off of him, worse than usual, and I went to fix it when I noticed something I’d never seen before.

He was wearing a ring. On his right hand, middle finger, he had what looked like a typical wedding band. I couldn’t figure out if it had been there before, if I’d just glossed over it every time, if I was just put off by his visitor’s behavior. It’s not really permitted for long-term coma patients to have any jewelry or accessory like that; who’d have let that slip by for this long? It had to have just been put on him. I wondered if the young man had found his wedding ring and snuck it back to him, which struck me as surprisingly sweet, though I hadn’t heard anything about him being married and none of the visitors identified themselves as or acted anything like a spouse that I could tell. Like I’d know. But there it was, plain and simple on his finger. I went to remove it and had it halfway up his finger when I second-guessed myself and let him keep it. I guess it just felt wrong to rob him of it, after all the time he’d spent alone and unconscious. I let him keep it. I think about that a lot.

It was the next day when everything started. I came in, fixed him up, and was drawing the curtains when he began to groan. It was a low, long, pitiful kind of noise, like a wounded man bleeding out on the floor, alone. It lasted for so long. I immediately looked for any sign of injury or motion, but he still just lay there, mouth hanging open, groaning. It pissed me off. I don’t know why. I hate to admit it, but it pissed me off. Something about the sound just got under my skin in the worst way. I wanted to hit him across the face. I held it in. Some of my coworkers came to investigate, immediately complaining of the sound. We all had this vague frustration with the poor man. They moved him to check for injuries despite my insistence that I already had, jostling him roughly as they flipped him over and looked at his back. There was nothing, of course. He stopped groaning after a few minutes, but it was enough to set us all on edge for the rest of the day. I still fixed him back up in a comfortable position, but there was an undeniable air of unease and frustration in the room. I left him alone.

His visitors stopped coming. I never saw any of them ever again. Every day, he’d groan and we’d all start to slip. It pushed our buttons until they broke. He was alone in that room and he was suffering, loudly. Sometimes he’d cry, or shout, just for a moment, as if in fear. The patients near him became even more irritable. They’d push each other, yell from their beds, leave their rooms unauthorized to insult others from the door. We’d curtly get them back into their beds and then leave to argue with our coworkers. The whole place got nasty. I hated it. It was worse than being ho...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-10-05 17:40:16+00:00.

---

Listen closely, because this isn’t a story. It’s a warning.

There’s a place, a town not on any map, tucked away in a corner of the world so secret it barely exists. No one talks about it. Maybe they’ve forgotten. Maybe they’ve learned to forget. But it’s real, and if you find it, you’ll never be able to leave.

I escaped once, but it’s only a matter of time before they find me again. I don’t have long, so listen carefully.

The town didn’t look unusual at first. If anything, it was painfully ordinary. Rows of houses with neat lawns, crooked lampposts lining empty streets, a town square with a statue of a man no one could name. At a glance, it could’ve been anywhere, the kind of place you pass through without a second thought. But the moment I stepped into it, I felt something was wrong. Something thick in the air, like static before a storm.

No one spoke about it, but we all felt it, the silent law. You could hear it in the footsteps that never strayed from the path and see it in the faces that never turned toward the clock tower. The law was never written down, never spoken aloud, but everyone knew it. You didn’t question the town. You didn’t step out of line. And you never tried to leave.

At first, I did what everyone else did. I followed the rules. Nobody knew what the rules were. The only time we knew for sure was when someone broke them.

I lived quietly, kept my head down, and went about my day like nothing was wrong. But the town felt like a trap like the air was watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake. Every time someone broke the law, and it was always something small, something barely noticeable and mundane they disappeared.

I remember the first time I saw it happen. A man I didn’t know, even though we lived beside each other for years, took the wrong step. He didn’t follow the pattern of the street, the long lines on the roads and footpaths that quietly told everyone where to go. The next morning, his body was hanging in the town square. Twisted, broken, like some kind of macabre display. No one looked. No one acknowledged it. The townspeople walked around him like he wasn’t there like it was normal.

I started to wonder who was watching. Who enforced the rules? There were no police, only strange men in white suits, who patrolled the streets. It made you paranoid, made you question every step, every word. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even yourself.

On the edge of the town, there was a dirt path that everyone ignored. It was there, plain as day, but no one spoke of it, and no one dared follow it. They knew better. I should’ve known better.

I couldn’t help myself. The curiosity gnawed at me until I couldn’t ignore it anymore. One night, when the streets were dark and the town was asleep, I decided to follow it. The path twisted and turned, snaking away from the town, but no matter how far I walked, I always found myself moving closer to the town. The further I went, the more I felt the town pulling me back, like a black hole dragging me toward its centre. The road kept bending in on itself, leading me in circles until, finally, I ended up right where I started. That’s when I knew there was no leaving. The town was alive, and it didn’t want me to go.

The next day, someone else vanished. A woman this time. She’d broken another rule, whispered something forbidden, something about leaving and by morning, she was gone. But this time, there was no trace of a body, just her empty house, as if she’d never existed at all.

The town knew I was defying it. I could feel it watching me. The more I tried to understand it, the more desperate I was to escape.

One night, I saw it. Something that no one should’ve seen. The clocktower. Its face was always turned away, like it was hiding something, and the townspeople avoided looking at it as if their lives depended on it. I’d followed that rule too, at first. But in my growing madness, I dared to glance at it. That's when I saw the truth.

The hands of the clock weren’t moving. They hadn’t moved in years. The town wasn’t bound by time. It existed in a liminal space, outside of everything, pulling in those unfortunate enough to stumble upon it.

When I first heard the footsteps, I knew then I wasn’t just being watched, they were following me wherever I went. I never saw who made them, but they were always there, just behind me, just out of sight. Every corner I turned, they were there, waiting. I knew my time was running out, so I decided to run.

I took the road again, and this time, I didn’t stop. I ran until my lungs burned, until my legs gave out until the town was a blur behind me. And somehow, against all odds, I broke through. I found myself on the other side of the fog, on a highway, cars rushing past me like the world hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

That’s when I started writing this when I started telling my story. I thought if I warned others, if I could just explain what was waiting out there I would be safe.

I tried hiding in the shadows of my newfound freedom. I had nowhere to go, but I thought if I had nowhere to call home, they wouldn’t know where to find me.

I’ve been seeing them again, the terrifying shadows that moved and twisted out of the corners of my eye. As the shadows moved closer, the footsteps got louder, and It was only a matter of time before they found me.

I don’t know how long I was out. When I woke up, I was strapped to a bed, with fluorescent lights burning into my eyes. But I wasn’t in a town. I was in a hospital.

They told me I’d been there for years. Told me I wasn’t well, that I had imagined the town, the laws, the people. They said it was a delusion, a paranoid fantasy my mind had constructed to cope with something I didn’t want to remember.

But they’re wrong. The town was real. It is real. I know it. I felt it.

They tried to explain it away. They said the people I saw weren’t townsfolk, but other patients. The man who was hanging in the streets had managed to escape his room and hanged himself in the common room. The woman who vanished was old and got moved to a more comfortable place. They told me the clock tower was the hospital’s old, broken clock, stuck at the same time for years. The road I walked was just a hall leading to the hospital exit.

The doctors tried to calm me. They said it’s part of my recovery, that my mind is healing. But it’s not. They don’t understand. They can’t. Because the hospital is just another version of the town.

The rules are still there, hidden in the routines they force me to follow. The treatments, the schedules, the silence. It’s all the same. It’s just wearing a different face.

I can hear them again. The footsteps, slow and steady, coming down the street. They’re getting closer. I know what’s coming next.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/adorabletapeworm on 2024-10-05 14:22:45+00:00.

---

Previous case

Because of potential legal issues, I can't say the name of the place where we had our most recent call, but once I describe it, I’m sure yinz’ll know exactly where I’m talking about.

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

It's a store known for its maze-like floorplan full of showrooms painstakingly decorated with their affordable assemble-it-yourself furniture. That's probably more of a giveaway than a hint, but keep in mind that I'm but a humble pest control specialist, not a mind game mastermind.

Anyways, with the nature of how that store is, I'm honestly surprised we haven't been called there sooner. I could easily see some poor Housekeepers being very confused by it, among other atypical household pests.

But before I get into that case, here's a brief update on how everyone at Orion is doing after the shit storm we dealt with last week.

To start, I’m fine. I didn't need surgery to fix the internal bleeding, thankfully, and the concussion went away after some rest and NSAIDs. Sure, I felt like shit for days after the hag incident, but better to feel terrible than to feel nothing, right?

Something that I’m convinced accelerated my recovery was that Deirdre had stayed by my side the whole time. More on that later.

As far as my coworkers go, they're all fine, too. Victor was back to his usual, grouchy self two days after the incident. Wes fixed himself pretty quickly, so there's no concern about him, either. Thankfully, neither Cerri or Reyna got anything other than some emotional scarring.

So there you have it: everyone at Orion is alive and well. We're back to business as usual. This is starting to become more normal for us, but I’m not sure if that's a good thing.

When the store’s manager called us, I initially thought the infestation was, in fact, because of a confused Housekeeper. But the more she told me, the more certain I became that I would be dealing with another pest entirely.

“So, it started with our showrooms getting rearranged,” The manager began, her voice low as if afraid someone would overhear. “It was little things, at first, like a Vattenkrasse going missing or a Häckpoppel being broken, you know?”

I had no idea what either of those things were, but I pretended like I did just for time's sake.

The manager kept going, “At first, I thought it was just one of my team members bumping into things and not telling anyone, you know, something normal. But then the other night, I was the last one to leave and I heard…”

She got quiet. When she spoke again, she sounded doubtful, “Let's just say, I heard a voice that I shouldn't have been able to hear. It wanted me to follow it.”

Definitely not a Housekeeper.

First, I asked the most important question, “You didn't follow it, did you?”

The store manager quickly said, “No! God, no! Who would be stupid enough to follow a creepy voice into a storeroom?!”

My answer may have been a little too honest, “Ma'am, you'd be amazed.”

She went on to tell me that other employees have heard the voices of people they know, calling to them when working at night, trying to convince them to investigate a certain corner of their massive storeroom. Since then, they'd all been too scared to go near the area. Meanwhile, none of the day shift had reported hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Where it went from creepy to horrific was when the pest decided to add its own ‘furniture piece’ to one of the showrooms.

An extremely unfortunate customer had been made into a chair. His limbs served as the chair's legs, his torso the back piece. His head was left on the nearby table as a centerpiece. The pest had even given a name to its grotesque addition, written in what looked like a marker that had been stolen from another display: Köttstol.

Naturally, they called the police. The cops checked the security footage and told her that Orion would be able to handle the situation better than they could.

I told her that I’d be there once the store was close to shutting down for the day, thinking it would be best to search for the pest afterhours so that there’d be less chance of a bystander being harmed. I also advised her to have everyone travel in groups. If the culprit of this infestation was what I thought it was, it would be less likely to try to collect one of them if they weren't alone.

Before locking me in for the night, the manager hurriedly told me that their kitchen had set aside some meatballs in case I got hungry. Since I'd never been to this furniture store before, I was confused and a bit suspicious. What kind of furniture store sells meatballs? But according to the internet, I guess this is a regular practice.

Call it force of habit, but I didn't eat them. The employees all seemed human, at least from the brief time I spent with them, but with the position I'm in, I can't be too careful. A certain Huntsman has used humans to get to me before, after all.

When it comes to exploring the furniture store, it's a surreal experience, especially when the lights go out. The displays are set up like someone's living space with walls separating each one, complete with fake food and family photos. The gap between the tops of the walls and the warehouse ceiling is where the fantasy of each pristinely decorated interior ends.

It's a strange, strange store and I'm not entirely convinced it was created by humans.

At first, there were no voices or traces of anything unusual. Just display after display of furnishings with names I would embarrass myself trying to pronounce correctly.

Hours had passed. I still hadn't made it to the other side of the store. And at that point, no signs of an infestation. The pest was probably apprehensive, since I made no effort to hide Ratcatcher at my hip. It was most likely waiting for an opportunity to catch me off guard.

Given what the manager had told me, its nest was in the storeroom. It wouldn't be at its nest until the sun rose. It was most likely nearby; I just had to inspire it to show itself.

I found a showroom that was supposed to look like a sporty kid’s bedroom and took a seat on the mattress, starting to grow bored from the lack of activity. I knew it was there, hidden amongst the maze of furniture. It was just taking its sweet time.

At least, that's what I thought until I saw it peeking over the wall at me.

Its eyes reflected the light of my flashlight like a cat's, little sparse hairs on the top of its egg-shaped head swirling upwards. It had to be at least twelve feet tall, with how easily it could peer over the wall at me.

A Gray Man.

Gray Men are artists, in a sense. Unfortunately, they appear to find living beings to be the best tools for their macabre art installations. Sometimes they use flayed skin as canvases or fabric, other times, it uses entire cadavers to create sculptures, like the man-chair.

It must've found the store's showrooms and build-it-yourself furniture to be inspirational.

The Gray Man whispered to me in my mother's voice, “Let me help you.”

It was a poor imitation. It had a strange edge to it, like a recording of my mom that had been played out of an old, tinny speaker.

“Won't you let me?” The Gray Man asked, tilting its misshapen head. “Let me transform you? Give you a purpose?”

What kind doesn't grow up dreaming to become a chair?

I rose slowly from the bed, hand on Ratcatcher's hilt. As I did so, its face lowered behind the wall, the slaps of its bare feet circling around to the entrance of the storeroom I'd picked to sit down in. It was going to try to box me in.

Once its footsteps drew nearer, I slashed at it. As previously mentioned, we ordinarily try to resolve infestations non-lethally, but there are some pests out there that can't simply be caught and relocated. Gray Men are one of them.

My first cut missed. Its laugh was a perversion of my mother's; there was no warmth in it, and it was far too slow, as if the Gray Man was trying out that particular form of vocalization for the first time and couldn't quite figure it out.

I ducked under its arm as it reached for me with its long, needle-sharp fingers, then dragged the sword along the Gray Man’s side. Hearing Mom’s voice scream like that, even while knowing it wasn't her, made me tear up instantly. Ignoring the Gray Man’s manipulations, I struck again, cutting into the skin of its back. Black blood spilled onto the white tiles below our feet.

After all that I’d encountered over the past few weeks, dealing the Gray Man felt much easier than it had in the past. While those sharp fingers are deadly, the pest is relatively slow compared to other Neighbors out there. It primarily relies on using fear or manipulation to capture its prey, not appearing to know how to handle itself against someone that is able to fight back.

Right before I could finish it off, the Gray Man turned and scurried away, as much as a tall thing like it can scurry. It was quick, its fingers clicking noisily against the floor as it retreated. I gave chase, narrowly avoiding slipping in its blood at a few points.

It wasn't hard to guess where it was going.

I had lost sight of the pest itself, resorting to following the trail of blood to locate the stockroom. When I came across the sign pointing out the direction...

---

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

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-10-05 12:01:05+00:00.

---

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Ugh, this itchy scalp is driving me crazy. Keeping me up at night. Can’t sleep. And when I do, I wake up scratching. This can’t go on.

I’ve always had an itchy scalp. There are special shampoos for that, and I’ve tried them all. Some work better than others, but they don’t make the problem go away. Not entirely. That said, I never dreamed I’d be in this scenario.

I was playing piano, working on a difficult performance piece, when the critters first appeared. As usual, my scalp was super itchy. Only this time when I scratched, something flew out and landed on my lap. I must’ve jumped a mile high. The thing was hideous, with long, curvy antennas and tiny toes, tap, tap, tapping as it crawled across my lap.

I squashed it.

The thing shrieked as it exploded. Total nasty. Then, trying not to panic, I lowered my head and went to town, shaking and scratching, seeing what else was living in there.

“Gross!”

A fleet of crawling critters scooted out from my hair. Ugh. Head lice. At my age? Must’ve gotten it from one of my piano students. Totally annoyed, I fled to the drug store and picked up the appropriate treatment, then I set about ridding myself of these uninvited guests.

The following week was spent trying to kill those little buggers, but they persevered, and kept coming back. Sleep was impossible. All I could do was lay in bed and scratch, my fingernails brown and gross from all the scratching.

At wit’s end, I asked Marley, my BFF, to have a look. She’s tough, and certainly not the squeamish type. If she can’t help, I’m screwed.

Marley went in for inspection. She gasped and groaned and gagged. Five minutes later she’s running out the door, eyes wild with accusation. To this day, she won’t answer my texts. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

My mind went on overdrive. This is absurd. How bad could it be? Then I heard the tap, tap, tapping of tiny toes, trailblazing across my bedroom floor. I used my phone’s flashlight to have a closer look, and shuddered. My mind went sideways. I’d never seen anything so repulsive in my life. Critters, but unlike any I’d ever seen.

With much effort, I coaxed the cretaceous-looking critters into a shoebox. Tap, tap, tap, they went, marching around the box like tiny warriors. From a distance, they looked like head lice, but they moved too fast, and made too much noise.

Totally freaked out, I peeled off my clothes and removed my bed sheets. Laundry time! Ugh. My pillow cases were crawling with them. I shook them off into the shoebox, carefully, and threw the laundry into the machine.

Afterwards, I retreated to my bedroom feeling sickened and sad. Can I not have one good day? Is that too much to ask? Then I glanced into the shoebox, and nearly fainted.

A Battle of Epic Proportions. That’s the only way to describe it. The critters were fighting each other, crawling and biting and doing God-knows-what else. But in teams. And they were vicious. I couldn’t watch.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

My condition was worsening. My scalp and neck were sore with scabs. Over the shoebox, I scratched and itched and tossed my hair about. It looked like a Christmas snow globe, where snow dances after shaking it. Except this wasn’t snow, this was some hideous form of head lice.

Or so I thought.

I went online and did some research, and it became glaringly obvious I wasn’t dealing with head lice. Not even close. Their behavior didn’t match. Head lice don’t battle each other. Nor did they form groups. Plus, these buggers were too big. Ugh. Now what?

I fetched my microscope, which I hadn’t used in years, and caught one. I put it under the microscope for a closer look, and nearly died. My mind was on the brink. This can’t be happening, I told myself, again and again. This isn’t real.

But it was.

I went online, searching for matches. Nothing matched. These cruel-looking critters had fangs and claws and wings. The wings scared me most. If they could fly, then what? For now, at least, they crawled; tap, tap, tapping as they skittered across the shoebox.

I crushed it. Then I scooted to the washroom and regurgitated my breakfast. My stomach was turning faster than the laundry machine. After showering, I set off to work, scared and confused. It was a miserable day, lemme tell ya. As a piano instructor, I sit close to the students. I did my very best at keeping a distance, but there’s only one piano, and it’s a modest sized room.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

All day I scratched, careful not to spray critters everywhere, but unable to help myself. I was constantly cleaning the gunk from my fingernails, which were brown and gross, and in plain view as I played piano. Finally, my shift ended and I scooted home as fast as possible, hoping to get to the bottom of this. Those little buggers must’ve come from somewhere, right?

When I got home, I gasped. The shoebox had completely transformed. Inside the box was a city. They must’ve scoured my bedroom for supplies. But how? A discarded sock, for instance, was torn to shreds and used as grass. Little specs of cotton now covered the entire base of the box. My favorite Pokémon card, which I’d kept since I was a kid, was chewed up and made into tiny houses. Not only that, they were using my empty earbud container as a swimming pool! Like, where did they get the water?

I had to stand back and catch my breath. My heart was threatening to explode. I’m twenty-five, I told myself, way too young for a heart attack. Then I noticed something deeply disturbing: the shoebox was divided into halves. One side was sophisticated, with houses and a public pool etc. The other side was filthy and unkempt, with big black mounds – which may have been feces – piled high around the edges of the box. Droplets of blood were splattered across the socky grass, staining it crimson-red.

I covered the box, then spent all night on the computer, looking for answers. I researched thousands of species of insects, but none fit the description. Not even close.

Coffee became my salvation. I was ridiculously tired, and should probably be kept under quarantine, but bills are bills. Having no other source of income, I had to work. I knew damn-well I shouldn’t be out in public, the last thing I wanted to do was infect anyone, but what choice did I have? Ugh. This was awful. The Battle of Epic Proportions was taking place on my scalp, and I was the referee.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Somehow, I made it through work, itching and scratching, clawing my scalp with tremendous force. When I got home, I went straight to my room. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment, so at least there weren’t roommates to contend with. That said, I wish I had someone to confide in. Then again, look at what happened last time. I still hadn't heard from Marley. Oh, the conundrum.

The shoebox was gone. I scratched my head, this time out of confusion. I swear I’d left it in the middle of the floor.

Panic.

First, I checked the closet, searching frantically through wardrobes. Nothing. Then I got on my hands and knees and searched under the bed. Aha! Found it. Sneaky buggers. When I flashed a light, the bugs disappeared, skittering inside their newly developed homes, or mounds of poop, depending on what side of the box they were living in.

The box was buzzy. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sophisticated critters, enjoying a more luxurious lifestyle, had constructed some kind of recreation area using pens and pencils and pieces of scrap paper. Plus, they had condos! I swear to God, they did! Ugh, they’d stolen more Pokémon cards. Hence forward, I started referring to them as Mavericks.

Inside the shoebox was a war zone. Hundreds of critters were dead, mostly from the gross side. Apparently, the Mavericks had conquered them. But not entirely. The Filthy’s (as I’ve come to call them), were fighting back, making horrible hissing sounds, then taking refuge in the mounds of poop.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

My head was worsening, my neck red with rash. Feverishly, I flung my head over the box and scratched. Ahh, sweet relief. When I stood up, I gasped. The entire box was filled with bugs. To them, a tornado must’ve touched down. Next thing I know, both sides went to work, separating one species from the other, fussing and fighting and squeaking and squalling.

Using tweezers, I scooped up a Filthy for inspection. Yikes! Unlike the Mavericks, these buggers were fat, with crap-like bellies, and hundreds of tiny legs. No wings. Their teeth were treacherous, like tiny razor blades, their eyes were glowing red bulbs.

I crushed it.

I considered seeing a doctor, but waiting for hours, only to be given lice shampoo, was not a top priority. So, I shaved my head. Goodbye golden locks. Hello sweet relief. For whatever reason, I put my defiled hair into the shoebox. The creatures went on a warpath, gathering the precious cargo, hissing and squawking and fighting. Then I took the box out back and set it on fire. The sound was horrendous, like a million tiny souls screaming out at once. The smell was way worse. Completely distraught, I retreated into my bedroom, longing for a good night’s rest.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Only now, my belly itched. What the? I flashed a light. Those godawful critters were scampering across my abdomen. One poked out of my belly button. I crushed it, then I turned on the bedside light, and screamed....

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fwos69/i_thought_i_had_head_lice_turns_out_it_was_way/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ThePrimordialSource on 2024-10-05 04:47:27+00:00.

---

“Hot material piped from deep beneath the rocky underwater surface provided warmth like a mother’s womb. At these abyssal dreary depths of the ocean, the first forms of life evolved without even sunlight present; little molecules and chemicals freely floated and stitched together, becoming amino acids and proteins and cells and merging together and becoming plant and animal and - eventually - human. The ocean gave birth to life and civilization on this Earth.

It was only reasonable that our next investigation into the origins of life was the nearest ocean in our solar system.

Europa, the smallest moon of Jupiter. A frigid world, covered in a layer of ice that extends for kilometers. Beneath all that, however, is the keys for life. A deep ocean, extending over a hundred kilometers at the darkest depths. Just like on Earth, hydrothermal vents might provide warmth and material for life to form.

But when we tried to send probes, even our best antennae could not properly penetrate through the upper layers of ice. That’s where you come in. Your mission is to -“

I zoned out from the training video displayed in my cryo-pod as I watched the duo dance together outside the vacuum-sealed window. Jupiter and Europa. The creamy, dirt-scarred surface of the latter contrasted with the violent yet puffy clouds of the gas giant standing across the horizon and taking up most of the field of vision. From here, it all seemed to be relatively peaceful. Heaven knows I regret thinking that now.

The other pods began to unfreeze along with mine. I was one of the operators of the mining equipment; drilling past a massive sheet of ice with a hole big enough to fit a submarine is no easy feat!

“Hold on tight. Landing’s gonna be a little rough.”

I remembered astronaut training. The spinning machine to get you accustomed to high G-forces. Yeesh. I clung onto the ladders of my pod as I felt my bones and flesh begin to rattle and jiggle like jelly, but it stopped just as soon as it started. Our pre-designated spot was in a valley where the ice was much thinner.

“Rock, paper, scissors for who has to put the suit on and get out there,” a voice said.

“And push ice and rocks around all day in a sweaty smelly suit? Hell no.”

“I’ll do it.” Really the drill-pod wasn’t too bad, aside from the shaking. A metal chair and control center suspended in a room above the excavator to make sure the icy material was properly moving out and operate the equipment. I preferred the solitude anyway.

The feeling of the rapid tilt as the drill turned upward was a little nauseating, almost as much as the landing. The tunnel needed to be sloped to allow the submarines to fall through slowly. I got to work excavating, alone with my thoughts. That, and the endless feeling of space. The sky looked more white than black with all the stars pock-marked across it. Could it really be that for so long we searched out there when the best candidate might’ve been literally our next door neighbor?

My thoughts were interrupted as a static sound came through my suit, then a comm. I gritted my teeth. “Status report?”

I opened my camera feed. Little droplets of water began to spit out from the newly formed cave below, tracing along the surface of the drill and being shaken off. I was told I should head back in; the sub’s coming out.

For the next few hours as we waited for it to slide down I was given busywork through the whole outpost. I wandered room to room setting up hydroponics equipment, scientific instruments and taking readings.

Naturally, my boredom shifted to a sense of anxiety. We were getting close to our goal now. It must’ve shown on my face, because the captain on my team turned to me and asked what I think we’ll find down there.

I frankly didn’t know how to answer him. Could the journey have been for naught, with nothing of meaning down there? Could we be diving off the deep end, releasing something uncontrollable? That hole out there - one of my making - might be the difference between our lives and deaths.

I jumped as another comm came through. “Sub crew, 100 meters down.“ We all walked down the long corridors to the view feed room. The monitors showed mostly black with little rays of sunlight poking through the ice, dimming as they went deeper and deeper.

“200.”

“300.”

“400.”

They continued to rattle off numbers as the screen went from greenish-blue to grey to black. I shivered in my seat a little; the only discernible pattern my human mind could grasp was the subtle static through the screen.

The sensory deprivation ceased with some sort of vocalization. A clicking and pulsing sound, guttural like a thick mucus-coated tongue lapping against the palate of the mouth. A distant set of lights emerged again, lighting up in specks not unlike the stars just above the ice.

We normally would’ve celebrated, but an air of fear settled over the room. A sense that we shouldn’t be down here. Our eyes were glued to the screen yet as the creature approached.

“Echolocation. That’s the clicking. There isn’t any light down here. How else could it find its way around? I-“

He stuttered as a long tentacle reached out, forked over and over like a snake’s tongue or the branches of a tree, with flat disks across the sides. The viewfinder got cut off as one of them smacked across the front, but the interior lights of the vessel let us peek in: a set of many glowing tongues licked across the surface.

Crack. Creaaaak. Crack.

Water pumped in as this enormous hellspawn compressed and bit.

This had to be a bad dream. It had to be. I pinched myself over and over trying to zone out the yelling and gasps around me, even raising my arm to my mouth and sinking my teeth into my flesh a little.

The camera turned up as the creature let go, with its loud clicks again. Rising toward the huge hole we left in the surface. Echolocation.

“We have to choke it out! Someone turn on the drill!”

This time, snowball’s chance in hell I was going to volunteer. “No WAY am I going out there.”

“Rock paper scissors?”

“Fine.”

—— I swore at everything through my suit as I got pushed to the other side of the airlock, out in the vacuum and with that thing out there.

“You can do this. Deep breaths.”

Pushing the lever down it shook again for a few moments before it stopped and slowed.

Red. That was all I saw. Mangled bloody arms spread across the spiraling surface of the excavator and tunnel. Any relief was short lived, though, as the flesh started to pulse and throb again, sliding up toward me.

I screamed as it approached and I sped up the ladders from the excavation room back to the airlock.

By the time I unsuited, all the windows of the outpost were covered in crawling flesh. For all we knew, our universe was replaced with one where only meat, blood and fat existed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Our fate looked to be the same as the one of our waterlogged brethren below.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Some were silently sobbing to themselves.

CRACK.

All our air began to leak out and that was their cue. A nasty dripping sound came every time more flesh poured in.

It wrapped around our legs and spiraled up our bodies.

Lapping at my own exposed bite-mark.

Tearing into my skin.

In my last moments I could’ve sworn I heard something from the comm room.

This is Mission Control, the next wave of colonists will be landing shortly at your location.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/cporpentine on 2024-10-05 04:10:43+00:00.

---

My mother was a gold digger, I was never under any illusions about that. I never knew who my father was--she always hinted that he had been a cultured man from a rich family and that he had simply run out on her when she got pregnant with me, never to be seen again.

I was a handsome, precocious boy (not to toot my own horn too much) and I knew from a pretty young age that she used me as a prop to draw wealthy, older men closer to her. The last time this happened was when I was 14, and she met a man named Nick.

Nick was younger and richer, I believe, than any other guy she had gotten her hooks into. He drove a black Benz and wore expensive looking slacks with button down shirts that fit perfectly. Handsome devil, too. Mom never got specific about what he did. "He's a speculator," she'd say.

Nick and I would sit and talk for a long time, while he waited for my mom to get ready to go out, and to be honest I really loved these conversations. We talked about literature we both liked, like The Telltale Heart and Neuromancer. Once I tried to talk to him about Kurt Vonnegut, but he just got furious and left before my mom was even finished putting her makeup on. He helped me with my algebra homework and we'd talk about music together although there we didn't have much in common, he just kept complaining everything I liked sounded "too Black."

To impress Nick, who I supposed must have been weirdly religious, my mom insisted I start going to Sunday school and reading the Bible. One thing I learned was that guys who fall for gold diggers always have one thing really weird about them or wrong with them. So I presumed Nick must have been a holy roller, which would also explain why he got so pissy about a cynical, atheist-humanist like Vonnegut.

I had a good memory and good brain and there was really not very much to Christianity, as far as I could tell. I memorized the Apostle's Creed and the Lord's Prayer and Psalm 22 and some Bible verses and I learned to begin prayers with "Dear God," and end with "In Jesus' name" and that as long as you got the form right the middle part didn't matter much because God was going to do pretty much what He wanted anyway. I prayed every night--it was a soothing thing to do after brushing my teeth. And I said the Lord's Prayer a lot in my head.

Nick started to say to my mom, and to me when she wasn't around, that I was such a smart and sweet boy I must surely be one of God's favorites already. "Really loves a scholar too, He does," he'd say, "And He always had a weakness for the pretty ones."

We would do fun things sometimes, without my mother around. He had fantastic season tickets to the Bulls, and he'd help me dress up and take me to French restaurants and steak houses and he taught me to eat sushi with chopsticks.

Because school work was so easy for me, he even started to teach me Latin from a very old book he had with a black cover festooned with gold stars and spirals and other symbols. He said that people didn't realize how useful Latin still could be and that I would especially need it.

And see, that last part seemed weird. The fixation on Latin was weird. Even as a 14 year old, that triggered some alarm bells. That and the way Nick smelled if you got close to him. Under his sandalwood cologne I could smell traces of an older, more noxious smell.

I asked my mother once if SHE knew why her boyfriend always smelled a little like rotten eggs and first she got mad, then quickly changed the subject.

So in the weeks leading up to my 15th birthday she started hinting that she had a special gift for me. She said that Nick and I were going to take a trip together and that when we came back we would all be a family.

I overheard them talking one night, after I had gone to bed. She said "But can't you just...transfer it or something? Why does it have to be complicated?"

And he said "There are ways these things have to be done. Old ways. You know that, we have talked about it ad nauseam."

"Well do I have to be there for it?"

"Yes," he said in a voice so scary it kept ringing in my head as I lay sleepless all night.

We were all sitting in our living room on my birthday, a hot day in April. The living room was hotter than usual, even though the A/C was on full blast. Nick and my mother kept giving each other conspiratorial glances and Nick said things like "Just look at our boy. Surely one of God's favorites by now. God must value him greatly."

This kind of talk had always made me uncomfortable, but up until recently I assumed it was just effusive talk from a religious nut.

Today they were both eager, and careless. After they offered me a glass of ginger ale, which I pretended to drink and then went in the bathroom and spit out, they got even more careless. I saw the burlap sack full of what I was sure were gold coins next to Nick's chair and I saw the way my mother kept looking at the bag, dollar signs in her eyes. There was a very old looking piece of parchment on the table beside my mother, and I was pretty sure I knew what that was.

I played a joke on them--I pretended I had really drunk the ginger ale and that I was getting weirdly tired and dizzy. I stood up and then sat right back down hard and fluttered my eyes.

"Prick his finger, now. Prick his finger and use it to sign the pact. Do it now."

Nick was completely done pretending now. The horns he usually covered carefully with his thick, dark hair were jutting up from his head and his eyes were glowing a feverish, red color. He kicked off his shoes and put his cloven feet on the floor and stood up, letting his tail slide out of his pants. He was grinning. "Yes, it really kills God to lose one like this."

And then I was off. Even though I had figured out what was going on, I didn't have any particularly cunning plan. I just pretended I was drugged and helpless and then, as my mother got close to me to prick my finger, I kicked her as hard as I could and ran the hell out the door while she yelped in pain.

I heard a sound all the way down the hallway, just before I threw the door open and kept running, that reminded me of a wounded lion. Nick, I assumed.

He didn't chase me, not right away. Neither of them did. I had the feeling that even if Nick didn't get the soul he had come to take, he *did* take a soul that day. I never heard from my mother again.

In the years since, I have done pretty well. The early teen years were rough. I ended up in foster care. But I was white, smart, good looking and did well in school. College was a lot of fun. I kept studying. Latin did come in handy.

One thing I have always been sour about. After I learned about God and how to pray and the words to say to worship him, I prayed like crazy that he'd save me from Nick and my mother. That he'd somehow change her heart, make her not be the kind of woman who would make a deal with the Devil for her own son's soul. You know what he did for me? Jack shit.

The summer between graduation and law school I brokered a deal of my own. I knelt at a cross road near a boneyard and I said some words and....it was like seeing an old friend.

Terms were discussed. Payments arranged. Time durations were set. We shook hands. He kissed my lips. I signed in blood.

When my time was up, I ran like hell again. Bought a new identity. Had plastic surgery. Moved to fucking New Zealand. And Nick let me be. He always did have a soft spot for me.

But I think my time is getting short. Lately, every time I go into a bar or a restaurant, that old blues song "Hellhound on my Trail" starts playing. I smell rotten eggs and sulfur everywhere. And every time I look in a mirror, I see very clearly a handsome man in the distance behind me, with a huge black snarling dog on a leash walking in front of him.

I've made the best deal I could, and I don't see a lot of point in delaying things. There is a crossroad near a boneyard just outside the town where I bought a little house for cash under a fake name and passport. Tonight I think I will walk there and kneel and wait. I hope it hurts god to lose a soul like mine, and I hope Nick and I still have such lovely, long talks.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2024-10-05 03:07:21+00:00.

---

[1] - [2]

For a couple of weeks after our run-in with the contaminated apartment building, there were a lot of people coming and going. Sheriff Mason had called in the cavalry. I saw a couple of unmarked vans, and at one point, a bus - a sort of mobile base. I saw people associated with the DUC once. They were wearing a sort of battery-powered full-cover helmet that looked straight out of a cheap sci-fi flick.

Mason was too busy to be bothered, but I talked a lot with Nick. Apparently, these were the people you called in when there was something you couldn’t normally handle. Things like lactose parasites, a virus that reacted to delta waves, or a being that could camouflage itself so well that you needed a type of paranoid schizophrenia to see them. The stories he told were outright mad, but they were all second or third-hand accounts (and slightly embellished).

“I only met ‘em once back in ’13,” Nick explained. “We got containment duty. Nasty business. An eruption, or ‘localized geological event’, spewed a bunch of cave gunk into the air. Made some kind of thing go wonky. It all sort of smelled like dinner to ‘em.”

“What do you mean ‘thing?”

“I didn’t see ‘em. I just sprayed down the cars and hoped they’d go another way. But we didn’t have enough drainage, so it all just… it was a mess.”

Nick shook his head with a sigh.

“If we got these people around, there’s gonna be problems. But we got bigger problems if they ain’t here.”

 

Mason didn’t keep us in the loop. Most of the time he sent us out on seemingly random errands. One time we were to sit by a field of blue sunflowers, armed with shotguns, tasked to shoot anything that moved. Anything. Luckily, we didn’t see anything, but still.

Another time, he asked us to go to supermarkets in the area and buy a number of items. We were then to meet up with an associate that would handle the items and double-check for ‘statistical issues’. Didn’t sound all too bad, but I got a bit nervous when the lady we handed it to came fully geared in one of those CDC hazmat suits. There was no patch or mark; she was unaffiliated.

We also had to do bi-daily check-ins on Frog Lake. Both to make sure the frog population was in check, but also to see if someone was swimming around. It was early January, but apparently it was known to happen. The lake had ‘historical significance’ to the area, and people sometimes did strange things in it.

 

I remember stopping at the local gas station for a hot dog with Nick once. We’d been out to ‘check the trees for red birds’  all day, and I was getting sick and tired of being thrown around town like a wet napkin. This wasn’t policework, and I made my dissatisfaction known; at least to Nick.

“I hear ya’,” he said. “But we don’t have anyone else. The closest fire department is up in St. Cloud, and the less we talk about animal control, the better.”

“I don’t get it,” I sighed. “Sheriff just drops a weird word and all of a sudden it’s high alert for weeks on end?”

“The yearwalk thing,” Nick corrected. “Yeah. It’s gonna be months.”

“So you know what this is? A yearwalk?”

“Right,” he continued, finishing his hot dog. “It’s like an idiot holding up an ‘eat me’ sign and all kinds of weird shit shakes loose to have a bite.”

“And anyone can do this, at any time?”

“Nah, you gotta be in the right place at the right time. There’s gotta be like… an intent.”

He tapped the side of his head.

“And you gotta be an idiot.”

 

While the Sheriff and the higher-ups kept chasing their tails with big-picture stuff, we were the boots on the ground. Nick and I were kept in the dark about a lot of details, but we were still expected to drop everything at the drop of a hat. I mean, that’s the job, but it’s not what I signed up for.

I contemplated quitting outright. There were other jobs around Tomskog to apply for, and this just didn’t seem worth it. We were always on-call, and sometimes we’d get rung up for the most ridiculous things. Like this one time when I got a call to check on an elderly woman. I was to see if she ‘had something in her ear’. If she didn’t, I was to give her migraine medication. How is that urgent enough to wake me at 2:30 am?

But that’s the thing with Tomskog; no matter the call, it’s a coin flip between nothing, and a nightmare. And we were due for a nightmare.

 

One day we got a call about someone dumping trash by the side of the road. It wasn’t a priority call, but the sheriff was too busy to hand out any other orders. So yeah, Nick and I checked it out.

It was an early January morning. Sun was still rising and the snow from the previous night was still settling. Not a cloud in sight, just a light mist rising from the warming frost. The kind of weather where it feels like summer but looks like winter.

 Nick pulled over and smacked the dashboard. His sunglasses looked more pink than usual.

“Up and at ‘em. We’re here.”

 

I stepped out to see a washing machine by the side of the road; cables and pipes and all. It looked to be a couple generations behind, but still pretty modern. The only weird thing about it was the color; it was solid black.

“I guess we just haul it off,” I said. “You got a junk yard?”

Nick wasn’t convinced. He walked up to it and opened the hatch.

“Something black inside. Looks like oil.”

“So it’s broken.”

“Then why didn’t they throw it away?”

“How is leaving it by the side of the road not throwing it away?”

Nick nodded, adjusting his pink sunglasses and scratching his head.

“I dunno about this one,” he admitted. “This has weird shit written all over it.”

 

We called sheriff Mason and got a clear order; to drive the thing out of town and drop it off a cliff. I thought it was an exaggeration, but he made it abundantly clear. Not burn it, not crush it, not dump it at a yard; drive it far out of town and drop it off a steep cliff. It was odd, to say the least, but we were used to it by then.

We tipped the thing over, draining the liquid, and threw it in the back of the car. It was a strange substance; like a watery black pudding. It kept bubbling, despite not being warm. Nick kicked it off the road, threw a rock at it, and we were on our way.

We took a long ride out of town, following a dirt road that’d barely been touched. We drove past lake Attabat and took a turn at what looked like an old quarry. I gave Nick a curious look.

“Boss said drop it off a cliff. So we’re dropping it off a cliff.”

And up we went.

 

We took the thing out and pushed it all the way up. I could tell this was a sort of gathering for high school kids; the only thing left behind were empty beer cans and half-smoked poorly rolled joints. Nick didn’t seem to notice, or care.

We pushed the washing machine all the way to the edge at the top of the quarry. It’s strange; you don’t know how high up you really are until you look down. Every whiff of wind that passed by made the cliff whistle, and every uneasy step had this long echo to it. Nick didn’t seem all too bothered by it. I started to suspect that maybe he’d been one of the kids who hung out here, once upon a time.

We braced ourselves and gave the washing machine a final push off a cliff.

 

It wasn’t a straight drop. The thing bounced against the side 2-3 times, gaining in speed, before it splashed into the water far below. It took about a minute before it sunk, and when it did, I could see something black pouring out; puddling on the surface of the water.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Nick smiled. “Let’s get lunch.”

There wasn’t that much going on for the rest of the day. The sheriff was pleased to hear that we’d followed his orders to the letter. Apparently, we’d solved the ‘Hank Byrne’ issue before it even started. He did not elaborate.

As that day came to an end and I changed into my civilian clothes, I found a black spot on my socks. Turns out, a splotch from the washing machine had stuck to them. I didn’t think much about it, I just threw it all into my laundry basket.

I figured I’d deal with it soon enough, but as these things often go, I kind of forgot about it.

 

We got really busy the next few days. Some of the folks we ran into at the Babin apartment complex were facing complications and had to be hospitalized. We were called in to provide assistance; literally holding some of them down as they were given medication. Even after all this time, some of them still had blue discoloration on their skin.

Nick also made an effort to check in on John Digman and his family. Just dropping by occasionally to check on him from afar; making sure there was nothing strange going on. I couldn’t help but to get the feeling that Nick resented these people. I didn’t quite understand why. Yes, the Digman fellow had started something, but I couldn’t grasp what it was. But the younger guy? He just seemed like a scared kid. Hell, he barely ever left his apartment.

It took me weeks to even get his name – Peter, or using his nickname, ‘Perry’.

 

It was after a particularly long day that I came home to a strange sensation. I was kicking off my shoes when I felt a salty smell. It took me a while to realize it was coming from the laundry basket.

I hadn’t thought about it for some time, but opening it made a wall of stench wash over me. Pushing some underwear and shirts aside, I found my stained socks. Except it wasn’t just a little black stain stuck to the side anymore; it had grown to the size of a ...

---

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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 2024-10-05 03:48:29+00:00.

---

“Thanks for letting me stay here,” I said as I walked through the door. I needed a break from my roommate. He and his girlfriend of the last six weeks had gotten into yet another argument. And there were only two possible outcomes: something would be thrown across the room, or hours of fucking. Neither which I wanted to deal with.

"You practically begged me," TJ replied, a sandy-haired man with green eyes about my age and height. He closed the door and led me into the living room. "I don't usually have people over."

"Well, if I knew you lived like this, I would have asked sooner," I replied, comparing my tiny apartment in a college town to TJ's comfortable home. Judging by the clean brick exterior, spacious front yard, and hardwood floors, he must have lived quite comfortably, considering we had the same job.

"Eh, it's alright. I've lived here since I was a kid," TJ said. "I'm going out on a date tonight, but help yourself to anything in the fridge. I have just about every streaming service, so watch whatever."

"Awesome. I seriously appreciate it, dude."

"Yeah, I only have one rule," TJ instructed. "If you see someone in a raccoon suit outside, don't let him in."

"What?" I chuckled, thinking he was joking. But his serious expression puzzled me. "You're messing with me, right?"

"No, not at all. If you see someone in a raccoon suit, don't let him in the house," he replied sternly, grabbing his keys from the coffee table. "It hasn't happened in a while, but occasionally he comes around and can be a pain."

"Okay, that's kind of weird."

"I know, but if you see a guy dressed in a raccoon suit, do not let him in," TJ reiterated as he headed to the front door. "I'll be gone for a few hours, and he's been coming around less and less, so you'll be fine."

"If I do see him, should I call the cops?"

"No, it's not that serious. Just call or text me. I can shoo him away pretty easily," TJ replied. "I don't want to get the cops involved."

“Okay…” I said, still feeling confused. He had to be joking with me, as he gave me a gentle wave and walked out the door. locking it behind him. I looked out the window to see him pull away, it was starting to get dark, as I turned around and settled myself into a nice plush couch. 

–

It was nearly two hours since TJ had left. I was comfortably settled, watching an HBO documentary about the Crazy Chimp Lady. It was hard to believe someone could be so unhinged.

Suddenly, a bright white light filled the window. It looked like a spotlight. As I approached, I saw shadows of trees, bushes, and other objects on the manicured lawn. The light itself felt like one of those used on escaped prisoners in the movies. It was a bit overkill, but something else was out there, and I couldn't believe it.

A man dressed in a raccoon suit.

The light highlighted the stains, tears, and haggard look of his body suit. The head was worse: one ear dangled, the mouth part was covered in various colors. It looked as if the suit had never been washed or for that matter taken off.

"What the hell is this?" I said as its head turned towards me. It waved childishly before walking towards the house. I backed away from the window, my mouth agape.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

I stood in the living room, peering down the hall to the foyer. I saw the ragged ear from the small window of the door. It knocked again, more forcefully. 

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeellooooooooo, I know you are in there," a male voice said, trying to sound cartoonish and cute. "I'm just a talking raccoon. Won't you let me come in so we can have an amazing adventure together!"

"What?" I yelled in confusion as he began to scratch lightly on the door. I took a couple of steps into the hallway. "Listen, you just need to go away."

"It's been so long since I had an adventure buddy," he screeched as he continued to scratch. "I promise we will have lots of fun together, but you have to let me in."

"I'm not letting you in!"

"Don't you want to have lots of fun?"

"Hell no," I screamed. "TJ said not to let you in."

"TeeJay?" he said, overemphasizing the name as he began pawing at the window. "Me and him go so far back. We used to go on adventures together. Oh boy, they were so much fun!"

“Seriously, go away.” 

“Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, you’re making me sad,” he replied, sniffing dramatically. “I’m just a talking raccoon who wants to go on adventures, and you’re just a big meanie genie.”

“I’m done here,” I shouted. “Go away, I’m not talking anymore.”

“Fine!” he yelled back before a heavy thud shook the door, as if he had kicked it in anger. It became silent as the ears slowly retreated. I stood there silently, waiting to see if anything else would happen, but after a few moments, it was eerily quiet.

I returned to the living room, my phone on the coffee table. I considered calling 9-1-1 but decided to text TJ instead. Perhaps I'd scared him off? Hesitating, I set my phone down.

Sitting nervously on the couch, I clenched my jaw, my stomach churned, and my legs jittered. I watched the chimp show, but something gnawed at me. I kept glancing at my phone, torn about calling TJ.

Then I heard it: scratching.

I grabbed my phone and looked toward the foyer. The sound wasn't from there. It was coming from elsewhere in the house. My mind raced as I followed the sound down a hallway with three doors. The scratching grew more frantic.

I passed the first door on the right, gently opening it to reveal a spotless bathroom. The sound didn't originate there. I turned to the left, opening the door slowly as the scratching intensified. The room was dark. I fumbled for the light switch, finding it eventually. The bedroom was immaculate.

Stepping back out, I heard a voice, "Hellooooooooo, new friend!" I walked over to the door, pushing it open to reveal a dark room with a silhouette in the window. I found the light switch and turned it on. He stood outside, looking at me.

But that wasn't what shocked me.

Inside the room, crude drawings littered the walls. Finger paints and crayon scribbles showing two figures: one with yellow hair and the other a raccoon standing on two legs. Some showed them holding hands, smiling, or playing childish games. Others, more disturbing, showed the boy frowning and the raccoon crying.

"Seeeee, me and TeeJay, the two of us go way back," he chatted. "We were the best of best friends!"

"Okay?"

"Now me and you can be best best best best friends," he added, tapping gently on the window. “Now can I please come in, oh pretty please?

“No, TJ said do not let you in!” 

“You don’t know TeeJay like I do,” he prodded. “He used to be such a fun boy, but then he changed. Something happened to him.”

“You’re not coming into the house, now go away!”

“He became a cruel cruel boy, and my adventure buddy became so dark,” he continued while waving his hand around the window. “You see it here in this room, don’t you?” 

“I don’t care,” I insisted as he put down his hand, suddenly becoming silent for a moment. Even with the raccoon head, I could feel his stare boring right through me, leaving my stomach in knots.

“He will hurt you like he hurt me,” he replied, his voice with a light tremble. “But if you let me in, I won’t let anyone, especially TeeJay, hurt my new best friend.” 

"My mind raced, the absurdity of it all impossible. This had to be some sick joke, and there was only one person who would do something like this. 'Alright, cut the crap,' I smirked. 'I'll give it to you, this is probably a funny prank, TJ.'

"I'm not TJ, I am a talking raccoon!"

"Talking raccoons don't exist. You're just a weird prankster in a costume."

He stood there, outside in the wind. For a moment, he lifted his fake paw and began rubbing his chin. I could hear him sigh as he conceded, still in his cartoonish voice, "Alright, you caught me, good job! You passed the friendship test!"

I let out a sigh of relief. "Alright, I'm glad we can end this game. Honestly, it was starting to freak me out."

'Yeah, sorry, sometimes I get a little carried away,' he chuckled, turning his head toward the front door. 'I'll see you inside, I guess...'

"Can you take off the suit? I mean, it actually does sort of give me the creeps."

"What?" he replied, turning his head back to me.

"Take off the head part at least,'" I said as I stepped a little closer to the window. He started to breathe heavily but stood there without saying a word. I began to feel a little uneasy again, starting to doubt myself. "Come on, take it off and you can come inside."

"But I can't do that."

"Alright, there's one way to settle this then," I said, thinking of a solution to rest any doubt. I pulled up my phone and called TJ's number. The phone began to ring as we stood in a staring contest.

"What are you doing?'"

"I'm calling you, TJ."

"No, no, don't do that. My phone is in the treehouse!"

"What?"

"Hello?" I heard TJ's voice over the phone. My eyes widened, and I began to panic. Suddenly, the man in the raccoon suit started to scratch at the window menacingly, tearing the screen.

"You're not the fucking raccoon?" I shouted loudly over the phone.

"What? Of course, I'm not. Is he there? Seriously?" TJ answered.

"Yes, he told me he was you!"

"Just stay inside the house. I'm on my way back," TJ replied before hanging up. He noticed that I was no longer on the phone and bolted away from the window as I ran out of the room. I could hear a doorknob rattling from somewhere as I ran back to the foyer area to see him...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/dorimarcosta on 2024-10-04 14:23:38+00:00.

---

I grew up in a small village in the rural part of the municipality of Coari, in the interior of the state of Amazonas. My story takes place in the 1970s, when I was still a teenager. I’ve loved eating fruit since I was a kid; imagine tasting a mango picked right there, directly from the tree. The problem was that it wasn’t just me who liked them—practically everyone in the village did. The best way to ensure I got my precious fruit was to wake up at dawn before the other villagers. And it was on one of those early mornings that everything happened.

The village was still wrapped in the silence of the early morning when I left the house. The air was fresh, and the humidity from the forest seemed to cling to the wooden stilts that supported the houses.

In the distance, the river lazily flowed, reflecting the few stars that still shone in the sky. The sound of the water hitting the banks, the croaking of frogs, and the occasional call of a night bird were the only things breaking the silence.

The village was small, with few elevated wooden houses connected by walkways stretching over the always damp ground. The walls of the houses were simple, made of worn wooden planks, and the roofs were either thatched or old zinc. The smell of smoke still lingered in the air, a reminder of the fires that had burned the night before. I liked that smell. It was comforting.

My father had gone out hunting the night before, and my mother and siblings were still asleep. I took advantage of the quiet to slip out without making a sound, knowing that soon the day would start, and the other teenagers in the village would wake up. I liked being the first to go into the forest, to find the best fruit before anyone else could.

With a flashlight in one hand, a bag in the other, and a machete hanging from my belt, I followed the trail I knew so well. The forest seemed to envelop me as I moved forward, and the darkness was cut only by the weak beam of my flashlight. The sound of my footsteps mixed with the buzzing of insects, but I wasn’t bothered. I grew up here; I knew every corner of this part of the forest like the back of my hand.

As I walked, I began looking for fruit in the nearby trees. Some branches swayed lightly with the wind, and I could see shadows moving among the leaves. Everything seemed normal until, in the middle of the darkness, a sound I had never heard before echoed through the forest. A howl... but it wasn’t like any dog or animal I knew.

My body froze for a second, and I looked around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. My heart started racing.

I stood still, trying to listen more closely, but the howl repeated, this time closer. A feeling of fear I had never felt before began to creep up my spine.

It didn’t seem like any ordinary animal you’d find in the forest. I started walking back, faster now, nervously glancing to the sides. The flashlight shook slightly in my hand.

Then I heard branches snapping, as if something large was moving through the forest, following me. The howl turned into a growl that now sounded frighteningly close. My breathing grew heavy, and the fear overtook me. I ran. I didn’t think of anything but escaping. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, dodging trees and branches, while the sound of that thing chasing me grew louder. It was behind me—I could feel it.

My legs ached, sweat poured down my face, but I couldn’t stop. Panic consumed me, and the sound of something heavy running through the trees came closer and closer. I glanced back quickly but saw nothing but shadows, just an impression of something big and fast.

That’s when, in the middle of the darkness, I almost collided with a familiar figure. My father! He was there, holding his shotgun, his eyes wide as he saw me. I didn’t have time to explain. The creature was close, and the sound of breaking branches was terrifying. My father, without hesitation, raised the shotgun and fired in the direction of the sound.

The shot echoed through the forest, and the noise of something heavy falling made me realize that the creature had been hit. But then I heard it fleeing, dragging itself through the trees, letting out a high-pitched whimper. A trail of blood gleamed in the faint light of my flashlight. My father was breathing heavily, staring into the woods, alert, but the thing was already gone.

We stood there for a while, both trying to make sense of what had just happened. The day started to brighten, but even in the morning light, we couldn’t find the creature. Just the trail of blood, disappearing among the trees.

We didn’t know what it was. And maybe it was better that way.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/fainting--goat on 2024-10-05 01:12:30+00:00.

---

Previous Posts

You know how I haven’t really talked about my manager since the rescue in the graveyard?  It’s because not a lot happened with him after that.  He was kind of like, you cool? And I was like yeah I’m good and he left it at that.  My personal theory is that he either doesn’t remember what happened, is in denial, or is dealing with his trauma by burying it very very deep and hoping no one asks about it.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaah that’s familiar.

Probably a combination of all three, if we’re being realistic.  Anyway, I’ve been going to work as normal despite everything, because life goes on right, and I don’t have that many shifts to begin with.  And I think things would have just continued on like that, with him in a state of amnesia/denial/trauma and me not wanting to bring it up because I had other problems to deal with.

HOWEVER.

Neither of us accounted for my former boss.  

We certainly didn’t expect her to show up unannounced at the end of my shift.

“I AM OUT OF PUMPKIN SPICE,” she bellowed, bursting in through the back door of the kitchen area.  “DO YOU HAVE PUMPKIN SPICE.”

Uh, no, we obviously did not have pumpkin spice.  We did things like reheating spinach quiches and mixing cans of chicken alfredo with pasta.  Pumpkin spice wasn’t something we needed on the regular, unlike the coffee shop which had decided to make it a permanent part of their menu.  My former boss ignored me though and went into the pantry.  I stood there, waiting, while she rummaged around.  My manager emerged from his office at the commotion to see what was happening.

“Okay, you don’t have it either,” my former boss said, emerging from the pantry empty-handed.  “We need to go shopping.  My car is broken, so you’ll need to drive.  Oh, and let’s bring Ashley, we’ll need help carrying it.”

How much pumpkin spice were we buying?!

“You could just take it off the menu,” my manager suggested.

“UNACCEPTABLE.”

I would like to say that this level of volume wasn’t unheard of for my former boss, but it was unusual.

“I’d have a riot on my hands,” she added.  “Putting it on the menu was the most popular decision anyone has ever made on this campus.”

I’m not sure I’d agree with that, I feel like ‘a professor canceling a Friday afternoon class’ could put up some real competition, but my former boss was moving through the kitchen like a whirlwind.  She went to my manager’s office and helped herself to his car keys.  Then she headed for the exit, my manager following because it was his car and he had no choice, and me following because at this point I just wanted to see what the heck was going on.

I did remember to text Cassie and tell her what was going on so she wouldn’t freak out when I didn’t show at our meetup spot now that my shift was done.

My manager at least managed to reclaim control of the situation by insisting that he get to drive his own car.  But as we were leaving campus, my former boss gave him some instructions on where she wanted to go.  Don’t go straight, she said. We weren’t going to the grocery store.

She told him to get on the highway.

And then he drove in confused silence for half an hour while I sat in the back and wondered if I was being kidnapped.  I had my cellphone on me, so maybe not though?  Maybe we were just going to a retailer outside of town, because the local grocery store probably didn’t have the quantity of pumpkin spice she needed.  Restaurant supply stores are a thing, right?  I assumed this was the case just to calm my nerves, while I watched out the window as the rain pelting the car slowly dwindled and then vanished.  I could see sunlight for the first time in almost two weeks.

“Okay, now that the rain is gone,” my former boss sighed, “let’s talk about what this is really about.”

“So the pumpkin spice…” my manager began.

“Oh we’re totally out of it.  But I crossed it off the menu like a sensible person.”

Which meant this excursion was about the rain.  It was about me.  And sure enough, my former boss wanted to know what happened in the graveyard.  I didn’t just free my manager from the tree, she said.  It’d started raining that day and it hadn’t stopped.  That wasn’t a coincidence.

So while my manager drove, hunting for someplace to pull over that might have a decent coffee shop, I told them everything that had happened.  Everything.  Because I needed all the help I could get and both of them were pretty entrenched in the inhuman by this point already.

“The devil!?” my manager said when I was finished.  “Am I losing my mind?  Is this what it feels like to lose my mind?”

“Says the man that periodically eats the contents of his entire kitchen, including, mind you, the grease traps and the raw bacon,” my former boss retorted.

I’m so glad she’s on my side.

“But why are you getting involved in this?” I asked.  “I seem to recall you being an advocate of keeping your head down and not saying anything.”

“Yeah, I was,” my former boss said grimly.  “But you know what else is different?  Haven’t seen the possums around for a while.  Haven’t seen a few things around lately, actually.  Got me thinking - maybe campus can change.  It is changing.  And turns out you’re the reason.”

I started to say something self-deprecating, that it really wasn’t me, that I’d just been cast in this role because Grayson needed a body to inhabit, but she quickly cut me off.

“So what are you going to do about the rain?” she asked.  “Any ideas to get rid of it?”

That hadn’t even crossed my mind.  Stopping Grayson, yes, but not getting rid of him.  He was the rain.  You couldn’t get rid of the rain.  But I had a seed now, a seed to a tree that was weakening - containing - him and maybe all I needed to do was find someplace to plant it.  Not in the graveyard.  That would just return us to the old status quo, to the very situation the devil had singled me out to undo. I couldn’t go back to that.  Grayson was right in that regard - he couldn’t keep stealing bodies.  That had to stop.

“I don’t want to get rid of Grayson,” I said quietly.  “I think… I think in a way, the rain protects campus.”He hadn’t hesitated to kill all the swimmers.  He’d killed that kelpie.  He was keeping things in check and yes, he wasn’t getting rid of everything - the flickering man in particular came to mind, at least while he was following Grayson’s rules - I still had to wonder how much worse campus would be without him.  No ancient being was fully benevolent.  They were reflections of humanity, a single shard of a broken mirror, but even that slim aspect had a multitude of angles from which to view the world.  Grayson, no, the rain, was far more complex than mere good or evil.

“Look, I know it’s hard, but he made his bad choices and you are not responsible for them,” my former boss said and I felt like this wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation with someone.  The words felt like she was familiar with them, like she’d used them before.  “You need to let him go and do what’s right for you.”

“I don’t know what’s right.”

“I didn’t say what’s right,” my former boss snapped.  “Because what’s ‘right’ is usually decided by like… society and people with lots of money and shit like that.  I said what’s right for you.  What you want to do.  So what do you want?”

What did I want?  I wanted to graduate.  I wanted to remain myself.  I wanted the people I cared about to be safe.  And Grayson… I wanted things to go back to how it felt when I first met him.  When he was just a part of my life like anyone else and there was no visible ulterior motive and he wasn’t desperate and he trying to make choices for me and he wasn’t anything more than just someone I felt safe talking to.

“I, for one,” my manager added dryly, “would like the rain to stop turning me into a monster, so I’m all for trapping him inside a magical tree.”

I wanted to protest that I didn’t know that’s how it worked, but something was turning around in the back of my mind, something basic, something so simple that I already knew it long before I started my geology classes.

It was weird that the rain turned people into things, wasn’t it?  And how all the monsters came out in the rain and how the doors in the steam tunnels led to other places.  Like the world was crumbling and the reality we humans knew and clung to couldn’t hold together.

Like it was eroding.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.  “I think I do want to plant the seed.”

What happened when it rained and there wasn’t enough plant life?  Erosion.  The rain changing things, turning students into inhumans and back again.  The crumbling of the divide between our world and theirs.  The traveling river, sweeping through our world and then back to where it came from.  The steam tunnels, leading to different places through each door.  And creatures crawling out of that pool of water, finding their way onto campus where the rain, trapped in a human body, could only do so much to remove them again.

The university president had upset the natural order by putting an ancient being into mortal flesh.  Professor Monotone’s ancestor had attempted to reduce the rain’s power by planting a tree.  And maybe that was the right answer, but for the wrong reason, and not in the right spot.  We did want a tree, not to trap the rain or to weaken it, but to stabilize the earth.

A live tree.  Not...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-10-04 17:31:16+00:00.

---

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I tried to run. I know. Bad idea. But most of you haven’t felt what I felt that night. At least, I hope you haven’t. For your own sake.

There is little in the world that is more terrifying than your heart wrenching with fear as you lie in bed, drenched in your own sweat, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. Keenly aware of your own mortality. Any man, anyone, any living thing, would want to get away from anything that makes them feel that way. So, I ran.

By the way, I thought I should provide you guys with an easy way to keep track of these experiences, if only to have a neat log of my death throes for posterity's sake. So, I made an index. After all, this is looking to be getting a little voluminous. I’ll keep updating it as and when I post, provided I’m not actively in the jaws of some monstrosity at that point. Check at the end of this for the link.

Anyway, after a refreshing afternoon siesta, it was time to meet my lawyer. I put on one of the clean white tunics the servants had left out while I was sleeping. As the evening fell, the air was growing chilly, and the wind was picking up across the open fields outside, so I had Bhanu bring me a shawl. Not carrying a good jacket or sweater had been an oversight. I had completely forgotten how cold it could get in these remote places at night, even outside of winter.

What I did not forget was to swipe Ramu’s knife off the table and stick it in one of my pockets. I was not making the mistake of being unarmed, even inside the house.

My uncle was waiting for me as I threw the shawl around my shoulders and descended the stairs. He was similarly dressed in a woollen shawl and a tunic, his smile in its usual place.

“Now you look the part, kid. All that shirt and jeans bullshit won’t fly in this house.”

I chuckled, picking at the edges of the shawl. “I almost feel like I belong here. Part of the scenery, you know? Almost.”

“Hey. This is your home.” He walked up and grabbed my shoulder. “That remains true, no matter how many years you spend away from it. Your father did what he thought was best when he left. I don’t blame him. But even he always felt its pull. Whenever something went wrong, he would be on his way here the next day. We never even needed to call. He just felt it, and he came back.”

“He came back. And he died.”

He nodded. “And he died.”

“What happened that night, kaku? I deserve to know.”

“You do.” He sighed and took his hand off my shoulder, turning his back to me. “But I cannot tell you. He never discussed it with me, though I asked. Not with any of us. Only your grandfather knows what truly happened. At least, he knew.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked back at me. “This place has painful connotations for you, as it has for all of us. You did not want to come back, and I can understand why. But you’re here now. And you’re family. Our family. All of us are with you. Whatever this is… we can handle it. We always have.”

I stepped closer to him. “Grandfather could not do it, and he knew this land from birth.”

“And through him, and us, so will you.” He faced me again. “On that note, we must speak soon. About the situation here. You’ve had enough excitement for one day, but tomorrow, come find me. There is information to cover. There are rituals to be performed. The coming of a new Thakur is a crucial time. Nothing can go wrong.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’ll all make sense eventually. Trust me, kid.” He gestured at the hallway. “The lawyer’s in the study. You should go see him now. He’ll explain the mundane side of things to you. Property, finances. You know it better than me.”

“That makes one thing.” I sighed. “Thanks, uncle. By the way, where are the others?”

“My brothers? They’re out for tonight. Working. You’ll see them in the morning.” He gave me a small wave, nodding towards the study. “Go. Don’t want him to get mad.”

The study was exactly as I had left it in the vision. The only difference was the dust that hung like a thick pall over the room. Evidently, it had not been aired out or cleaned since the disappearance of its last owner. Mercifully, the power was on this time, so the chandelier-like light overhead was working, illuminating the room with a diffuse yellow glow.

A portly, balding man in a suit struggled out of one of the chairs when he saw me enter, extending a hand.

“Mr. Sen, so nice to finally meet you. My sincerest condolences about your grandfather.”

“Thank you.” I gestured at him to take his seat and took one of my own.

We faced each other across a small table.

“Mr. Sen, my name is Jacob Durham, of Durham and Co. Solicitors in Kolkata. I have worked closely with your grandfather for a long time. I was shocked to learn of his untimely demise. And in such a tragic manner too.”

I nodded. “It came as a shock to us all. Life has been a whirlwind ever since.”

“I imagine so.” He produced a briefcase from behind his chair and set it on the table. “Of course, the association between our firm and your family goes back much farther. We have worked with your estate for almost two centuries now, ever since 1825. My father, his father, and his father before him have all served your family. And now, I get to continue the line with you.”

“I understand you’re here with details about the inheritance.” I saw right through his attempts to create a sense of familiarity. It was a common trick of the trade. But with me, that relationship would have to be earned through competence.

“Indeed.” He sharply opened the briefcase and produced a few stacks of documents, lists, and diagrams. “I understand you are in our noble profession yourself. Good. Then this should not take as long as I feared.”

It still took several hours. I won’t bore you with the details, but it suffices to say that the implications are staggering. The manor and the surrounding lands were directly the personal possessions of the family, with some of it beyond the current boundaries leased out on long-term covenants to farmers. Beyond that, we held revenue rights and limited administrative rights over the entirety of the village land, as set out in the survey records he showed me. We also owned the forest behind the estate, as well as the mountain beyond it that served as the natural landmark before which Chhayagarh was built.

Okay, I should probably explain the forest. I told you the land was dry and hard, and that’s still true. But somehow, right at the base of the mountain, the place has managed to grow a lush, dense forest. Such vegetation density is not present anywhere else in the region. A part of the forest falls within our estate walls and contains the family grove, but most of it is outside, with only a narrow path winding through it to reach the steps that lead up the mountain. I theorize that the mountain caught what little rain the place gets and concentrated it there to allow the forest to grow, but knowing what I know now, there could have been some occult shit involved.

In any case, I found out that there were even more remote assets: townhouses in Kolkata and some other cities, satellite estates in the countryside, temple and shrine revenue, old hunting and lumber forests, business ventures, and even investment portfolios and commercial real estate. Even accounting for the maintenance and labour costs to keep everything functional, the property was raking in an absurd amount of money.

“Someone has been putting in the work to grow the pie,” I muttered, rifling through some deeds that described stakes in offshore oil blocks in the Americas.

“The family has been accumulating its assets for centuries, Mr. Sen. Usually, such estates lose a lot to mismanagement over the years, but I’m happy to report that such is not the case with yours.”

“A lot to keep track of.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Most of these assets are handled by a network of trusts and corporations with experienced administrators. Trustworthy ones. We have spent a lot of time perfecting the governance structure. I will send the documents over if you like, but the gist is that we can take care of maintaining and growing the estate. You need only decide how to best spend the windfall. Your family has always invested heavily in the village, both for welfare and other, more esoteric purposes. Those ones, I never fully understood.”

“You and me both, Mr. Durham. You and me both.”

He shrugged lightly. “I’m not paid to ask questions. In any case, if you ever need anything from the estate, let me know. We’ll make it happen.”

One of you had prompted me to think about the legal status of our zamindari all the way back in my first post, so I took the opportunity to pop the question.

“Ah.” Durham scratched his chin, smiling. “That’s a good question, Mr. Sen. Actually, there are laws on the books specifically about Chhayagarh, ever since the British administration. But we think these laws are based on even older laws. W...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fw4ug6/chhayagarh_i_cant_leave/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/philosophysubboy on 2024-10-05 00:08:59+00:00.

---

I work the graveyard shift as a digital marketer for an Arabic company. The time zones are different, and while it’s midnight for me, it’s 8 AM in the USA. Most of my job involves writing and developing strategies for clients, which requires focus and quiet. I recently started working here, and there have been many nights where I’ve been left alone in the building—no one around except for the guard stationed at the ground level.

The first time I noticed something strange was when I went to the kitchen for coffee. I was brewing my cup when I saw it: a shadow, lingering in the corner of my eye. When I turned to focus, it ducked down. It didn’t disappear. It ducked down. Startled, I thought maybe it was the guard playing an elaborate prank, out of boredom. I shrugged it off and returned to my desk.

It happened a few more times over the next few weeks. Always the same—a shadow in the corner of my eye, ducking just before I could get a good look. But I ignored it, convinced it was nothing. Until one day, something stranger happened.

I had always noticed that the button for the 26th floor in the elevator was missing. No one talked about it. Curious, I asked my boss, and he explained that it was a mistake during construction. The building was supposed to have 29 floors, but for some bureaucratic reason, they numbered it as 30 for paperwork. He waved it off as no big deal. It was weird, but I ignored it, chalking it up to corporate oddities.

One night, I was taking the elevator up to my floor on the 24th. The doors opened and closed as usual, and I leaned back, exhausted from the long hours. But then the elevator started moving up again. That’s when I noticed it—the display screen showed the 26th floor.

My heart sank. That floor wasn’t supposed to exist. The elevator shouldn’t stop there.

The doors slid open, revealing a dark, empty hallway. My breath caught in my throat as the silence pressed in on me, heavier than ever before. And then, in the faint glow of the elevator lights, I saw it—the same shadow as before, standing at the far end of the hallway. This time, it didn’t duck down. It just stood there, staring.

And then I heard it—a wet, slapping sound, like a soaked cloth hitting the ground. Splash. Splash. Splash.

My heart raced. I jabbed at the elevator buttons frantically, but nothing happened. The sound grew closer. Splash. Splash. Splash. Panic gripped me as I smashed the buttons, praying for the doors to close. The sound was right out now, almost inside the elevator. Finally, the doors slid shut, and the elevator shot up—straight to the 30th floor.

I collapsed against the wall, trying to catch my breath. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing. Just as the elevator doors closed, I heard it again—a wet splat against the elevator doors. Like something hitting it, trying to get in.

Now, I’m on the roof. I tried going back down to my floor, but the elevator doors won’t budge. I’m trapped up here, and I don’t know what to do. I’m writing this now, hoping someone will read it, hoping someone will help me. The elevator just started working again, but it’s pitch dark inside.

And that wet, slapping sound… I can hear it again.

It’s behind me.....

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/therealdocturner on 2024-10-04 22:34:25+00:00.

---

Y’all are going to think I’m crazy, but what makes this time any different from every other time?

I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich. I’ve assassinated officials and I’ve worked in shelters and hospitals. I’ve been famous and infamous. I’ve been married to the same woman 763 times over now, and every time, I’ve tried to change things. But now I’m just going to write this. This is how I’ll live out the last few weeks this time. I’m finally tired of trying to change things. I’ve just tried to live my own life this one time.

I don’t have a Groundhog Day, I’ve got a Groundhog Life. Everytime, I’m born on September 1, 1980 in Sand Gap, Kentucky. I always die the same day. We all do. 

I was lucky the first time out of the gate. Jess found me in Louisville. She’s the angel that God sent to keep my sanity while I try over and over again to work out a problem that seemingly has no solution. She’s the reason I keep going. Maybe someday I’ll get to grow old with her. Hopefully someday, I’ll get it right. 

I decided this time, towards the end of this life, to just spend it with her at the lake. We’ve never been able to have kids. She’s never wanted to adopt, so it’s always just us. I’d never told her how many different times and lives we’ve had until this one.

I told her in January. I told her what’s about to happen. I could tell that she was afraid that I was losing my mind. Who isn’t nowadays?

It took two weeks of me predicting things that came true around the world until she started to believe me. All things considered, she took the news of the end of time pretty well.

She’s sitting outside on the deck right now enjoying the evening, while I’m writing this and listening to my Oliver Anthony mix. I think I might just tell her every time from here on out. It felt good to get it off my chest. I had wanted to tell her so many times. Hundreds of lifetimes spent keeping what I know from my “lobster”. How many times am I going to have to watch that damn show?

I told her that I’m not giving up. I’m going to keep trying to prevent it, but this one time, I just want to be with her. Maybe clear my mind. Figured I’d just put this out there, and maybe somebody else might have an idea. Maybe enough people might read this and wake up. I don’t know.

Division and hate is always more important than helping each other. Cries for war from the rich are always louder than the weak utterances of suffering from the poor. It’s like this sickness was coded into the world’s DNA from the beginning and it always manifests itself right about now, and the only thing that destroys that fever is a hot war that kills the host, along with everything on it.

Soon, my body will be born again, but the mind will stay. Back to square one. The problem will remain. How do I stop it? I’m the lone voice in the wilderness. Right before Christmas, the skies will fall in nuclear fire again, and those last few moments are always spent asking “why?”, when the answer was always obvious. 

I’m not quitting. Eventually, I’ll find the solution in another lifetime, but this one just belongs to me and her. Jess is calling me now, so I’m going to sign off and enjoy some whiskey and fireflies with my girl. I’m going to be selfish this time. Catch y’all on the next go round.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Topneighborhood_859 on 2024-10-04 16:27:26+00:00.

---

I was walking to my car as quickly as I could. I checked my watch. It was 7:15 pm. I shook my head. My phone rang. The screen showed that it was my wife calling… right on time.

“You better be close to the restaurant.” She said, The tone in her voice left me wondering if she knew that I was just leaving the office. I stayed silent.

“Damn it, Jack.” She cursed quietly. “I’m already here.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much work I would have to get done today. And we’re still not on pace to make our deadline. The whole team is working late. Not just me. And I can’t be the only person leaving on time when my subordinates are staying late.” I pleaded.

“How long until you get here?” She asked angrily.

“If I run every red light, I can be there in thirty minutes,” I told her. She didn’t answer for a long while. I got into my car and just as I started to wonder if she had hung up on me, my car picked up the Bluetooth. “Okay, just hurry. It’s bad enough the waiter has asked me twice if I was waiting for someone.” She instructed.

“I’m sorry, babe. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I said.

I shifted my car into reverse and started to back up. A loud bang on my window made me slam on the brakes. I threw it into the park and turned around to see if I hit something or worse, someone. I didn’t see anything. I turned back around in my seat to find two children standing next to my door. I jumped at the shock.

They both just stood there. Judging by their size, I would guess they were about nine or ten. I had this terrible feeling in my stomach that there was something wrong. But they were children, probably lost. I told myself.

I cracked the window just enough to ask if I could help them.

“Can I use your phone?” One of the kids asked. The child’s tone had a tinge of darkness to it. I felt the hairs on my neck stand up. But, I reached for my phone and unlocked it. When I looked back up at the child, I noticed they had both moved closer. They both stared down at their feet. Their hoods up over their head cast shadows over their faces. It almost appeared they didn’t have any faces at all. At that point, I had this unyielding sense of fear building that I couldn’t justify.

“Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?” I asked. Then one of the kids raised his head slightly. The shadows that covered his face parted as the new angle of his hood allowed me to see his face. But his eyes. His eyes were still hidden in the shadows. They appeared to be pitch black. Not that they were missing, but he had no iris, no whites in his eyes at all. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and the boy seemed to notice my fear. He lowered his head again. “We need to use your phone.” He pleaded.

I recovered and scolded myself quietly for allowing a trick of the light to scare me so badly. “Who can I call for you? Just give me their number.” I said, my hand ready to dial. Maybe it was the fact that the kids wouldn’t look at me. Perhaps it was the fact that the kids were out of place in the business district after sundown. But something inside me was screaming not to give them my phone.

“If you can’t give me the number, I’m sure you can go inside the lobby and ask the security guard to let you call your parents,” I said and pointed toward the lobby door. Neither one of them turned to look.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, I put my car in reverse. I was eager to get the hell out of there. I was eager to get away from these children. I looked in the rearview mirror to make sure I was clear.

A loud bang stopped me in my tracks. For a split second, I thought I hit someone, and then I heard it again. Both of the boys were slapping their hands, palm down, on my driver’s side window. A third time, a fourth time… In unison, they slapped my window. “Can we just get in your car? We need a ride.” They asked in a monotone and utterly unsettling tone.

I slammed the gas down and backed up without even looking, and then I slammed into drive and peeled out. I was a good ten minutes down the road before my heart stopped trying to beat out of my chest. I was so worked up that I almost missed my exit. I wanted to get home so bad, I had forgotten about date night.

I met my wife at her favorite restaurant, and we ate. She was initially angry about me being late. We hadn’t had much time alone since we had our son. He was four now, and this was probably our fifth date night in that four years.

Her mood switched from being angry to laughing at me as I explained why I was so late. I told her everything about the kids.

“So you were scared of a couple of kids? They could still be out there, looking for their parents.” She heckled me. She knew how scared I was. There was something wrong with them. But she didn’t believe it. At least not at that point.

Our son was staying at the babysitter's house all night, so we had the house to ourselves. It was three in the morning when we heard the knock at the door. I woke up first and just sat in bed and listened. There was a faint, steady knock at the door. In threes. Knock, knock, knock. And then a pause followed by another set of three. Knock, knock, knock.

Then my wife woke up. “Do you hear that?” She asked.

“Yeah. There is someone at the front door.” I replied. My heart sped up. I knew before I did that it was them.

My wife sat up and grabbed her phone. “It’s after three in the morning. Who could it be?” She asked. “And they didn’t hit the doorbell.” She added. She opened the doorbell app on her phone to reveal an empty porch. There was nobody there.

She showed me. The knocking continued. And then I saw them. There was a faint silhouette in the darkness. “Zoom in there,” I said and pointed to the corner of the steps. She did and we could see them. The two boys were standing in the shadows. One of them kicked the steps. Knock, knock knock.

My wife looked at me. There is no way those kids followed you home… “This has to be a joke.” She said,

She stood up and put on her robe. I did too. We both made our way downstairs. We argued as we walked. She wanted to open the door. I didn’t.

Knock, knock knock…

“We can’t open the door,” I told her.

“They’re just kids playing a prank.” She replied.

Knock, knock, knock…

Finally, we reached the door and my wife undid the locks and swung it open. We both took a step back as soon as we did. The kids were no longer standing in the shadow but had moved up to the first step. The only light was from behind us, flowing out of the house. It was enough for us to see the two small figures staring at us, but not enough to see any detail.

“What do you want?” My wife asked. I was flipping the light switch on and off for the porch light. It wouldn’t come on. But I knew it had been on when we got home.

“Can we come inside?” The kids asked in unison.

I could see that my wife had gone pale. She finally believed me. Something wasn’t right.

The kids both took a step to the next step.

“Can we call the police for you? Are you lost?” She asked them.

They stepped up to the porch, and then they were close enough. Just three feet away, their faces were fully illuminated. The light revealed the same thing I thought I had seen earlier. Wide eyes, black as coal. Hey began to smile at us. “We need to come inside. We need help.” They said in unison as if they shared the same thoughts.

I moved my wife out of the way and slammed the door. My hands fumbled for the locks as I looked through the peephole. “I’m calling the cops!” I yelled through the door.

My wife still had her phone in her hand. She started to dial 911. “Wait,” I said. “They’re leaving,” I told her. The kids walked back into the street and disappeared into the night.

The next day we slept in and then picked up our son. It was a pretty uneventful day. At least until three a.m. I woke to the sound of knocking. I sat up. Half asleep, I heard my wife tell me it was just our son. “I’ll get it.” She told me. I went back to sleep.

That was about ten minutes ago. I noticed she didn’t come back to bed, and I decided to check the security cameras on my phone. My wife is lying on the floor dead. There is blood everywhere. Standing at her feet are the two boys. And next to them is my son. His eyes were black as coal.

As I’m writing this, I can hear them walking down the hall toward me. For the love of God, if you see black-eyed children do not talk to them, do not give them anything and please, do not let them into your house.