nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Bucks_0 on 2024-10-02 02:17:45+00:00.

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You don't need to know my name, it’s not important. And I know that I'm bad at writing, but I need to get this down before you follow in my footsteps and find yourself on that dirt road, leading to that place. Once you’ve entered, they don't let you leave.  

I should've listened to my gut when it told me something seriously sinister was hiding out in the dark corners and hallways of that horrible building. Something that I would come face to face with that very night. 

This was in 2017. My friends and I had done a lot of abandoned exploring as a group when we were still in high school. Mostly old churches, malls, and some crack houses that were usually inhabited by junkies shooting up, or homeless people needing a place to warm up for the winter. We would stock up on beers, spray cans, and whatever change we could put together between the three of us to buy some weed.  

 It started out tame. We were just a bunch of stupid teenagers exploring old buildings, all while getting hammered and stoned in the process. We had a cheap handheld camera David got for a school film project we would use to record our adventures. Most of the footage was just our antics and vandalism we would do in these abandoned places, thinking it was the coolest shit at the time. Mark would even edit the videos during the week and post them in our group chat. And that's how we spent the rest of our summer, each abandoned place getting crazier than the last until we had seen it all in our town.  

One Friday night in November, David and Mark were at my place, where we would drink and smoke every weekend, thinking about the next place we would explore. We had already been everywhere in town, and it was getting repetitive. 

 That's when we settled on The Elm Creek Health Facility, an abandoned mental asylum 45 minutes up north of town. We heard stories about kids exploring and going missing, but obviously, urban legends weren't holding us back from having a good time. David had a great-grandmother who was admitted there in the 40s because of her severe schizophrenia and manic episodes. Doing my research on the place now, it was famous back then for its inhumane experiments on patients and was closed down in 1963 after many cases of abuse were reported. The facility was shut down, but the building remained.  

The rain battered down on the windshield of my car as we made our way north on the highway. I was 4 beers deep, and to sober up, I kept the windows rolled down in the pouring rain. We exited off the highway and made our way east towards the industrial side of town, where a dirt road led to the facility.  

That feeling I spoke about earlier was overwhelming me. A sense of existential dread, fear, and excitement washed over me as we turned into the dirt road, only lit by my headlights. The rain was still coming down heavily, only stopping when we were enshrouded in the tall and thick trees along the dirt road.  

We parked when we reached the no-trespassing gate. Mark handed David and me flashlights, and we set out on the path to the building on foot. We joked about not making it out alive, as a means to project what we were feeling. We were all scared shitless, but wouldn't admit it. Mark was on camera duty and started rolling as soon as the building was in sight.  

The building stood high in the sky, overgrown with vines and leaves covering the boarded-up windows. We were lighting up a joint when we first heard the voice. 

“you guys exploring too? There's an entrance over here. Come here and I'll show you”  

The voice rang out in the cold rain, emanating from somewhere outside of the building. When Mark responded to the voice and said “Yeah we’ve never been here, where are you ?”  

No answer.  

 

We couldn't see where the voice had come from as we were still far from the building, so we just shrugged it off as another group of explorers, and maybe we would get the chance to see them when we got inside. We approached the building and scouted the perimeter for any entrance point we could find until we found an open window behind a grate. Mark kicked the grate in, and we descended into the basement of the building.  

The smell was the first thing that hit us, Mould and rotten wood. The room was full of graffiti, and medical instruments and books were strewn haphazardly around the room. Smashed beer bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor and made it apparent that we were not the first or the last people to ever enter this building.  

We made our way out of the room and down one of the long and winding corridors, asking “Hello, is anyone there?” to which we received no response.  

We brushed it off as maybe the group had left before we made it up to the building, even though we knew it wasn't possible, and we continued before Mark stopped us and said “I heard this place has a room where they did experiments on patients. It would be sick to get on film. Let's split up, and if you one of us finds it, call the others” before I could object, he was walking down the staircase with the camera pointed at his face, talking to the audience vlog style.  

David was just as scared as me, but to look unbothered, he offered to take the third floor and let me explore the main floor on my own.  

I went room by room, shaking with nervousness and mentally documenting what I saw to tell the others later when we were done. The feeling of being watched was enough for me to start calling out to Mark and David, to which I received no response. That was when I started running back towards the beginning of the corridor to where we had split up in the first place.  

That was where I saw him, Mark was standing in the corridor, back turned to me, and not moving. “Mark what the fuck, this isn't a time to joke around, I want to leave.” he didn't move.  

A chill ran down my spine as the man turned around and revealed himself. It wasn't Mark, 

 

 it was me.  

The man was a carbon copy of my face, except for the soulless void of black in his eyes. His face twisted up into a grin.  

My body was frozen and I stared in horror, as he mimicked me perfectly “Are You lost, Jason?” I backed away slowly, tripping over garbage on the floor in the process. “Why are you trying to leave Jason? They don't let you leave here. Just Like David's Great Grandmother.” I regained my footing and turned towards the staircase 

I raced down the stairs towards the basement we entered, tripping and stumbling while trying to convince myself this was some sort of elaborate prank. 

That was when I heard him start to run. He chased me down the stairs and throughout the basement until I got to the room we entered. I hauled it across the lawn, not looking back even when I heard the distant shrieking of David and Mark.  

Trembling with fear, I got to my car put it in reverse, and drove to a gas station 2 miles away. When I called the cops, a search party went to the facility to find David and Mark. 

They are still missing to this day.  

Every night in my dreams I am in that building.  

If you ever find yourself on that dirt road, remember this;  

They don't let you leave

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-10-01 23:28:24+00:00.

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I love my son. This isn’t a wish he was never born, rant. I love my child unconditionally, I just hate that this is my life.

My son is a wonderful, funny boy with a zest for life that radiates from his eyes. He didn’t ask for this as much as I didn't; if anything, I blame myself for my son's problems. He’s only six, and if things are bad now, it terrifies me to think what it’s going to be like for him when he gets older.

Everything about his existence is heartbreaking, and as his mother, I get front-row seats to every tear he hides, every moment he feels small and every time the world turns its back on the incredible person I know he is.

Before my son was born, we were a God-fearing, church-going family. My son's disability wasn’t prominent until he reached five, and when it became difficult to hide, the church asked us to leave because they thought my son was an abomination to God. It was in that moment I knew my life would never be the same. Their rejection crushed me, not just because they turned their backs on us, but because they took with them the community I thought would stand by us.

The biggest betrayal came at the hands of my husband. He was never subtle about his feelings towards our son. It wasn’t so much in what he said, but how he acted. The way he avoided eye contact, the sighs of frustration, the way he distanced himself from us. The resentment in his eyes said more than words ever could. Over time, it became clear that to him or his son, it wasn’t just a challenge; he was a burden.

It started gradually with my husband. He began working late more often, always claiming he had extra projects or last-minute meetings. At first, I believed him, thinking he needed space to cope with our son's struggles. But the late nights turned into entire weekends away. I’d find myself putting our son to bed alone, wondering where he really was. One evening, when he didn’t come home until dawn, I finally confronted him. His response was cold and detached. He didn’t deny the affair. He didn’t apologize. He simply shrugged and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

That was a year ago. Marriages don’t always work out. I get that, and I can get over it, but I was more heartbroken for my son, who keeps asking if his daddy is coming home or if his daddy still loves him.

My son’s disability isn’t something anyone can prepare for. Growing from his back is a twisted, grotesque remnant of what was once his twin alive, speaking, and pure evil. We call him Eli. His face is distorted, with a crooked smile that seems like he is constantly sneering at you, and his eyes gleam with an unsettling intelligence.

He whispers vile things into my son’s ear, planting seeds of doubt to poison his mind. Eli is more than a burden, it's as if his very existence thrives on tormenting us both.

As my son grows, so does Eli. What began as a small, unsettling presence on his back has now become something far more horrifying. Eli’s body is expanding, and his limbs pushing out further, with his face growing more defined and sinister.

My son’s posture has started to bend under the weight of him. Walking has become difficult, with each step a struggle as Eli clings tighter, growing heavier by the day. His whispers have grown louder too, more insistent, as if he only exists to taunt me and my son.

Lying in bed, I was jolted awake by the sound of shuffling footsteps moving through the house. I thought for sure someone was breaking into the house. A sense of dread crept up my spine and I quickly slipped out of bed, tiptoeing down the dimly lit hallway to my son's room.

When I pushed the door open, I froze in horror. There he was, lying on the bed, his body pale and frail, barely hanging on to life. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. But what struck me most was the absence of Eli; the grotesque twin that had tormented us was nowhere to be found. I rushed to my son’s side and cradled his body in my arms,

Terror gripped me as I crouched beside my son. The house was unnervingly quiet until the sound of Eli clawing his fingernails into the floorboards as he dragged himself towards the bedroom sent shivers down my spine.

Suddenly, there he was, emerging from the darkness of the hallway as his grotesque body moved towards us with an unnatural and predatory grace.

With a sickening fluidity, Eli began to meld back into Callum’s back, their bodies merging in an abnormal union. My son gasped, his eyes wide with terror, and at that moment, I knew this nightmare was far from over.

As the weeks progressed I noticed a change in Callum. It was as if he was losing control of himself, as his body got weaker. All the while, Eli was growing stronger.

I awoke to the soft rustle of movement beside my bed. It took my eyes and my mind a moment to adjust and realize Callum was standing over me.

It was dark and all I could see was a vacant stare from my sons eyes that cut through the darkness.

At first, I thought he was sleepwalking.

"Callum, you ok, honey?" I whispered, my voice thick with sleep. But something was wrong. He didn’t respond. Slowly, his head turned toward me, and as he stepped into the faint light from the hallway and stared right through me as an unsettling smile spread across his face.

I sat up quickly and reached out to him, but he didn’t move. Instead. I saw a struggle in his eyes, the familiar, frightened look of my boy, trapped beneath the surface as his body started convulsing.

"Eli’s in control now," the voice sneered, sending a chill through my bones. Callum’s lips moved, but it was Eli speaking through him, twisting every word.

"He’s getting weaker, and I’m getting stronger.”

My son stood just inches from me, but he was no longer himself. I tried to hold him tight as he continued to convulse as Eli’s cruel laughter echoed through the house.

The next day, after a restless night, I tried to call my husband, but all I got was his answering machine. My hands trembled as I left a message for him to get to the house. As I hung up, I heard Callum’s sweet, innocent voice calling out from his bedroom. My heart leapt with relief, hoping he was finally himself again.

“Mom?” he called softly.

I rushed upstairs, my chest tightening with a strange mix of hope and dread. But when I opened the door, my son wasn’t there. Instead, Eli lay sprawled on the bed, with a wicked grin stretching across his face.

"Mom?" he repeated in Callum’s voice, the tone so pure, so familiar, that it made my blood run cold.

My legs turned to Jelly as I backed away, horrified by the twisted sight of Eli mimicking my son. His eyes gleamed with malice as he spoke again.

"What’s wrong, Mom?”

My breath hitched as I stood frozen, staring at Eli on the bed, as he layed their grinning at me. But then, from beneath the bed, I heard a soft shuffling. My stomach dropped. Slowly, Callum crawled out, his body moving unnaturally, just like Eli's had before. His limbs bent at impossible angles, dragging himself closer, as he dug his fingers into the hardwood floor. I stumbled back, as a cold sweat trickled down my back.

When my husband finally burst through the door, his face was pale and gaunt, as if he hadn’t slept in days. A look of guilt beamed from his eyes as he looked at Eli sprawled on the bed, grinning wickedly, while Callum writhed on the floor, convulsing in agony.

I rushed to comfort our son, my hands shaking as I tried to soothe him.

“Eli, stop this!” I shouted, desperate to regain control of the nightmare that had consumed our lives.

“This is all my fault,” my husband murmured. “It’s all my fault that Callum is like this.

His gaze dropped to the floor, as he clenched his fists.

“He’s like this because of me because of my genes. That scar on my stomach wasn’t from an accident. It’s a reminder of what Callum is going through. I had a twin brother too. He was a part of me the same way Eli is a part of Callum.”

My stomach dropped as the realization sank in.

“What happened to him?”

My husband took a deep breath, glancing back at Eli on the bed.

He’s still alive and locked in my parents’ basement.”

My heart sank further as I grasped his words.

“You can’t be serious!”

"I think it's time Eli meets his uncle.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-10-01 17:47:05+00:00.

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I miss movie rental stores. Of all the things that technology has taken from us, that’s one of the greatest losses. I’m biased, sure, since it was my first major job and helped me get through college, but come on, there was nothing like it, right?

Cal’s was a town institution, and I had been going there for years already by the time I started working there in 1997. I’m honestly amazed they hired me instead of banning me from the store outright, as much trouble as we caused back then. It was always a challenge to see who could sneak into the adult video room and shoplift without getting caught. Little did I know how much I would hate the stupid kids like me who did that.

It was definitely a product of its time, with a renovation every decade or so that really brought it into the uh… present. At the time, at least. Think it was ‘95 when the last update was done on the original store, and that was a neon nightmare that was trying way too hard to be cool. Not that it needed to be cool, considering it was the only rental place within thirty miles for our little nowhere town. Every weekend, without fail, this place would be full of families looking for the latest tape to entertain the kids, teenagers trying to pass off a fake ID for scary movies, and the occasional weirdo who was spending far too much time by the adult room. Yeah, those were a pain in the ass.

I got hired on in ‘97, summer before my senior year of high school. It wasn’t bad, all things considered, and beat the shit out of working the IGA market down the road. Pushing carts in the south Georgia summer wasn’t something I want to wish on my worst enemy, so getting to work in constant air conditioning was a godsend. Seriously, if I never push a fucking shopping cart through the heat of Satan’s musty taint, it’ll be too damn soon.

Sorry, back to Cal’s. I’m getting old and tend to ramble so… yeah, sorry. I started in ‘97, mostly just working during the day in the summer. It was good money for a kid at the time, and hey, it put gas in my car and gave me a way to meet people, so it wasn’t all bad. Things changed a good bit when we moved into the mall a few years later but… sorry, getting ahead of myself again.

Anyway, normal enough job for the most part, especially back in the days when home video was a booming business and video stores still had a place in this world. I would work days for the most part during my first couple of months there, but when school started back, I started getting put on the closing shifts. When I tell you this place was a whole different animal when the sun went down… I saw some weird shit.

Nothing started off too crazy. When I went to closing shift, my first night was mostly uneventful, though probably because I had Dustin, the assistant manager at the time, showing me what to do before I was left alone. Things were mostly the same as working during the day, except with the whole added task of locking the door when I leave now. Big responsibilities was how closing was sold to me, and woo boy was I… whelmed.

We went through the motions, taking the returns for the day, checking them into the system and inspecting to make sure everything was still intact. We had been renting videogames for a few years too, so it was typically up to us to check the cartridges at the end of the day and make sure they still worked. God, the PS1 release that year was a nightmare thanks to the new world of scratchable disks. People didn’t know how to take care of the damn things and they ALWAYS came back messed up.

First few nights of closing were fine. Dustin gave me the lowdown on what to expect working nights, regular customers, people to be on the lookout for, how to fix the tape rewinder in case it decided to eat a VHS, stuff like that. Usually we just ended up going through the drop-off bin and making calls about late returns, which were differing levels of pleasant depending on who got the call. Hell, sometimes you tell someone their copy of Ghost is three weeks late and they come up to the store to curse at you personally while throwing the tape at your face. Fuck you too, Miss Griffords.

Now, going through the drop-off tapes was… a varied experience. If you were around in the time of VHS, you know that they could be VERY easily recorded over. The even worse thing is that the recording could be at ANY point in the tape. That means we would have to throw every single tape in and watch on fast forward, making sure that nothing extra might be on the returns.

Some things were innocent enough, probably just mistakes by stupid kids. The occasional kids movie would cut off right in the middle, suddenly hitting a loud action figure commercial before going into an episode of Street Sharks or Beetleborgs. Can never miss those Saturday morning cartoons.

Others were uh… ranging in quality. I recall there being one copy of Homeward Bound that became a prized item of the shop, though it would never go up for rent again. There was a very attractive woman in town who decided to record a VERY intimate message for the manager who was in charge when I got hired. He was fired not long after that. The tape was treated as a holy relic though.

Then we started getting the unmarked tapes. I didn’t even realize it when going through the basket since I would just throw the stack of tapes into the VCR to check before putting them into the books. Hell, half the tapes were so worn down they couldn’t have the name read on them anyway. Assuming they weren’t already plastered over with a giant “CAL’S COSMIC VIDEO” alien sticker so people didn’t try to pawn them.

The first one… I’ll never forget the first tape. It was me, alone, on shift closing up on a Friday night. It was already a wild night, with one shoplifter trying to snag a copy of Final Fantasy VII and getting himself the cuffs instead. With how insane everything was and our ridiculous hours on weekends, it was well past midnight when I inally started going through the tapes. The usual suspects came through, tapes of The Lion King, Predator… Howard the fucking Duck for some god awful reason. It was the last one, and when I first popped it in I didn’t think to look at the title. I just went by what I saw onscreen, considering by now I could recognize half of the movies here by one frame.

I put the tape in. At first I assumed it was a found footage movie, kind of like Man Bites Dog and Cannibal Holocaust. Blair Witch Project wouldn’t be out for a while, so it wasn’t a booming subgenre quite yet. We got obscure titles from time to time though, so I just figured it was one I may not have seen yet.

Except then, through the grainy static and tracking signal on the tape, Cal’s came into view. I could see the huge stupid neon signs, almost unintelligible in the shit quality it was filmed on. It was unmistakable though, and as it came closer I started to notice details. It was night time, and lights were on inside the store. As the camera got closer, I could make out a figure inside, standing at counter.

It came right up to the glass then, gliding through the bushes outside to press as close in as it could without shattering the window. In the moment, I didn’t even think about it, I just immediately started mashing the eject button like it was an emergency call. I threw the tape, don’t ask me why, and it landed over by the new release section. Next move was calling the police, because at this rate I wasn’t ready to fuck around.

On that tape, the figure standing at the counter was me. I would take it as some kind of prank or something from my friends later, but at the time it freaked me the hell out. It was filmed that night, with me wearing the same Night of the Living Dead t-shirt I was right then and there. Swear to god I was hiding behind the counter clutching a box cutter until the cops finally knocked on the door. Even then it was a minute before I could work up the courage to even exit my hiding spot.

They watched the tape, but wouldn’t believe me when I said I hadn’t noticed anyone all night. Supposedly it was just teenage pranks, trying to scare people as it got closer to Halloween. It was useless even trying to talk to them about it, even after they saw the damned tape. Assholes just left without even filing a report, leaving me alone in this neon bastion on the dark street. I was scared shitless. I left the video on the counter with a note, hoping it was as they said, just a prank.

The next day I was off, and didn’t plan on leaving my house unless I was dragged out. My plan went well… until around eleven at night when our phone started ringing. Mom was pissed, to say the least, thinking it was some girl calling around for me before I answered. Hell, she probably still believes that, considering I picked up and immediately got asked to come to the shop.

Dustin was closing that night. This dude is always about getting his shit done on time and getting out of there, so he was already going through the numerous returns for the night. He got the same kind of video, showing him standing at the counter, wearing the exact same outfit as he was right then and there. I guess he had read the note I left, because he was asking me if it was some elaborate prank. When I kept denying it, he finally believed me. The shaking in his voice gave him away, and considering he was relatively unflappable, that made me worry. This guy got held up at gunpoint for the register one day and didn’t flinch, so getti...

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Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ftu97l/cals_cosmic_video_and_more_the_tapes/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/select873 on 2024-10-01 12:20:35+00:00.

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It was the summer of 1998 when I first encountered the thing. I was 17, living in a rural town in the middle of nowhere, and bored out of my mind. My family owned a small farmhouse, and just beyond it was a wide expanse of cornfields that stretched for miles. It was the kind of place where nothing ever happened—until it did.

One evening, I was sitting in my room when I heard something strange. It wasn’t the typical hum of the night, nor the soft rustling of the corn. It was a slow, deliberate scratching—like nails scraping against glass. I looked out the window, thinking it was just a branch, but there were no trees near my window. Nothing but the field, waving gently in the wind.

I ignored it. I wanted to believe it was nothing. But every night, around the same time, the scratching would start again, and each time, it got louder. By the fourth night, I couldn’t sleep. I told my parents, but they shrugged it off, saying it was probably some animal.

One night, the sound was unbearable. I grabbed a flashlight and went outside, determined to find whatever was making it. The air was thick and humid, the kind of night that clings to your skin. I made my way toward the edge of the cornfield, the beam of the flashlight cutting through the dark like a knife.

Then, I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a scarecrow. There, at the edge of the field, stood a figure—tall, hunched, and barely visible against the dark sky. It didn’t move, didn’t sway in the wind like the corn. Just stood there, watching. I aimed the flashlight at it, expecting to see fabric and straw, but what I saw made my blood turn cold.

The figure wasn’t a scarecrow. It was… human, or at least it had the shape of one. Its skin was pale, too pale, like something that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Its eyes were large, round, and reflective, catching the light from my flashlight like an animal’s eyes in the dark. But the worst part was its mouth—hanging open, unnaturally wide, stretching across its face in a grotesque, silent scream.

I froze, unable to move or even breathe. The figure just stood there, watching me with that horrible, gaping mouth.

Then it moved.

Not like a person would. It didn’t walk. It seemed to glide, sliding silently through the field, the corn parting as it moved toward me. I turned and ran, faster than I ever thought possible. Behind me, I could hear the rustling of the corn, faster now, as if it were right on my heels. The sound grew louder and louder, that same horrible scratching noise, but this time it wasn’t just against glass—it was right behind me.

I burst through the door of the house, slamming it shut and locking it. My heart was pounding, my breath ragged. I ran to my parents, yelling about what I saw. They rushed to the window, but of course, there was nothing. Just the still, empty field.

But I knew what I saw.

The next morning, I woke up to find deep, jagged scratches on my bedroom window. Long, parallel lines etched into the glass, as if something—or someone—had been trying to get in.

I never saw the figure again after that night, but the feeling never left. Every time I passed the cornfield, I could feel it watching, waiting just beyond the edge of the tall stalks. I moved away the moment I could, never looking back.

Years later, I heard a story from someone in the neighboring town. They said there had once been a farmer who lived near the edge of those same fields. He disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing behind but his empty farmhouse and a strange, scratched-up window.

They say he was taken by something that still watches from the field, waiting for the next person to catch its attention.

I never went back to find out if it was true. But if you ever find yourself near an empty cornfield at night, and you hear scratching at your window, don’t look outside. Whatever it is, you don’t want to see it.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-10-01 20:13:29+00:00.

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First

Previous

I’ve tried to see Victor as often as possible. He still had his bad days when he lashed out at the staff. Recently when I called to ask to visit, the staff told me he had ‘tried to fold an attendant like a paper crane.’ So, I skipped going over that day.  

My money problems were stressing me out. There was simply not enough to go around for my rent and Victor’s care. I think once he recovered enough to make his own choices, he wouldn’t want me putting my life at risk for him. Because I was human the Corporation put me on easy mostly harmless tasks. And I had almost been killed on the last one. I couldn’t imagine what kind of job they would force him into facing.  

A call came in for a scene clean-up. This time they said an agent they had sent ahead of time to clear the building and he was the one who requested the cleanup. I packed up my supplies wondering what I would be walking into because there hadn’t been that many details.  

I had a feeling it was a busy day for the Corporation. I was transported to a large run-down warehouse in the middle of nowhere without much explanation. I was told to collect the bodies inside and the agent on the scene would deal with transporting them elsewhere. I would then clean the entire building. It was massive and it made me think this would take me a few days, if not a week.  

I stopped in front of the door and gathered myself. Just because I didn’t show it didn’t mean I wasn’t frightened. Anything could be waiting for me.  

I opened a door next to a large locked shutter meant to open for forklifts. Inside was dark and a smell of perfume hit me. It made my eyes water and I took a few seconds to adjust. A hole in the ceiling was the only source of light. Swallowing hard I started through a path towards the person waiting in the light.  

The floor had been covered by countless dead animals gruesomely stitched together. I saw human bodies mixed in with the piles of death near the edge of the light. It made my skin crawl but I kept going.  

“Nice to meet you. I was the one who called this in.” The man said when I stopped near him.  

He stood in a circle empty of the bodies. He hadn’t cleaned up a spot beforehand. Rather, the person who laid all the bodies out left pathways and small clean openings. He held out his hand but mine were frozen by my side.  

I had a bag with my cleaning supplies over my shoulder. I held onto the strap tightly as my eyes went over what I could see of the room.  

“Where do we even start?” I said mostly to myself.  

“There is a larger door through that pathway there and on the other side of the building. We should start over there.” He said as he gestured towards a clear path leading into the darkness.  

The pale skin of his wrist and forearm made an alarm bell go off in my head. I nodded at his suggestion but didn’t move as I carefully studied his appearance. Unlike the other agents I have met, his suit jacket didn’t fit. It was small. His movements were stiff because of it. He wasn’t wearing suit pants, just normal black jeans. Hell, he didn’t even have a button-down shirt on under his jacket.   

My expression didn’t give away my suspicions but the movement of my hand to my pocket did. His bright smile faded from his face and his hands shot out. For a tall skinny bastard, he was strong as hell. I thrashed trying to get free but he easily wrapped an arm around my torso and pinned mine to my side. He struggled with me to steal away my phone and tossed it into the mess of bodies. I was then lifted off the ground as he carried me down the pathway I kicked and tried biting to get free.  

I was simply overpowered. No one was expecting me to finish this job for days. Would Samus check up on me? Would anyone even know if I died here until hours passed? I needed to think of a plan.  

He silently carried me over to something so horrifying it made me stop fighting for a moment. The bodies all lead to a dark and twisted shrine located in the middle of the building. We were far away from the sunlight. Hundreds of candles bathed the area in an orange glow that discolored the blood-stained floor.  

A tower of tied-together bones reached far off into the darkness. The agent that this man had stolen the jacket from had been bound to the tower with thick thorned wire. His throat cut letting black blood freely flow from the wound. Silver bowls sat on the ground collecting the blood. At the bottom of the tower was an odd flickering jagged light. It was dark with a strange crackling noise coming from it as it moved erratically.   

I was tossed to the floor hard enough to sprain my wrist when I broke my fall. The bound man moved slightly but didn’t raise his head. He was still alive which was good but we both didn’t have a lot of time. The man who dragged me away ambushed the agent, stole his phone, and called for more victims.  

“I was expecting an entire crew and they send a single little girl? How understaffed in this place?” He said in a false sing son voice.  

“What is the point of all this?” I asked voice calm but I didn’t dare stand up just yet.  

He didn’t appear pleased I wasn’t begging for my life.   

“The point? Can’t you tell this is art? Are you asking an artist to explain his work?” He said and spread his arms out to his side.  

A burst of light came as thousands of hidden candles came to life on their own. My breath caught as I saw the sheer horror surrounding it.  

The bodies didn’t just cover the floors but they were stuck to the walls and ceiling as well. The sight was enough to make me dizzy. I shook my head trying to clear it. Although most of the bodies were animals, there had to be over a few hundred human bodies mixed into the mass of death. How did he kill so many of them without being noticed? I looked harder and realized that most of these bodies weren’t fresh. If this man wasn’t human then that meant he would have had years and years to work on this feat. The warehouse looked to be at least a hundred years old with some newer updates here and there. Had he been working on this for that long?  

“Well? Isn't it all beautiful?” The monster smugly said.  

“I think you’re trying too hard to be edgy.” I replied in a deadpan voice.  

That was not the response he wanted. I heard him sputter like a dying fish, his face turning red.   

“You! This was all in service of the greatest dark God any world has ever known! I was going to use your blood in service of him but you do not deserve that honor!”  

He was clearly losing his cool. I glanced around trying to think of something. I needed to get the hell out of here but I couldn’t leave behind the still bleeding agent. That man left me no choice but to fight instead of flee. He lunged forward aiming for my throat.  

I gripped the weapon in my pocket and waited until he was close enough to strike. I stabbed the pen as hard as I could into his stomach causing him to cry out in pain. I then pushed the button to extend the pen into a blade to bury it deeper into his flesh.  

He stumbled backward and I wasted no time running around him towards the bound agent. I tore off my jacket and used it to protect my hands to pull away the wire holding him to the tower. It wasn’t properly made so it came crumbling down in seconds. It was a miracle I dragged the injured man away and didn’t get buried under a mountain of bones.  

My attacker hissed sounding like a wild animal. He ripped the dagger from his stomach tossing it aside.   

“You witch!” He screamed and it was a pretty mild insult all things considered.  

He could fill an entire building with the dead and yet he couldn’t swear? He might have had some stronger words for me but something distracted us both. The bloody blade he tossed aside landed directly inside the twisting crackling line of dark light.  

Sparks flew from it and the light expanded showing an alien landscape beyond. That man had created a rip between worlds, but it had opened somewhere he didn’t want. He screamed and raced towards the rip but wasn’t able to get close due to the sheer raw power coming from it.  

“No, no, no! Not yet! It's not in the right spot!” He shouted fighting against the harsh current in the air.  

I should have been more worried. I focused on dragging away the agent until I was forced not to.  

The air suddenly grew still. Everything around us froze in place. Every cell in my body screamed in fear as an unseen force took over.   

The orange light of the candles appeared dimmer. A pitch-black clawed hand came from the rip and took hold of the side.  I don’t think words could ever explain the feeling this darkness brought into the world. It was as if all joy had faded from existence leaving only a hollow empty feeling.  

Slowly the thing emerged. It was a Dark God but not the one the crazy man had wanted.  

A head made of dark tendrils came through. An ancient cracked skull of a long-extinct animal rested where a face should be. The body appeared to be mostly human with skin darker than the night. The legs were that of a beast and a long tail was the last thing to come into view. The creature first seemed to be seven feet tall, then a pair of dark wings spread out behind it.  

I knew it wasn’t possible but th...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/vampyre_money on 2024-10-01 17:24:42+00:00.

---

George was always a little weird. He was a small, pale, dishwater blonde, whose love of black vintage clothing made him look like a cross between a vampire and a funeral usher. He would talk, and sometimes sing, to himself in public. He spent most of his time reading, drawing fantasy creatures in his many sketchbooks, and taking long walks around town. But the weirdest thing about him was that he said he could talk to crows.

We met in the third grade. I was the new girl in town, sent from Boston to live with my grandparents while my parents slogged through their messy divorce. I first saw him at recess- a scrawny blond boy dressed in black, sitting in an empty field, surrounded by crows. While the other kids hollered and laughed and ran around the playground, this kid was whispering to no one.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Talking to the crows,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “You can’t talk to crows.”

He turned his head around to look at me. “Most people can’t. But I can.”

“How do you do that?”

The boy smiled, oblivious to my annoyance. “Crows are very smart. Scientists say they have their own language. They have jokes, and different names for each other.”

I squinted at the half dozen black birds milling around the boy. They didn’t look that smart to me. I pointed at one. “What’s that one saying?”

“That’s Percival. He’s sulking because Diana-” he gestured to another crow- “ate the caterpillar he wanted.”

Either this kid was playing an elaborate joke, or he was absolutely cuckoo.

“And that one?” I asked.

“That’s Enoch. He’s an elder.” The boy cocked his head slightly. He had the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen, so pale they were almost white. “He’s sizing you up. Trying to see if you’re a friend or a foe.”

Sure enough, Enoch was staring at me, his head cocked in a manner eerily similar to the boy’s. I’ve rarely been able to discern the slightest emotion from a crow’s beady black eyes, but in that moment I could see it. Curiosity. Suspicion.

“So what, he’s like the leader of the flock?”

“Not flock. A Murder.” 

“What?” 

“A group of crows is called a murder.”

Whether he was cuckoo or not, this boy was proving to be the most interesting person in this boring little town. I sat down on the grass next to him. 

“My name’s Maria,” I said. And there I stayed.

My parents were more interested in dragging out their divorce proceedings than coming back for their own kid, so my temporary stay with my grandparents became permanent. I never quite felt like I belonged anywhere. I never adjusted to leaving the city for a small town. I felt restless, like everything around me was slow and dull and hazy. I was a half-Mexican girl living in a mostly white town with my white grandparents. I was “foreign” enough to elicit stares from the locals, but too American to know how to speak Spanish. I was able to make a few friends, eventually. But George and I, always the odd kids out, became the closest.

I learned pretty quickly that George spent most of his time alone. His parents were social climbers, eager to pretend their weirdo son didn’t exist. Teachers didn’t like him much- he was smart, but his grades were erratic. And he never fit in with the other kids. He was too cheerful for the goths, too quiet for the theater kids, too technologically inept for the geeks and nerds.

Aside from me, his only companions were the crows. He knew every one of the dozens of crows that lived in our town- their names, origins, likes and dislikes. He gave them treats like peanuts and hard boiled eggs. They left him gifts- usually shiny things like coins and bottle caps. When Enoch died, George, the other crows, and I held a funeral where George sobbed for hours. After that, the crows took to following him around whenever he went outdoors. Whenever he went indoors, the crows would gather round the windows, pecking and cawing to get his attention.

“Why are they doing that?” my grandma asked nervously. George was over for dinner and she noticed a few crows pecking at the dining room window.

“Crows can remember human faces,” George said matter-of-factly. “They remember humans who are friends to them, and treat them like members of the group.”

“Can they remember the humans who are jerks to them?” my grandpa joked.

“Yes they can. They’ll tell the other crows about them, and coordinate an attack.”

Grandpa started to laugh, but after seeing George’s serious expression he fell silent.

Shortly after that I noticed the crows following me around. Not nearly as many as followed George, and not nearly as often. But there were sometimes a few trailing after me when I went outside. When I told George about it his face split into a smile.

“They know you’re my friend,” he said, “They consider you part of the murder now.”

It was a little unnerving, being tailed by little black birds everywhere I went, but I trusted George. If he thought being followed was a good thing, then he was probably right.

There’s only one event, from before things got so messed up, that stands out in my mind. It was right after I’d gotten my driver’s license and inherited my Grandma’s ancient blue sedan. I was driving into town when I saw George. Now, it wasn’t unusual to see him walking along local roads. But this time, he was standing along the highway, in that thin stretch of grass between the forest and the asphalt, and he was staring at the ground. I pulled over and stepped out of my car to make sure he was okay. 

He didn’t even look up. “Hi, Maria,” he said blandly, “You’re just in time for the feast.”

Before I could reply, I saw what he was looking at.

It was a deer that had been hit by a car. It lay on its side, in a pool of its own blood. Its abdomen was slashed open, and its guts spilled out onto the grass. And there were the crows: tearing out pieces of its flesh, sipping the congealing blood, slurping up its intestines.

Worse still- the deer was still alive. What remained of its abdomen moved up and down in shallow, rapid breaths. Its eyes blinked rapidly. Its head moved groggily, snorting and whimpering as it lay there, being eaten alive. I stared and stared, wishing I could put the deer out of its misery, but too afraid to deal the killing blow.

I realized George had been holding something. It was a baby crow with all white feathers. He was feeding it a piece of the deer’s flesh, staining the crow’s pink beak red.

“This is Lux,” he explained, “The other crows rejected her because of how she looks. So I’m taking care of her. And maybe one day, I can integrate her into the murder.”

I nodded blankly, backed into my car, and drove away.

It was the only truly freaky incident that occurred before the real nightmare. At the time, I put it out of my mind. Crows are scavengers, after all. It was just the circle of life.

The trouble truly began when George started dating Kate. They were apparently introduced at some rich-people function, and hit it off right away. I seemed to be the only person who thought it was creepy that a 22-year-old was dating a high schooler. The average response to my concerns was, “He’ll be 18 in a few months, anyway.”

Beyond that, they had nothing in common. Kate’s family- I’ll call them the Oxfords- were old money New Englanders, the sort that brag about their ancestors coming over on the Mayflower. The Oxfords owned half the businesses in town, which meant we had to treat them like royalty. Kate wasn’t outwardly mean, but she was shallow, bossy, and entitled.

Not that George cared. He was head-over-heels, absolutely smitten. George had never had a girlfriend before. Now the prettiest, richest, most popular woman in town wanted him for herself. Everyone constantly talked about how lucky he was. “Kate’s such an amazing catch!” “She’ll straighten him out in no time!” “It’ll be a fairy tale wedding!” “He won’t have to work a day in his life!” By graduation, George was spending almost all of his spare time with Kate. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I received their wedding invitation at the end of the summer.

I didn’t enjoy the wedding- it looked like it was curated for Kate’s Pinterest account, and Kate made it pretty clear that she didn’t want me there. But George seemed happy, and despite my misgivings, I came to support him. Although we had nice weather, Kate opted for an indoor wedding. I heard her tell a bridesmaid it was because “those stupid birds won’t leave us alone.”

 I took a gap year, waiting tables at a local restaurant to raise money for college. After the wedding, I began to see George less and less. Every time I called him, he had a different reason for why he couldn’t hang out: he wasn’t feeling well, he and Kate were going on vacation, he was seeing his parents. He didn’t go for walks anymore, either. By winter, I mostly saw him whenever he stopped by the liquor store next to the restaurant. These liquor store runs were becoming alarmingly frequent.

I found excuses to drive by his house. George and Kate had moved into one of the Oxfords’ many houses- a Victorian mansion at the very edge of town, about a mile away from the nearest neighbor. It was what rich people called “rustic” and the rest of us called “rundown.” Its whitewash and green shutters were peeling. Its driveway, more gravel than pavement, seemed ill suited for Kate’s shiny new Lexus. The house was surrounded by thin strips of yard before givin...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-10-01 15:34:16+00:00.

---

My name is Kai Martin, but I went by a catchier moniker on YouTube. It was about privacy as well as branding. You might’ve seen my channel back in the day, but I’m not going to provide a link.

Anyway, by December of 2021, it was profitable enough for me to quit the day job. That month's YouTube ad revenue was equal to a year's worth of earnings from The Daily Shitstain — not its real name, believe it or not. My local newspaper was an endangered medium. Eyeballed by greasy bundles of cod and chips more than humans. Let’s put it that way.

Moreover, freelance journalism comes without restrictions. I reported on whatever so pleased me. In the name of a scintillating story, I’d faced war criminals, traffickers, and next-door killers. As a young, steel-balled, investigative journalist, I felt invincible. And that sort of adrenaline blinds a person to danger. It’s why I wasn’t frightened of Cedric Roberts.

I should have been.

Cedric was an ordinary man. An outwardly dull fellow, whose profession I don’t remember. He was interesting in only one way. The man claimed to have been misdiagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder. He claimed to perform rituals which really did stop bad things from happening.

Now, that’s a typical claim from sufferers of this illness. The atypical thing was that he claimed to serve something outside of him.

He called it tall crawl.

1. Do whatever he bids, and do it twice if you doubt yourself.
2. Walk no fewer than eleven steps per hour.
3. Don’t walk in the shade of a backwards tree.
4. No artificial light between one and six in the morning.
5. Snap the bird when it sings.

Those were the five rules of life by which Cedric Roberts lived. Not rules imposed by an oddball employer. Not rules pencilled on a scrap of paper. Rules whispered to Cedric in his head. Rules that I scribbled on my hand whilst doing research on his case.

Everything started three months ago.

In late June, my brother dumped a dollop of waste onto my lap. Dressed it up as a vanilla sundae, and I swallowed it with ease. Why did I entertain him? Well, I always entertain him. I always support his crackpot ideas. Besides, it shouldn’t have been possible for my brother to keep shovelling through that rock-bottom floor. But Andreas always found a way.

I sighed, scrolling through my YouTube channel’s analytics. “Views are down this month. We really need to come up with an exciting video for next week.”

“Well, did you hear about Cedric Roberts?” my brother asked.

I nodded. “Sure. The monster who killed his family.”

Andreas nodded. “He braked at the town’s train crossing, stepped out of the vehicle, and locked the passenger doors. Then he placed a brick on the accelerator and let the car roll through the barrier into the oncoming train. Witnesses said his wife and two daughters were banging on the windows and screaming, but it was all over in seconds. The train pancaked the car, and—”

“Okay, Andreas,” I interrupted, feeling nauseated.

“Anyway, he ended up in a psychiatric unit,” my brother said.

“It’s a horrible story, but I have nothing to add that wasn’t already covered by the paper,” I said.

My brother smiled. “You do now. I was talking to our source at the station, and she—”

“Just call her Holly,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Right. Well, Holly revealed something interesting,” Andreas continued. “And not just that you’re absolutely smitten with her. I heard about your date to—”

“Get to the point,” I said, blushing.

My brother smiled, then returned to a solemn expression. “Cedric Roberts said that something else killed his family. Said that a higher being was punishing him for getting a compulsion wrong, Kai. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and OCD.”

And that was it. I had to interview this man. Without even arranging an appointment, I slumped into my car and set off.

It was about more than our connection to case. Andreas and I had lost our mother to suicide seven years earlier. She had been broken by her obsessive-compulsive disorder. It wasn’t even about Cedric’s murderous rampage. It was about the itch on my nape. One which burrowed deeply, like the tarmac snaking through grooves in fields and mounds. A long, country road that ascended towards a secluded psychiatric hospital.

The ward was a grey blot atop a hilly landscape. One with three storeys of tall, glass panes lined up far too squarely. The building pained my eyes for a reason I did not know, yet trusted with unwavering certainty. It was a clearer warning than any I’d ever seen, heard, or felt. My mind was telling me to turn back.

Something watched me from one of the windows. Something I didn’t see. Something that didn’t belong.

“I’ve been his psychiatrist for less than five days,” Dr David Pendleton said after I entered the building and introduced myself. “Dr Rosetta Wright would’ve been more helpful, Mr Martin. She was Cedric’s specialist for eleven months.”

“Right. I’d like to speak to her then. May I have her details?” I asked.

“No,” Pendleton replied.

I nodded. “Because she’d rather not speak to a journalist?”

“Because she’s dead,” he bluntly answered.

I felt it again. The primitive urge to turn back. The same instinct that had detected something worse than eyes watching me from the hospital windows.

And I also inferred, from the tone of David’s voice, that Dr Rosetta Wright’s death was linked to Cedric Roberts in some way. I feared that it might be linked in the worst way.

“Did he kill her?” I near-silently asked.

Dr Pendleton shook his head, then winced as if coming to his senses. “I’m not myself at the moment. I really shouldn’t be talking to a journalist about any of this. Rosetta was a dear friend of mine, Mr Martin. You’re taking advantage of my grief by poking your nose into this.”

“I’m not trying to take advantage of you,” I promised. “This story means a lot to me.”

“I imagine it’ll help your career,” the doctor cynically said.

“It’s not that. My mother was an OCD sufferer,” I replied, teeing up for the winning stroke. “Her illness led her down an awful path, Dr Pendleton. She eventually took her own life.”

There came a long pause as the doctor cautiously chose his next words.

He finally said, “If you really have no exploitative intentions…”

“I don’t,” I promised.

“Fine,” Dr Pendleton said. “I’ll have to ask for Cedric’s permission, of course.”

The patient, surprisingly, was keen on the idea of talking to a journalist. Given his volatile nature, however, Dr Pendleton thought it best to have members of staff physically restrain the man before I entered his room.

“I’ll let you conduct your interview privately,” the doctor said as we stood outside Cedric’s room. “He’s been docile today. That’s the only reason I’m allowing this interview. But shout if you need me. I’ll be right outside, Mr Martin. Less than five yards away.”

Sure. Separated from the family-killer by a wooden door and a plastered wall, I thought, envisioning all of the ways in which the patient might butcher me before help would arrive.

But I inhaled deeply, summoned every shred of my courage, and entered the white-walled cell labelled 307.

Cedric Roberts was constricted by a taut leather belt around his midsection, but nothing could have restrained his untoward grin. The man sat cross-legged on a neatly-made duvet. He was a strange sight. A forty-something-year-old sitting like a monk or a well-behaved schoolchild, but neither was the case.

I knew what this supposed family man had done. A heinous act driven by a mind either evil or unwell. I still wasn’t sure which, and that was what I wanted to investigate. I wanted to disprove his claims of supernaturalism and grandeur. I needed to disprove it. Since I’d first glimpsed the hospital on the horizon, a prison which barely held this imposing man, I’d felt something I didn’t know how to explain. A terror I desperately wanted to explain.

Cedric would give me answers, but not the ones I wanted.

“Kai Martin? The Kai Martin?” he mocked. “May I have an autograph?”

I sat on a chair opposite the bed. “Nice to meet you, Cedric. Do you know why I’m here?”

“This is a ‘collab’ for your YouTube video,” the man replied, snorting with an entirely static face.

I smiled uneasily. “Honestly, I just want to uncover the truth.”

“Honestly?” Cedric repeated disbelievingly. “Yes, we must always have honesty, mustn’t we, Kai-Kai?”

Something stirred violently in my belly as Cedric uttered a nickname I’d only ever been called by my mother. That fact, alongside the oppressive sensation of 307’s watchful walls shrinking, filled me with a foreign strain of fear.

“I know what happened on that afternoon, Cedric,” I said. “Who made you kill your family?”

He smiled. “My beautiful Isabelle called him tall crawl. He crawled up my body, you see. When you do what he says, he crawls. Grows. Feeds. Until he is tall.”

“Tall crawl,” I softly said, sparking a sharp chill on my left forearm.

It was only a child’s bemusing name. As bemusing as my feeling of being watched by unseen things, not quite eyes. But some perplexing anomalies are borderline inexplicable. Some oddities are funny, like four buses arriving at once. Some oddities are terrible, like the foetal shape of a body that rose beneath Cedric’s duvet. A shape that the patient roughly flattened with a thump of his hand, before massaging the bed slowly. Uncomfortably.

My heart throbbed sharply at the sight I knew I...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HerScreams on 2024-10-01 13:35:25+00:00.

---

I never imagined my first job as a nurse would be like this. Fresh out of nursing school, I thought working night shifts would give me the experience I needed . Something to prove myself. It wasn’t what I wanted exactly, but the hospital was desperate for staff, and I was desperate for a start.

The hospital wasn’t in the heart of Tokyo, where I had dreamed of working, but farther out , on the city’s fringes, nestled near the mountains where the urban sprawl met the wilderness. The isolation didn’t bother me. In fact, I thought it would be a good way to learn without the pressure of being in a big, crowded facility. Quiet. Uncomplicated.

The mental hospital was old, towering over the surrounding area like some relic of another time. The kind of building that looked like it belonged in a ghost story , long hallways, walls yellowed with age, and the perpetual smell of antiseptic and damp concrete. Its exterior walls were cracked in places, the paint peeling off, and inside, the sterile fluorescent lights flickered just enough to make you wonder if the electricity was reliable.

My first night at the hospital had started normally enough, though. At 10:00 PM, as the day staff was packing up, I found myself alone in the nurses' station, organizing my materials for the night. There wasn’t much to do yet, except get used to the quiet and the way the hospital seemed to shift when the sun went down.

Yuki, one of the nurses who had only been working here for a couple of weeks, strolled in, clearly relieved to be heading home. She had the look of someone who was still figuring things out herself. Two weeks isn’t enough time to settle into a place like this, I thought.

“You’re the new one, right?” she asked, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I nodded. “Yeah. First night.”

She stopped mid-step, raising an eyebrow. “Did they give you the rules?”

“Rules?” I asked, confused.

Yuki’s expression shifted slightly. “They didn’t give you a set of rules for the night shift?”

I shook my head. “No, no one mentioned anything about rules.”

“That’s... weird,” Yuki said, frowning as though something wasn’t sitting right with her. “When I started, they gave me these weird rules. I’ve only been here two weeks, so I’m still getting used to them myself.” She walked over to the desk and pulled out a blank piece of paper, grabbing a pen. “Let me write them down for you. You’ll want to follow these.”

I watched as she wrote quickly, her brow furrowed slightly. She seemed distracted, maybe even a little uneasy. Her inexperience showed, but she handed me the paper with a serious look.

“Follow these exactly, and you should be fine.”

I took the paper from her and looked at the list of handwritten rules:

Rule #1. At 12:45 AM, make sure the windows in the west wing are closed. If one is open, close it and leave immediately.

Rule #2. If you see a patient walking in the hallway after midnight, do not speak to them. They are not patients anymore.

Rule #3. If the lights in the east wing go out, leave the wing and do not return until sunrise.

Rule #4. If the elevator doors open by themselves, do not get inside. Wait for them to close.

Rule #5. If you see a shadow that doesn’t belong to you, leave the room immediately.

Rule #6. If escape is your only option, be prepared to sacrifice a part of yourself.

I stared at the paper, not sure what to make of it. It looked like something out of a ghost story. I glanced up at Yuki, expecting her to laugh, but she didn’t.

“Is this some kind of initiation thing?” I asked, hoping that maybe this was just some odd tradition for new staff.

“No,” Yuki said, shaking her head, her voice quieter now. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. But trust me, you’ll want to follow them. I’ve heard... things.”

I frowned, studying her face for any sign of humor, but there was none. She wasn’t joking. This was something real for her.

“Are you sure this is all of them?” I asked.

Yuki hesitated, biting her lip as though trying to remember something else. “I... I think that’s everything. I’m still getting used to it myself.” She forced a smile. “It should be fine if you follow these.”

Before I could ask anything else, Yuki grabbed her things and left the station, leaving me standing there in silence. I looked at the clock: 10:20 PM. The night was just beginning.

I folded the paper carefully, slipping it into the pocket of my scrubs. A joke, I thought. It has to be. But something about the way Yuki had looked at me, the serious expression on her face... it was unsettling.

The hospital was unnervingly quiet at night. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional distant creak of old pipes were the only sounds that broke the silence. I found myself wandering the halls just to keep myself busy, the sense of isolation heavy in the empty corridors. By 12:30 AM, I made my way toward the west wing, the folded piece of paper still in my pocket.

There wasn’t any particular reason I went there. Maybe I was testing the ridiculous rules to see if they were just part of some strange tradition for newcomers. Or maybe it was the pull of curiosity—what if Yuki was right?

The west wing was empty, as I expected. Its long, dimly lit hallways seemed to stretch on forever, the shadows from the rooms creeping out toward the center of the hall. I glanced into each room as I passed, but they were all empty. Just empty white beds and old medical equipment, unused and forgotten.

I checked my watch. 12:42 AM. My fingers grazed the folded paper in my pocket, and I sighed. Might as well get it over with. I began checking the windows in the hallway.

First one was closed . The second one , Closed. 3rd one as well .

I kept moving, my footsteps echoing unnaturally loud in the still air. The cold from outside seemed to seep in through the walls, making the air heavy and uncomfortable. As I approached the final window, my breath caught in my throat.

It was open....

Just slightly, but enough for the cold night air to drift in, brushing against my skin with a chill that felt too deliberate. Too personal.

I stood there for a moment, frozen by the absurdity of it all. But I shook it off, telling myself that old buildings had quirks like this. Windows didn’t always close properly.

Still, I felt a strange reluctance to touch it, to shut it. It was as though something wanted it open, needed it open. I closed the window, and the latch clicked with a sound that felt final, like closing a door to something unseen. The silence that followed was louder than the click itself.

Relieved, I quickly left the west wing, trying to shake off the feeling that something had changed. It’s just an old hospital. Nothing more.

By 1:30 AM, the hospital had settled into an eerie kind of stillness. I returned to the nurses' station, trying to distract myself by checking the security monitors. Most of the patients were asleep, their rooms quiet.

Except for Room 5.

The man inside had been pacing back and forth for a while. I didn’t think much of it at first. Nighttime restlessness wasn’t unusual here, especially among the patients. But as I watched the monitor, my eye caught something else—something moving in one of the hallways.

A man in a hospital gown was standing in the middle of the second-floor corridor. His back was turned to the camera, his body still, facing away from me. At first, it seemed like he was just standing there, lost or confused. His head was slightly tilted to one side, almost like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear.

A cold sensation crawled up my spine.

I grabbed my flashlight out of reflex, but my hands shook as I moved toward the hallway where I’d seen him. My footsteps were slow, hesitant, the beam of light bouncing nervously off the walls as I reached the corridor.

When I turned the corner, he was still there.

Standing in the center of the hallway.

His back was to me, his hospital gown hanging loosely off his frail frame. His posture was wrong, his body stiff like a mannequin. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t even see the rise and fall of his chest to indicate he was breathing.

I took a cautious step forward, then stopped as I heard it . His breathing.

It wasn’t normal.

It was ragged, deep, and inhuman. Each breath came in uneven bursts, almost like gasping, but slower. The kind of breath you’d expect from someone trying to force air into lungs that didn’t work anymore. A wet, dragging sound followed each inhale, like something inside him was broken.

He still didn’t move. His head stayed tilted, his back rigid.

He was waiting.

I wanted to call out, to ask if he needed help. My instinct was to move closer, but then the rule flashed in my mind . If you see a patient walking in the hallway after midnight, do not speak to them. They are not patients anymore.

I felt a rush of dread, as though a cold hand had wrapped itself around my heart.

His breathing grew louder, more ragged. I could hear the wet gurgling sound of his lungs struggling to function. But he didn’t turn around. He didn’t move.

I took a step back, then another. My chest tightened with fear, my breath catching in my throat as I slowly backed away from the hallway. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. My mind screamed at me to run, but I forced myself to move slowly, carefully.

As I turned the corner, there was no denying the cold, creeping terror that told me I’d narrowly avoided something terrible.

By 2:00 AM,...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Manofmystery202 on 2024-10-01 05:34:20+00:00.

---

I decided long before I graduated high school that I wasn’t going to college. School wasn’t my thing, I was more than content just working whatever shitty job I could find. Work my shift, go home, and live week to week. So when I graduated I took a job at Walmart and I worked there until about two months after I turned nineteen. Then I got fired after I called a customer a dumbass. It wasn’t a perfect look for the resume I’ll admit. So I spent another two months looking for a job.

The job search wasn’t going well and I had to move back in with my parents. After about three weeks of staying there, my mom came into my room.

“Hey, Jackie.”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Do you remember your uncle Wallace?” She asked with an enthusiastic grin.

I had met him once at a family reunion when I was little, when my mom introduced me to him, I don’t even remember him talking. All I knew about him besides that was that he was rich and distant from the family.

“Barely,” I replied.

“Well I just got off the phone and he told me he has a motel about an hour away from here and he needs someone to work overnight. Before you say no he’s offering to pay you 25 dollars an hour not too shabby huh, and he said he’d give you a card you could charge gas on so you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

I’d never worked overnight but with the job struggles I’d take anything and honestly, it seemed like a pretty decent deal, not bad pay and I didn’t have to pay for gas. Mom gave me his number but when I tried to call him the next day he didn’t answer.

I received a text shortly after that said 

“I prefer to do these things by text.”

“Ok it’s Jackie,” I texted back

“I know.”

Mom must have already given him my number.

“Well, I like to accept the job.”

“When can you start?”

“Whenever is fine.”

He sent an address “ Be there at 11 pm tomorrow don’t be late I don’t accept tardiness.”

What a hard ass I told myself. But I needed the job. The drive up there was kinda creepy; it was already dark before I started driving, and by the time I hit the woods my nerves set in. You couldn’t see anything past the beams of my headlights. Even with my brights on it felt like I was consumed by the darkness. I was so scared of hitting a deer and at the time that was the biggest of my worries. My little Subaru struggled to get up the mountain. When I arrived at the motel I couldn’t help but feel how out of place both I and it felt. You drive in nothing but Forrest for this long and finally spot the ball of light. You’d think it was run down but no this place was surprisingly nice. All the lights worked, there were no spider webs anywhere. The parking lot was extremely well maintained and the place looked freshly painted. It was just for being in the middle of the woods. It was obscene how clean the place was. I saw a man in what looked like a janitor outfit getting in a truck as I pulled in.

I took a mental map of the place. There were 11 rooms out front and an equal amount of rooms out back. The office/lobby had a woman sitting in it. Next to the office, there were two vending machines, one for soda and one for snacks. The glowing sign out front read The Nowhere Motel,  what a cheesy name I told myself. I parked my car and at the same time, the truck pulled out. I made my way towards the Lobby. I opened the door and there was one of those little bells that ding when you walk into like a gas station. The woman shot me a glance. She was a short redhead wearing a hat. 

“You need a room.” She said with a little bit of an attitude.

“Um no I’m the new hire.”

“Oh, your Jackals.”

“Jackie.” I corrected.

“Alright follow me I’ll get your card and your keys and we’ll get you trained.”

She ushered me through a door that had a desk with a computer and a bunch of paperwork. Then she handed me a card and keys. 

“Names Sam, by the way, the card there is for gas and food only. The boss gives you 20 bucks a day and he will revoke it if he needs to. I bought a scratcher once and he chewed my ass out. The boss said you were outta a job for a while so he gave you a 100.” It was then I began to notice the southern drawl in her voice.

“Do I have to pay it back, or does it come out of my checks?”

“Nope, just something nice he does since the place is so far out.”

“I was kinda expecting Wallace to meet me here.”

“Who in the hell is Wallace?”

“Oh um, the owner.”

“How do you know his name?” She looked extremely puzzled.

I didn’t wanna say he was my uncle so I lied and said he was a friend of my mom's. The face she gave me made it feel like she didn’t believe me.

“So that’s his name, neither me Sergio, nor Philip knew it and I and Sergio have been here 9 years Philip even longer,” she must have seen I didn’t know who those people were. “They the other workers Sergio’s the manager he works in the office with me, Philip’s the janitor. You’ll meet me both tomorrow. Philip usually stays till one in the morning but he had to leave a little early tonight.

The rest of the night was all the boring job stuff, how to clock in and out, how to help guests with paperwork, how to make keys for guests, how to check and use the cameras, what to do in the event of a robbery, etc. The part that startled me was when she showed me the gun under the counter.

“It’s just a .22 meant for animals, calm yourself.”

After I calmed down I felt a bit of relief at least I’d have something to protect myself in case of an emergency.

“You know how to use it?” She asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good didn’t feel like teaching you, the last overnighter we had a fit when I showed him.”

I chuckled a bit and for the first time tonight, Sam smiled.

“You didn’t bring any food did you?”

“No, I haven't had much money.”

“Well I have some pizza in the office fridge we can split.”

Sam lightened up a bit after eating.

“So you’ve worked here for 9 years huh.”

“Yep, you’d be surprised how many guests we get, at least 10 of the rooms are full at a given time. Don’t know how hard it is on nights I usually don’t work them unless it’s to train one of the overnighters. You are the only one at the moment. Place is supposed to be 24 hours but we have a hard time keeping the night folks.” 

“Any reason why.”

“Place is haunted.” She paused. I got a little nervous when she said that.

“Just fucking with you, it's probably because working nights sucks ass.”

The night went off without any problems. Before I knew it the next night came by I walked into the lobby to Philip and Sergio talking at the desk. They both stopped and looked at me. Philip was freakishly tall with long black hair. He left the room after I walked in. 

“He doesn’t talk much till you get to know him, but you’ll work with him more than us so he’ll warm up to you.”

“Your Sergio then?”

“Yes, and you Jackie I presume.” I could already tell he was a much warmer person.

“Well we won’t work together much, just your first half an hour of your shift, boss only gave me and Sam a night to train you. Jobs pretty easy so you should get it all figured out if you didn’t last night.”

Sergio was also pretty tall, not nearly as tall as Philip, he had black hair with spots of gray mixed in with it. His voice was calming the type of stuff you’d hear from someone who makes asmr.

“Oh dang you brought food I made your burgers,” he said looking at the salad in my hands.

“I’ll just put it in the fridge for tomorrow.”

The night went off pretty similar to the night before. But Sergio took his time to walk me around the Motel and show me what some of the unoccupied rooms looked like. The rooms have an electric lock opened by a key card for the guest but can be opened with a key we keep on a keychain for the employees. Room 18 lock got stuck so he showed me the trick to open it. I also got my first guest around 2 am. The whole transaction went off without a hitch. Around 4 am we heard this horrible noise from the woods but Philip assured me it was an elk. Elk don’t sound like that. They make horrible noises don’t get me wrong but that sounded like grinding metal.

“Philip will be here till 1 am tomorrow he works Wednesday through Sunday so you won’t be alone every night and Sam we’ll be here to pass off the keys when you get here.”

With that Sergio and I drove off. Around 7:30 in the morning when I was driving back I swear I saw someone watching me in the woods. I slammed my brakes and pulled over to check on it but there was no one there. I told myself my brain probably just mistook a bush or tree for a person. When I got home and tried to sleep I couldn’t stop thinking about the person and the noise. Something about them both just stuck in my mind. It was Friday night my third night on the job and I’d have the weekend off. I felt very anxious once again, it was gonna be my first night working alone. I mean Sergio and Philip would both be there but only for part of my shift but after 1 am I’d be by myself. There were more cars in the lot than usual. Philip was power-washing the sidewalk, he gave me a nod as I walked past him.

“Hey Jackie,” Sergio said as I walked in.

“Looks like a busy day.”

“Yeah, we had a group of friends on a road trip come through, heading up towards Canada. They’ll be gone in the morning.” 

We talked till he had to leave and he passed off the keys. I brought some of my drawing stuff so I’d have something to do. When it came Philip’s time to leave he stopped off to let me know.

“I’m heading out.” This was the first time I genuinely heard him speak. His voice was very ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Umbraless on 2024-09-30 07:41:30+00:00.

---

I’m a handyman. I’m self-employed and will do any job from building walls to fixing plumbing. I take pride in my work, and thanks to positive word of mouth, I have been able to grow a steady business.

I work around the east of England in a county called Suffolk. It’s a rural county without a city but a few large, historic towns.

Today I was working in a small village called Glemsford on the Suffolk border for an eccentric man called Mr. Myers, J. D. Myers; it says above his office door, but I never found out what the J.D. stands for.

Mr. Myers is an older man with white, thick hair that has receded to a point where anyone else would have given in to baldness. He is thin with a long face and long bony nose. He always wears a suit, even when he’s not working, and has glasses that magnify his eyes so large they become the main future of his face.

As I said, Mr. Myers is an eccentric man, and his house is full of little knickknacks from his many adventures around the world. He’s a well-known solicitor for millionaires all over the world. His library, a small spare room in the house, has the most unique pieces. Wooden masks from Africa, jade trinkets from China, and so on.

He hired me to build a small wall in the corner of his back garden as a kind of pen for his Guinea pigs. Due to the unevenness of the ground, I had been digging it flat for the past two days. I had originally quoted him the job as four day’s work; today was my fifth day as the materials had been delayed arriving.

Mr. Myers had planned to go to London the day after I was originally planned to finish. He couldn’t cancel due to his client only being in the country for a few days. I assured him that I could move some other jobs around and come back to his the day after to finish the wall. He waved it away and said that he trusted me to come in while he was away and continue my work. He left me a key and was gone before I arrived this morning.

It’s been sunny in the east today, a rarity if you live in England. Hot sun in summer? Never heard of it. It was half way through the day, and I had just finished with the first layers of bricks for the pen when I heard the Victorian-style doorbell chime.

I walked around the side of the house instead of through it so I didn’t dirty the floor.

At the door stood a man in a prim black suit and bowler hat with a brown briefcase. He was tall and old with a large, grey, thick moustache.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

The man turned to me, his face grim and downturned. His voice was deep as he spoke.

“You’re not Mr. Myers.” He said without inflection yet somehow still surprised.

“No, he’s away on business today. Can I help you?”

“I need to speak with Mr. Myers,” he held up his briefcase. “It’s a delivery he’s been waiting years for.”

I was confused; the man felt off in the way he moved and spoke, as if this was of grave importance.

“Do you have his number? You could call him, but I doubt he would answ…”

“You call him.” The man interrupted me. Rude, but I’m someone who tries to avoid arguments if possible. I signed and pulled out my phone to ring Mr. Myers. If what this man had was so important, why didn’t Mr. Myers tell me he was expecting a package? To my surprise, Mr. Myers answered.

“Hello. Nick. Is everything alright?”

“Hi, Mr. Myers. Yes, everything is fine here; it’s just that…” I put the phone to my chest so Mr. Myers couldn’t hear what I was saying. Why I did this, I don’t know. “What did you say your name is again, mate?”

“I didn’t.” He responded tersely. “Just say it’s Clive Kittle.”

“Mr. Kittle has a delivery for you.” The other end of the line was silent. “Mr. Myers?”

“Nick, can you show Clive to the library please, and tell him to put the parcel somewhere he believes is most fit.”

“Sure?” I said questioningly, it seemed a very odd request.

“And Nick, can you leave the library while he does this, please.”

“Okay?” I said.

“Once Clive is gone, can you lock up the house and post the key through the letterbox please? I would prefer if you finished early today and came back in the morning. I will be there when you arrive.”

“Okay, will do.” I said before hanging up.

My mind was racing with questions and intrigue about what was in the brief case.

I live by myself with no partner and so have a lot of free time on my hands. Because of this, I wouldn’t often find myself at home tired after work scrolling through TV and YouTube. I have more than once fallen down the rabbit whole of unsolved mysteries from history. Due to this recurring of my life, I now find myself drawn to mysteries, no matter how small.

“I am to show you to the library.” I said. “And you are to leave the parcel where ever you see fit.” Clive Kittle nodded once, sharply, and stood to the side and allowed me to open the door.

I showed him to the library. Again, Mr. Myers house isn’t a mansion or state house; it is a semi-modern British village home, and the spare front room was what he called the library. Clive Kittle was in the room for around twenty minutes. I stood waiting patiently. Once he was done and had made sure the door was shut behind him, he left and waited for me just outside the front door. I walked out behind him and flicked the lock before shutting the door, I turned to Clive Kittle. He was standing unnervingly close to me. He was looking down at the key in my hand. Once I realised what he was looking at, I quickly turned and posted it through the letter box, I even made a show of turning the handle to make sure it was locked. He seemed satisfied without showing it, turned, and walked down the garden path.

I waited a few minutes, making sure he was out of sight.

I waited a few more minutes.

And then a few more.

Once I was sure he wasn’t going to show up again or drive past the house, I unlocked the front door.

It’s more uncommon these days, but a lot of homes in Britain used to have locks like this. Ones that you would flick a latch from the inside but only open from the outside. The key I posted was my own. I needed to know what the parcel was.

Unethical? Yes. But curiosity is the only thing that straddles both the deadly sins and the seven virtues. It will either lead you astray or to greatness. Sometimes it’s just 50/50 as to which side you land.

Once in, I must admit I started to creep and tiptoe. I have no clue why, probably because it felt like I was doing something wrong, which I was. I even opened the library door slowly.

At first I didn’t see it, hidden in a corner of the room that hadn’t seen sun since the house was built. It was a thick, heavy leather book. I instantly got a headache when I laid eyes upon it. I read the golden embossed words at the top of the front cover.

Novem. Septem. Oculos. Insania. Mors.

I didn’t know what the words meant, and I didn’t care, because under neither the words, sculpted in the leather, was a screaming face in aguish that looked as if it were crying. It terrified me. My stomach felt tight, like someone was squeezing it like a stress ball. I lost my sense of time. Hands felt as if they were pressing the sides of my head, like they were trying to crush my skill. I was only there a few seconds, yet it felt like hours of my stomach being squished and my head being pressed.

I feel silly saying it now, but I ran from the house, making sure to shut the library door and lock and post the correct key through the front door. I packed my stuff and drove home. I have showered but not eaten.

I arrived home at four; it is now one in the morning, and all I’ve been doing is trying to get that face out of my mind ever since.

Ever since I looked at the distorted, horrifying face, I've had trouble blinking. I'm having to think about it; its not a subconscious thing any more. Every time I remember to blink, the static that appears behind your eyes when you close them seems more blocky, more three-dimensional.

I thought a shower would help to clear my mind. I thought feeling hot water and soft soap would help to clear away how icky I was feeling. When I stepped out of the shower, I cleared the mirror of condensation to see if I looked as bad as I felt when I saw on either side of my head. A slightly purple yet visible handprints on my cheeks and going into my hair. There are tender to touch. I will have to wear a beanie to work tomorrow.

The odd thing is, I want to go back. Not to see the book, but to see Mr. Myers and to see if the book has the same effect on him. I need to know if it’s a stupid overreaction or genuine.

I needed to tell someone, or type it down at least; that’s why I thought of this page. It seems like the right place to say what happened.

The delivery man was creepy, Clive Kittle; he was creepy, but the book itself was truly horrifying. It intrigues me.

I’m going to try and get some sleep.

I will keep you all updated on what happens tomorrow.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/revaka on 2024-09-30 15:56:29+00:00.

---

“Stop playing with my hair,” I chided my younger brother Mark as he swung his body back and forth in utmost boredom, finding the perfect victim to keep his hands occupied. I was focused on my iridescent shell bracelet I’d picked up at one of the shops, trying to loosen the knot that was cutting off my circulation. We were waiting to board a week-long cruise that’d snake through the Norwegian Fjords, a break from our usual quiet suburban holidays. This trip was different, a way to commemorate what my parent’s called their “second life”, now that Mark was about to start college and I was mid-way through my PhD. Mark didn’t want to come, but the promise of breathtaking landscapes replete with snowy peaks viewed from the comfort of a heated cabin, and most importantly, without having to lift a finger — meant our parents eventually won.

Looking around at the crowd, from newlyweds to recent graduates on their gap years, we really were the spitting image of the American nuclear family. A thick mist was setting in when we finally stepped onto the ship, where a photographer ushered us in front of a sterile blue backdrop. I wrapped my arms around my beaming parents, while my brother was slightly off to the side, flashing his dopey grin. Still looking at the camera, I leaned over and teased, “think you’ll brave the pool?”

Mark’s face soured as the flash went off. He couldn’t swim. Or rather, he wouldn’t, after a freak accident when he was seven. No one saw it happen. We were at the beach, and he came back from the water with cuts running down the entire lower half of his body. Years of therapy and the slow but sure magic of time quelled the aquaphobia, but he never went into the water again. I think my parents were waiting for when he was ready to tell them what happened, but seeing his improvement in the sessions, they never pressed him and no one spoke of it again. The ship had two massive heated outdoors pools, but with the biting cold and the sun setting around 3pm, I doubted anyone would use them. I didn’t know it then, but those decks would become desolate, nearly frozen, by nightfall. 

The trip was as serene as the cruise ad sold it to be, with some hikes and city tours here and there, but most of our time was spent onboard reveling in the festivities and never ending smorgasbord. We learned about hygge from another family onboard, and the crew certainly leaned into it, providing hot chocolate or gløgg at every corner. Still, when the sun slipped past the horizon, something changed, and everyone would huddle together inside almost instinctively. Darkness swallowed the surroundings and only the soft lapping of water could be heard.

One afternoon after a nap, I woke up to a dark cabin with no sign of Mark. Glancing at my phone I saw a text, “Heard someone say we’d be able to see the northern lights tonight, gone up to check.” I made my way to the bathroom to freshen up and join him. Not long after, I heard the door open and slam shut. “Mark?” I called out. No response. I stepped out of the bathroom, my face falling when I saw him. He stood frozen with his back against the door, his body rigid.

“What happ-,“ I started, but he raised his hands to his face and I realized he was sobbing. Now concerned, I reached for the telephone to call our parents, but he looked up and said “Don’t.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know,” his voice barely audible. “I went up the deck after texting you. There were a few people waiting to see the lights, but it was too cloudy. So we waited. Then it got cold and people started leaving. I was about to leave too, but then I heard music.”

That wasn’t unusual, there was often bands playing on the ship at night.

“I thought I’d go to pass some time, but as I walked around the deck, the music never got louder than a faint hymn. That’s when I realized the sound wasn’t coming from the ship.”

My stomach dropped. We had left the nearest city hours ago and the closest ships were mere lights in the distance.

“I looked out towards the water,” he continued, “At first I couldn’t see anything, but then something moved. There was something…bobbing just beneath the surface.”

“Keep going,” I pressed, the room suddenly turning colder.

“I didn’t know what I was looking at, but then I saw it. There were two pitch-black pupils staring right at me. And then it smiled and I could see the rows of razor-sharp teeth. And it stared humming.” He groaned. “It’s come back for me.”

I froze, my mind racing for answers, but it was too late, and there was nowhere to go. I promised him we’d figure this out tomorrow. He said nothing, just climbed into his bed, sitting up and stared at the closet.

At some point I fell asleep, until the phone rang. Mark’s bed was empty and there was a note on the nightstand. Before I could read it, my mom’s voice crackled through the receiver. “Have you seen Mark? Someone just reported they saw someone jump off the ship.

I looked down at the note. “Gone for a quick dip.” And then I saw the unmistakable trace of water leading from the door to the closet.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Voodoo_Clerk on 2024-10-01 02:19:20+00:00.

---

Part 1

The next time I came into work after the situation with Dr. Harrison and Kara, I thought about whether I should accept the pay raise and continue working at the office. I unlocked the front door and entered the waiting room, still working things out in my mind when I slammed right into a person. I sputtered backward and looked up in confusion and horror since I was supposed to be the only one allowed in this early at the clinic. 

“You must be, Maggie!” a cheery voice told me as he moved past me and turned off the alarm before it began blaring. I clutched my heart at the shock this stranger had just given me. The fact that he knew me but I didn’t know who he was made it worse. 

“W-who are you?” I blurted out after my heart nearly split my sternum and lept out of my chest. He flicked on the lights and the waiting room was fully lit up, revealing the person who had startled me so badly. To my surprise he seemed normal. I know that’s weird to say, but he seemed just so average. Average height, build everything. His hair was combed nicely and he had a big smile on his face. 

“I’m Wilson! Your new security guard.” He waved at me happily. I let my jaw drop a little at that. Not to throw shade at Wilson, because he’s such an absolute sweetheart, but he does not strike me as any kind of security guard. The only thing he had on that showed him to be a security guard was the vest that said security on it that he wears. I was also shocked that he had been hired so quickly! It had taken less than two days for Dr. Harrison to hire him. 

“H-how long have you been here?” I asked him, as I started to calm down and walked over to my reception desk. I was always the first one here and I usually arrived pretty early in the morning, so to be beaten here was an absolute shock to me. 

“Oh, I just arrived a couple of minutes ago actually! Sorry for locking the door, I had orders from Dr. Harrison to lock it after I entered,” he told me as he followed me over to my desk. That made sense to me. If he was going to be our security it made sense for him to arrive first now. As I started getting my things ready, I watched as Wilson took his post by the front door. He stood so still I swore he would make a perfect King’s guard. 

I slowly got to work on some paperwork as I waited for the hours to tick down to when Dr. Harrison and Rachael would arrive. Rachael was the first of the duo to arrive, rushing past the line of people who were already queuing for their appointments. She mumbled to herself as she dusted herself off and looked over at Wilson without even getting a slight startle from him. 

“Hey fatty,” she called out to me as she walked up to my desk. I didn’t even bat an eye at her as I flipped through the final few sheets of paperwork that I had. When she noticed that I wasn’t paying any attention to her, she walked up to me and slapped her hands down on the desk to get my attention. 

“Oh Rachel, I didn’t hear you come in,” I told her with a smile. The pissed-off look on her face was the most rewarding sensation I can get. “How can I help you, sweetie?” I asked her with a smile, sliding a bowl of candy close to her to tempt her. She looked at it with disgust and at me with even more. 

“Keep an eye on Wilson. If he starts doing anything weird, hand him off to Dr. Harrison. Understand? Get that through your thick twinky filled skull?” She tapped my forehead for emphasis. I swatted her hand away and nodded at her. I chanced a peep over at Wilson and noticed that he was looking at the two of us. I smiled and waved at him and he did the same. 

“I’ll be sure to keep you informed, Rachael. Oh by the way, when did you want me to schedule that operation for you?” I asked her, pulling some papers from underneath my desk. She looked at me with confusion.

“What operation?” She asked, to which I smiled devilishly. 

“The one to get that stick out of your ass,” I said with a little giggle. She tsked in anger and stormed off to get ready for the day's surgery. Leaving me to giggle and continue with my paperwork. About half an hour later, Dr. Harrison arrived also being hounded by the waiting patients. He sighed and looked over at Wilson with a smile and tussled his hair like an approving father.

“Hello, Dr. Harrison.” I waved at him as he approached. He flashed me a perfect toothy grin and came up to the desk. “You’ve got another busy day ahead of you, huh?” I asked him as I handed him a stack of papers and clipboards. He took one look at them and sighed as he took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. 

“It’s never-ending,” he said with a sigh as he accepted the giant stack of forms and clipboards from me. He glanced over towards Wilson and then back at me. “Rachael told you to keep an eye on him, correct?” he asked me as he struggled with his mountain of paperwork. 

“Mhm,” I told him, just adding to the pile like a giant Jenga tower. “I’ll be sure to inform you, sir,” I told him as I finally finished giving him everything. He sighed and looked back over at Wilson. 

“Wilson, help me carry this shit.” He ordered the security guard. He nodded quickly and walked over, taking half the stack of papers from him and helping him carry them to the back operating rooms and consultation rooms. After Wilson returned I nodded at him and he opened the floodgates to allow everyone in. I braced myself for a long day as I started listening to what the patients wanted and what they needed. 

“What do you mean in six months?! I need this surgery now! Can’t you fucking see that you fucking cow?!” A woman screamed at me, tapping her manicured fingers on her clipboard for emphasis. I watched her and waited for her to finish so I could explain it to her. 

“Ma’am, Dr. Harrison is completely booked for the next six months. Now if someone cancels, there may be an opening, but for the foreseeable future I can only get you an appointment in six months.” I told her again, but she just completely refused to listen to me. 

“Get rid of someone’s appointment then! How is it that these ugly fuckers can get ahead of me?!” She screamed at me, getting some spit on my face. 

“Because they made an appointment before you, ma’am,” I told her, struggling to keep my composure. “Once again, I can schedule you for a visit in six months. Or you can wait and have it take even longer.” I pulled out the application for her and when I looked back at her, she was lunging at me to strangle me. She grabbed me by the throat and was about to start squeezing when she was suddenly yanked away from me. 

I coughed in surprise and looked over to see that Wilson had grabbed the lady and was effortlessly dragging her away and toward the entrance. She was screaming and kicking and throwing every kind of obscenity my way. Wilson leaned down and grabbed her by the hair and by her clothes and tossed her out like they do in cartoons. I was stunned at how strong he was, and what he had done to that woman, seemed to calm the other patients down as they came back up to me to continue with their paperwork and questions. 

At around noon I leaned back and gave myself a good stretch that popped a few joints and fixed my back. It was almost my lunch time and I looked over to see how much longer it would be. As I did I heard something skitter away and the lost and found box tipped over. I rolled my chair over towards it in complete confusion and saw that a few more items were missing. 

“What the hell?” I wondered aloud, before picking and placing things back into the box. I rolled back over to my desk and decided to keep more of an eye on the box. When I turned back out to look at the lobby I was shocked to see Wilson staring silently at me. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked me after I had jumped a foot out of my chair in surprise at seeing him standing there. 

“No, no, everything is okay, thank you Wilson. And thank you for dealing with that woman.” He smiled at me and nodded before going back over to his post. At this point, most of the patients had been dealt with and I was doing some more paperwork. Mostly just filling in a few items and signing off on some things. 

“Hey, Maggie, it’s your lunchtime,” Dr. Harrison said as he stuck his head into my reception area.” I looked over at him and smiled in excitement. Standing up from my chair and stretching some more again. 

“Can I get you anything while I’m gone, sir?” I asked him. He looked over at the old antique phone mounted on the wall. Still waiting for it to ring but with no luck. He sighed and pulled down his surgical mask before shaking his head. 

“Just the usual coffee is fine. How is Wilson? Anything strange?” he asked me as he entered the reception area completely and pulled off his surgical gloves. I looked back over at our silent guardian. 

“Well, there was a woman who tried to choke me out, he grabbed her and tossed her out,” I told him, mimicking how Wilson had thrown the woman out of the waiting room. Dr. Harrison looked over at Wilson for a moment and then nodded. 

“Alright. Well, I’ll have him watch your desk while you’re out.” I nodded as I grabbed my purse and phone. “Oh, one more thing. Has Rachael been making fun of you?” he asked me, which got my attention and stopped me from finishing my packing up. Rachael had always made fun of me for my weight, but like I’ve said before I’ve always been comfortab...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SunHeadPrime on 2024-09-30 23:26:41+00:00.

---

During my time at Goodwill, I’ve seen people turn in so many crazy items. One time, a lady tried to donate her dead husband’s false teeth. We politely told her “no thanks” and gave them back to her. We called her “Chompers” every time she shopped in the store.

While the weird and gross things are fun to gossip about, what I love getting are personal journals that people have accidentally donated with other books. It’s surprising how often this happens. There’s a thrill in reading something a person never intended for someone else to read. The honesty and true feelings that leap off the page are a gas to read.

Last week, I came across a journal someone had dropped off late in the evening with a cache of other books. As soon as I fished it out and started reading, I was hooked. This is, without a doubt, the weirdest, freakiest thing I’ve ever read. It’s a hybrid journal of handwritten pages and printed transcripts. It’s odd.

I’m gonna post the best parts, hoping someone out there can fill me in on what I’ve read. If any of this sounds familiar, please reach out. I have to know more.

***

8/20

I’ve been married to my wife Faith for four years and together for six. It’s been the happiest six years of my life. Before we got together, I had been going through a very rough time in my life. My parents had died in a house fire about four months before we got together. The fire department suspected arson, but never found who was responsible. Never getting closure on such a profound loss numbs your heart. On top of that, I had learned that my company was downsizing, and they gave me my walking papers a week after I buried my folks.

Since these things come in threes, joining my parent’s death and lack of career prospects was the last member of the trio: alcoholism. I hit the skids pretty hard. I was looking for a good time and thought I’d find it at the bottom of a bottle. While there was a brief period of “fun” when I’d go out drinking (in this case, fun meaning not feeling like jumping off a bridge for about two hours before blacking out) that soon gave way to hooking up with random weirdos, feeling like garbage every morning, and a rapidly dwindling savings account.

It was during this low point in my life when I found Faith. I first saw her working at the grocery store near my house and thought she was a knockout. Since I was there all the time grabbing something to drink, I eventually got to talking with her. Liquid courage and all that. Turns out, we had a lot in common. While we first bonded over small things - bands we liked, favorite cereal (we were in the aisle), stuff like that - but soon we started having the type of conversations you’d have on dates. I took a shot and asked her out and, after she berated me for taking so long, she said yes.

It was the first good news I had received in months.

Our first date was amazing. We met for Mexican food at a local favorite and lost track of time chatting. She told me she’d finished school two years earlier with a degree in substance abuse psychology, but had trouble finding a good job. She was working at the store temporarily until she found something better. I joked that while I was upset she hadn’t nailed down her dream job yet, I was glad it had led to us meeting. She agreed and added that it felt like fate. I couldn’t disagree.

Faith helped me heal myself. Her warming presence in my life helped to thaw my heart. She had noticed my drinking and, while never judging, she helped to guide me to putting down the bottle for good. It was a revelation, and I immediately felt the changes in my life. I had gone through a tunnel of shit and came out clean on the other side. Faith did that.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that I fell head over heels in love with her about a month into our dating.

I knew I had fallen into the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I didn’t want to lose it. I started thinking about ways I could support and help her. While I’d never be able to repay her for saving myself from myself, I became her biggest supporter. When she felt down, I did whatever I could to lift her up. Eventually, she found that job. Not long after, we moved in together. My happiness had returned and Faith was my north star.

I say all this to set the table for how weird her behavior lately has been. Ever since she started her new job, she’s been working long hours at the office. At first, she said it was something everyone goes through when they first start in this line of work. Low man (or woman, as it were) gets the extra workloads. Faith didn’t mind too much. She loved her job and was amazing at it. Anyone who got her as a counselor could count themselves as lucky.

I missed her, but I understood. I, too, had found new employment and saw my free time dwindle. We both had to try a little harder to make things work. It wasn’t always easy, but some things are worth the hassle. Faith was worth the hassle.

Within a few weeks, my job fell into a normal routine. I expected hers to follow suit, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, her hours got more erratic. She started having counseling appointments later into the evening, as some of her new, more difficult clients had to work around very full schedules. On top of that, she had become closer to her coworkers and, after rough days in the office, they’d sometimes need to blow off some steam with a drink at the local bar. Faith told me I could join them if I wanted, but I didn’t want to be that guy. I trusted her implicitly and wanted to give her some space.

If you’ve ever spoken with a teacher, the bond they get with their coworkers becomes ironclad. They have to deal with so many unexpected issues from their students, parents, and administration…and that’s before they’re expected to teach the Revolutionary war to bored middle schoolers. It’s like soldiers bonding in a battle. Unless you’ve been there, you can’t really understand it.

Working to help people get clean is like that, too. You get to know your clients on a deep, personal level. You care about them. Faith has told me as a counselor, you take the journey with your clients. When they succeed, you feel successful. When they fail, you feel like a failure. She told me that when a client fails and ends their life (which can happen), it leaves you a wreck. All that said, if she needs to have a drink with her coworkers to decompress after, I understand.

About two months into her job, a new guy named Blake started at her office. They slotted him into the office next to her and they clicked instantly. Blake and Faith would hang out most lunch breaks and discuss their cases and brainstorm solutions. I met Blake a few times, and he seemed like a good dude. I joked with Faith that he was her “work husband” and she didn’t argue. They’re good friends making their way as best they can in a demanding job.

Naturally, they would text back and forth. Most of the time it was work related but, as you become friends with someone, your personal relationship bleeds through. Again, I wasn’t worried. Faith never hid her phone or erased texts or anything. I could freely hop on her phone with zero issues from her. There were no red flags. I trusted her.

Then she started staying late most days. I’m talking, seven/eight o’clock. She tells me she’s in the office, but I swear a few times it didn’t sound like she was in the office. When she’d come home, she looks worn out. I know what it sounds like, but it doesn’t seem like physical exhaustion. She looks mentally drained. To the point where she just crawls into bed and goes to sleep. I don’t want to even tell you how long it’s been since we were intimate, but trust me, it’s been a long while.

The last thing that’s pushed me into questioning Faith is the note. The other day, my car was in the shop, so Faith let me borrow hers. After I dropped her off at the office - where Blake was waiting outside for her - I drove the car to the gas station to fill up. While cleaning the windows, I spied a piece of paper wedged between the seats.

Expecting it to be a receipt, I fished it out to discover a handwritten note. In neat, boxed print, it read, “Thanks for giving the proposal some thought. I think we’re both going to be pleased. Blake.” I felt my stomach drop. I know what it sounds like, but I also know that Faith had been talking about a potential job at work. She said Blake had pitched it to the higher ups and wanted to bring Faith on board. It’d be more work, longer hours, and potential work trips, but Faith told me the rewards were well worth it.

Am I a sap? Am I clinging onto the desperate hope that Faith has been true? Am I letting my brain get to me and red stringing unrelated acts into a conspiracy?

I guess what I’m really asking is: Am I overreacting?

9/3

I love Faith and, up to this point, she’s never given me a reason to doubt her. She’s been as loyal as they come. But I find myself doubting if she’s been completely honest. I love her so much and I don’t want to accuse her of something without having concrete proof. If nothing else, putting these thoughts to paper has made me determined to look a little closer.

I asked Faith about Blake waiting for her and she said it’s a habit they’ve gotten into. Blake read about “meeting your team members as they come into the office” as a way of strengthening the team bond. That sounded insane to me, so I asked for the book’s title to look it up. She hasn’t given...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/shinu97 on 2024-09-30 22:30:31+00:00.

---

You know when you are at home after a long day at work and you are just bone-tired and ravenous for the bleak dinner you have been looking forward to all day? But, then you realize that you are cleared out of food? Nothing in the pantry, nothing in the fridge? And you thank God or whoever you believe in that the grocery store around the corner doesn’t close until 10?

Okay, so that was my Friday night last week. I know. It’s not a Friday night to brag about but it’s how I ended up at the grocery store at closing time.

Anyway, it was 9:50 PM and I was desperate so I shoved my feet into some slides, pulled on a ratty flannel, and bent against the borderline-torrential downpour outside. The sprint to the sliding automatic door of the G-Mart was completely deserted and the street lights had already been triggered to turn on to provide a flickering path through curtains of rain.

When the door registered my presence, it banged open, rattling the cracked plastic and echoing down the empty street. Finally shielded from the elements, I could shake out my hair and slosh the water out of my shoes, splattering the linoleum tile with droplets.

Checking my watch I saw it was already 9:55 PM and my gut twisted knowing I would either be kicked out or force the employees to stay overtime in this sorry excuse for a store.

This grocery store was bare-bones. It was made up of a towering set of shelves that separated the space into two narrow aisles; all along the other three walls were refrigerated shelves protected by glass doors. The very front of the room held a checkout counter with a foot-long conveyor belt to carry the food to the register. It wasn’t even long enough to have any of those plastic separators. One customer at a time, please.

The lights were dim, fluorescent, and for some reason, that night they had a greenish hue. My eyes went straight to my go-to spot at the back: the microwave dinner shelves. I started forward and was almost immediately bulldozed by a woman with wild gray hair and a gaunt, sunken face. She didn’t even look at me as she hauled a bright red grocery basket through the front door. She was barefoot.

“Excuse you!” I called after her, irritated, attempting to recover from stumbling back to avoid her.

Looking around, suddenly aware of my surroundings I realized that I was now alone. There wasn’t anyone at the register, the stool behind the counter sat empty. I couldn’t hear any footsteps or shuffling in the aisles, only the buzzing sound of the lights as they fought to stay on and the drum of the rain outside.

“Hello...?” I ventured, not as confidently as I would have liked, but we are all friends here so I won’t kid you. When no one responded I started forward towards my dinner. I figured they had just stepped out to go to the restroom or had gone to the back, assuming there was a back…maybe they had to run to their car.

I squatted to the lowest shelf and swiped up a classic: MEATLOAF FOR ONE. With the box tucked under my arm I stood. Directly in front of me, on the other side of the shelves of refrigerated boxes, in the dark dark recesses of the beyond-the-cold section was a pair of shiny, reflective eyes looking straight at me.

I stumbled back, dropping my meatloaf, and the eyes blinked out. They had been shiny and otherworldly like a coyote at night. They had been at eye-level and had been round and large. Not like a person. Not like a G-Mart employee.

I know this sounds like the momentary hallucination of a lonely guy who forgot to take his meds and freaked himself out alone at night in the rain. But, it’s not. I wish it was but just hold on. I’m not expecting you to believe me but just imagine if you were in my shoes and this WAS real.

Laying on the floor, shaking in my slides, I stared into the abyss of the refrigerated section. The door was stuck open from when I had pulled it all the way to its full range of motion so I could root around on the low shelves. The chill from inside wafted out, crystallizing the air and yanking goose-pimples from my exposed skin, still damp from the rain. Behind the shelves and boxes of frozen food was pitch black, but staring back into the dark dark emptiness dread curled in my throat and a pit formed in my stomach as a pair of shiny yellow eyes blinked open above the second-to-bottom shelf, eye-level with me, watching.

I scrambled back with a yelp and they blinked at me slowly. Over the crackling loud speakers I could hear the faintest buzz of a tinny rendition of “Closing Time” by Semisonic ringing out. Sliding my eyes to my watch it flashed 10:00 at me. Closing time.

I clambored to my feet, abandoning my dinner, and stumbled backward without taking my eyes away from the blinking gaze now back at my standing eye-level. I stared as another pair of shiny eyes blinked into existence beside the original pair. And another one. And another one.

My heart and my mind were racing. What was back there? Not people. Were there animals? Mutant rats? Bats? Monsters? And why were they just STARING at me?

To my right I heard a scuffling noise. Daring to look away from whatever was looking at me, I slid my gaze to trace the sound. And, behind the refrigeration shelves on the wall to my right I saw a pale, slender hand delicately wrap around a bottle of orange soda. It ever-so-slowly tipped it backwards toward the darkness and dragged it into the black, scraping along the ribbed shelf.

I whipped my head to the left only to see another hand with long spindly fingers ending in narrow nail-less points extending from the inky black, wrap around a busted-open carton of eggs, and bump-bump-bump it backwards into the nothing.

I am not ashamed to say that I high-tailed it. I spun around like a cartoon character in a cloud of dust and sprinted for the automatic door. The automatic door whose green power light was now a dull OFF. Whose “PUSH IN CASE OF EMERGENCY” sign turned out to be a handwritten sticker added for what I assume is legal reasons, clearly not safety reasons. It wouldn’t budge. I kicked it and pounded on it but the hard plastic would not even rattle in its tracks like it had earlier when I walked in.

I spun around, draped against the door and heaving, trying not to sob. Inside the fluorescent-lit refrigeration units that I was able to see from my vantage point against the entrance, I could see dozens of white almost-translucent hands. They moved as though connected to each other, a well-oiled machine doing God-only-knows what. I could only imagine what many-armed monster lay in wait in the dark back there. The only sound it made was the scrape of movement along the shelves. Otherwise, silence.

Desperately searching my mind for an idea, I gripped my hair with my hands and tried to keep the panic-induced bile down. I looked around wildly for anything that could help, anything that could get me out of here.

There! In the corner of the ceiling there was a security camera. It was pointed at the front door, clearly to discourage shoplifting. There was a little red light and it was actually blinking! If there was a security camera that was actively recording then there was probably an office or a security room or SOMETHING. I scooted to my left along the wall, trying not to look at the hairless arms connected to wrinkled hands until I reached the corner of the store. I could see straight down the aisle all the way to a simple wooden door along the back wall. An office!

Holding my breath, I steeled myself. I squeezed my eyes shut so tight I saw stars behind the lids. Then, I ran. I held my arms out in front of me and ran through my self-imposed darkness. My closed eyes were my bravery. By some miracle I only bumped into the shelf to my right once and it was only with my hand, before I reached the door.

I gripped the handle, praying for it to be unlocked. It was. I flung open the door and stumbled in, slamming it closed behind me and smashing the push-button lock into place. I fumbled for a lightswitch and when I found it, it revealed a broom-closet of an office. No windows but there was a door across from me that gave me such a surge of hope I almost fainted right then and there. The rest of the room boasted a very small desk with an ancient desktop computer on it and a folding chair. The shabby furniture blocked an easy path to the other door and as I was clamoring past it the computer whirred to life. I must’ve bumped the mouse on the desk.

Momentarily distracted from my race to freedom, I realized it didn’t even prompt a password to get in. It just opened up to some kind of security app. The home page had five different buttons, each one labeled with a location: ALLEY_ONE, FRONT_DOOR_ONE, AISLE_ONE, AISLE_TWO, STOCK_ROOM_ONE_TWO_THREE.

Feeling relatively safe for the time being, I double clicked on ALLEY_ONE. An image of a dark passage between two brick buildings absolutely obliterated by rain filled the screen. There was a door on one of the walls.

I X-ed out of the screen and clicked on FRONT_DOOR_ONE. It was a feed of the camera I had seen earlier just pointing at the front door. It still showed me cowering against the wall and as I watched I stood up and stuck my arms out in front of me before disappearing off-screen. The feed must be slightly delayed.

I X-ed out of the video and clicked on AISLE_ONE. I saw myself tearing through it, knocking bags of chips and loaves of bread onto the ground. I hadn’t realized I ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Hidebehind_389 on 2024-09-30 08:37:39+00:00.

---

I recently went to visit my parents, who happen to still live in my childhood home.

The house sits at the end of our block in a cul-de-sac, and unlike a lot of houses in my old neighborhood, it demands attention with its lopsided appearance, large size, and ancient Victorian architecture. 

My parents bought it before I was born, refurbished it, and moved in just as my mother was going into labor with me.

Ever since I was little, I had always experienced an “off” feeling about the place. Long shadows filled the halls. Strange noises weren’t uncommon at late hours. Night terrors disturbing beyond my years plagued my sleep.

I constantly experienced deep feelings of dread both day and night being in the house, and so did my friends, apparently. We never hung out at my place, which was just fine by me. Actually, I often looked for excuses to get out of my house anyhow.

Most people tend to hold memories of their childhood homes close to their hearts, but I really don’t.

Schoolkids and adults alike always gossiped about our house, calling it a 'morbid', 'creepy' 'eyesore', some might have even said ‘haunted’.

A lot of what I think contributed to my childhood fears of the house extended from two episodes of some children's shows I used to watch. One being an episode of Curious George where George imagines hellish faces in his room after visiting a cave. The other was from Caillou, an episode where Caillou's parents checked on him every night, but he was convinced they were monsters watching him from his doorway; these horrible silhouettes with cartoonishly white eyes. All of these episodes I watched in the dark of my living room, all of them made me cry so bad.

Another point, I had found a half-decayed squrriel on the property one time, one that I used to feed. It was stuck under a wheelbarrow. Its skin had been peeled away, its eyes popped, and its little mouth grimaced with rotting teeth. That messed me up, I cried for days. The smell, I would find after the incident, was a lot more common in the house.

With my active imagination, experiences, along with the rumors, now it came as no surprise as to why I was always afraid. Now that I'm grown up, you would think it would be easier to forget those fears. They were just kid's shows, a natural cycle of life. But not with this house.

We had just finished dinner.

Baked chicken, beans, rice, asparagus.

As my parents and I walked through the windowless corridors, I remember being drawn toward the distantly familiar yellow wallpaper that made up almost every wall of the damned place. The paper’s pattern consisted of a vertical bar wrapped in vines, brown flower etchings that stacked on top of one another, reaching all the way to the ceiling. 

That continuous bar-flower pattern would repeat, trailing into maddening repetition. Truly hideous.

We were winding through parts of the house I didn’t entirely recognize.

Finally, we arrived at an old room. The room, a barely-used guest suite, had one window, one dresser, and one bed. 

An old leather teddy bear was perched on the dresser. Not mine. I didn't know why it was there.

I sat my luggage down and slumped onto the bed as my parents walked away. I vividly remember the summer evening’s sun shining through the window as I unpacked my suitcase.

After settling in, I felt nasty after such a long day. It was dark out by this point. So, I took my toiletries to the bathroom next to my room.

Inconveniently, you had to exit the bedroom and then use an access door from the hall to get to the bathroom. The two rooms were adjacent. Probably a botched late edition to the house.

 As a matter of fact, I never recalled seeing that bathroom before that day/night.

Growing up, I had always lived in a bedroom situated towards the front of the house, a door away from my parent’s room, actually.

The rest of the house was unfamiliar to me. You wouldn't find me exploring it, at all.

Even my childhood curiosity had understood that exploring the manor was risky, somehow.

On top of that, my parents were quick to forbid me from wandering if it even appeared that I would, which I wasn't inclined to anyways.

Both my parents and I had an emotional understanding, but not a true understanding of why this was.

I undressed and got in the shower. The tub was an antique porcelain whatnot with brass feet designed as claws holding glass orbs. A modern shower head and faucet knobs had been installed at some point during a renovation.

Something strange happened when I turned on the faucet. The sound of the aging backed-up pipes knocked through the walls. I hadn’t even pulled up the shower trigger yet. Red-stained water started spraying in spastic directions from the faucet. I thought at first that because my parents lived on the other side of the house, the plumbing had simply been neglected, causing a buildup of rust or debris. 

I was more so confused when the pressure eventually released, and a piece of pink muscley meat fell from the faucet, into the tub. 

It looked like a slimy piece of raw chicken, pre-prep. I remember being taken aback, confused and disgusted. 

The faucet continued to gurgle, releasing more contaminated water until it started to turn clear and calm. I stood in the tub, cold, staring at the slab of flesh.

I figured that some animal must’ve been caught up in the pipes. 

I took a thick wad of toilet paper, disposed of the meat in the toilet, flushed the toilet with my foot, washed my hands, then stepped back into the tub, turning on the faucet for a few minutes to let the hot water flush the pipes out. 

I showered, got dressed, and tucked myself into bed. 

I sat on my phone for a while, scrolling through Snapchat mindlessly. 

As time passed, that sense of dread that I had always gotten staying up late at night as a child crept back. I glanced up at that leather teddy bear. 

Beady glass eyes. 

The few furnishings in the room made shadows; faces.

I eventually fell asleep.

I woke up in the middle of a peaceful sleep. My phone read 2 AM. My entire body was in a cold sweat. I covered myself so the only thing uncovered by the heavy pink blankets was my face, like a nun.

I relaxed for a while, trying to fall back asleep.

Screaming, like a woman going through childbirth, rang from the bathroom next door. The cries were intertwined with a frantic gargling sound. I remember tensing up and lying still. 

A portion of the fear of the situation disappeared when I realized that my mother might’ve found herself in the bathroom, slipped, fell, hurt herself.

I got out of bed and jogged out of my room, to the bathroom. The screaming had stopped before I went in. I opened the door to a single warm lightbulb illuminating the room. 

Reddit, what you are about to read is up to your interpretation.

The bathtub was full of blood. The entire room stank of what I can best describe as a mixture of raw meat, fried fish, and hand soap. All of that combined with the offputting dark red paint on the walls made me sick.

The entire situation felt like it was designed to be nauseating.

This was all added with that strange, empty late-night panging in my stomach. 

The blood in the tub was being disturbed the slightest bit by movement underneath. 

A long cut of pink raw meat, strands of fat attached to it, twitched its way up the side of the tub, making a wet squinching noise. As it did this, something round bobbed up to the surface, appearing to me as a stripped human head. It had no eyes, and its toothy mouth was gaped open, thick blood running between its teeth and into the tub. I could make out the little details of multifaceted tendrils of muscle from where I was. It was floating sideways, and while I was staring at it, the flesh chunk slapped onto the tile, splattering blood and other fluids onto the floor. It twitched, muscles firing at random, creating small indentations on its slimy surface. 

I threw up the remnants of my dinner onto the floor. The meat thing was crawling towards me. The head still bobbed sideways in the blood. I came to my senses and started running. I ran through the halls until my head hit something hanging down from the ceiling with a crack, and I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning. My parents stood by my bed. I sat up and looked at them. They comforted me and explained what had happened last night, from their view, at least. 

They explained how they had woken up to a loud noise from the other, my, side of the house. They cautiously approached, my father with a handgun fearing burglars, but found me, unconscious. Asleep, they said. I asked if it looked like I was hurt. They said 'no', and that they had simply carried me back to bed after I did not wake up despite their trying to get me to.

They also explained how they had found, in passing, vomit on the floor of my bathroom, as well as the faucet running for the tub.

My mother and father continued by asking me what had happened that night, I told them that I didm't remember anything.

My father decided to do a short concussion test on me, then they left.

Later that afternoon, I packed my stuff, gave my parents an excuse that I was feeling sick, and left.

Every detail about this bothers me. A waking dream, food poisoning, a gas leak would be a hope. A hope.

My parents refuse to budge, they love the place.

As well as my mind refuses to budge from the idea of an other, because as I was unpacking the other day, I found a squelch of blood on my pajamas from that night. It looked lie the shape of the tendril.

—T. Terrence of Warren County, NJ

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HeatConfident4673 on 2024-09-30 03:44:44+00:00.

---

I never should have bought it. That bag—its texture, its warmth—something about it felt so wrong from the moment I touched it, but I was too mesmerized by its strange beauty. I found it in an old antique shop, hidden behind dusty shelves. The shopkeeper barely glanced at me as I picked it up, murmuring something about how it had been there for years, untouched.

I should’ve left it there, in the darkness where it belonged.

But I didn’t. And now, I’m paying the price.

It started small. Little things. At first, I thought I was imagining it. You know, those small, creepy feelings you get when you're alone? Like the air shifts, or the shadows bend just a little bit differently? Yeah, like that. But it didn’t stay small for long.

After the first night, I began hearing faint whispers. They were soft, barely noticeable, like someone calling my name from another room. I'd search the house, but it was always empty. The bag was always where I’d left it, sitting quietly in the corner like a patient predator.

On the third night, I had my first nightmare. I dreamt of a girl, her skin peeled away, her face contorted in pain and rage. She stood at the foot of my bed, her eyes hollow, her lips whispering things I couldn’t understand. I woke up in a cold sweat, and there—sitting next to me on the bed—was the bag. I hadn’t put it there. It had moved. On its own.

I was too scared to touch it. Too scared to throw it away.

I couldn't sleep. The whispers grew louder every night, creeping into my thoughts, turning every dark corner of my mind into a nightmare. My house... it changed too. The windows would fog up without reason, the mirrors would crack when I wasn't looking, and every time I checked my reflection, I swear I saw her—the girl from my dreams. Aisha, I later learned her name was. The name came to me in a whisper, like the wind spoke it.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers. I needed help.

Desperation led me to a shaman—an old woman who lived on the outskirts of town. I didn’t believe in such things before, but I couldn’t deny what was happening. Something unnatural had latched itself onto me, and that bag was at the center of it all.

The moment the shaman laid eyes on the bag, her face twisted in horror. Her hands trembled as she reached out to touch it, pulling back at the last second.

“You have no idea what you’ve brought into your home,” she whispered, her voice thin with fear.

I tried to explain everything—the whispers, the dreams, the moving bag. But she stopped me, shaking her head.

“This bag... it’s not just cursed. It’s evil. It was made from the skin of a girl named Aisha, killed by her best friend out of jealousy. The friend—Samantha—believed she could steal Aisha’s beauty by wearing her skin, but the act twisted her soul. What she didn’t realize was that Aisha’s spirit was bound to it, and her vengeance consumes anyone who possesses it.”

My throat went dry. I felt the blood drain from my face. “Vengeance?” I stammered.

The shaman nodded, her eyes wide and filled with a terror I had never seen before. “Samantha’s entire household was slaughtered by the bag. It’s cursed, feeding on the lives of those who own it. Aisha’s rage will not stop until she’s taken back what was stolen.”

I tried to breathe, but the air felt thick, heavy. “What do I do? Can’t you help me?”

The old woman’s face darkened. “There’s no undoing what’s been done. You must destroy it.”

“How?”

She shook her head, already looking defeated. “You can’t. People have tried. Fire, water, even burying it deep in the earth—it always comes back. The only thing you can do is run, as far as you can. But even then, I’m not sure you can outrun her.”

I left her home in a panic, clutching the bag in my hands, unsure of what to do. The streets seemed darker as I walked, every shadow seeming to stretch towards me. I could feel it—Aisha was close. She was watching.

That night, I tried to leave the bag outside, thinking maybe I could abandon it. But the moment I stepped back into the house, it was there, sitting in the middle of the room. Waiting. The whispers were louder than ever, now calling my name, over and over again.

I don’t know what to do. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—Aisha—her skinless body, her hollow eyes filled with hate. The bag seems to move closer on its own, inching toward me, always a little closer when I’m not looking.

I can feel it tightening around my mind, like a noose I can’t escape. The shaman was right—there’s no escaping this. The bag will take me, just like it took Samantha and everyone else.

I just hope someone reads this before it’s too late.

If you ever find an old leather bag in a forgotten shop, no matter how beautiful it seems—don’t touch it. Don’t buy it. Don’t take it home.

It will find you.

And when it does, there will be no escaping its curse.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Asteroth6 on 2024-09-30 17:47:09+00:00.

---

Just about everyone under the age of 60 in the United States knows about the “Wild West” days of the early internet.

First came the days when Google was only a dream and you had to actually explore unknown lands to find topics that interested you. The alternative was to stick to one little board, making the internet your own little party line. Then search engines cracked the internet wide open and anyone could suddenly find any crazy place. In both eras, finding new and weird places the fun for anyone brave enough to leave their (digital) shell.

Far fewer people know that there was a technological Wild West where savvy people explored electronic frontiers before the World Wide Web.

I’m not saying that phreaking is super obscure, but it can’t be denied that it never hit the mainstream like hacker culture did.

First, to make sense of what happened, a little background: Phreaking is the art of manipulating telephone services. Unlike computer hacking, the vast majority of phreaking had a single goal: to make free calls.

Switchboard operators were replaced by automatic signaling. That signaling uses a tone. On original single-frequency systems, that tone was at 2600 hertz (Hz). You’ve seen that number if you’re even faintly acquainted with tech, this is why. Once this frequency was found, the art of phreaking began. Of course, more complicated multi-frequency lines followed that then needed to be broken anew.

The very basics of phreaking, which I will be thoroughly simplifying here, are to play the necessary tone spaced with pauses to dial the number you are trying your reach. The main tool to make the frequencies and intervals is called a blue box (or red, or silver, the colors had somewhat accepted meanings, but the details are not important here). Technically, anything that can reach the frequency needed works though; cereal box whistles, gum wrappers, or your mouth.

Once you are not bound by the phone book and cost of placing calls the possibilities are endless. While I said phreaking was about placing free calls, and this was almost always true, we had far more fun than just calling family out of state, the sense of exploration was just as incredible as the early internet.

So what can you do with the ability to dial any frequency and do it for free?

First of all, invent real-time forums before the web. With a blue box, you could dial unlisted numbers like unused business voice mailboxes and have any number of phreakers join the call. People from ten or more states could all be chatting at once, something otherwise unheard of before BBS. Yes, I know legal conference calls existed. But those were so costly and hard to arrange, does anyone alive remember seeing one used outside of a boardroom or convention?

Now, with a box you could dial hidden codes not meant to be reachable by consumer phones. Some of the most useful were “loop around” lines; test systems built for the phone companies but great for free conference calls. Some military and government lines locked behind priority codes could, in theory also be accessed. No, you can not phreak NORAD to launch missiles. But frequencies outside of the ones used in the 1 through 9 keys on your phone could be used to dial lines an ordinary phone could not. And that is how this all started.

It was the early 1980s. As crystal clear as I still remember the events, I’m not quite sure of the year anymore, had to be between ‘81 to ‘83 though. The end of the golden age of phreaking. I’d been pushing the limits for a few years by then. I wasn’t a big name. You wouldn’t see me mentioned in any of the histories on this even if you knew my name. But I did know a few people in the community and shared a bit. Ask some of those big names (well, the ones who are still alive anymore, damn this is all old now) and I wager a few would know the name.

Anyway, the companies (well, mostly company back then. The “Baby Bells” hadn’t been born yet) had gotten wise to our tricks back in the ‘70s. Test lines and proprietary systems were being increasingly guarded behind mute tones, shutoff switches, and the aforementioned non-standard frequencies: firewalls before the internet.

I knew these guarded lines could be dangerous to break into. Call tracing existed and this was illegal, but it was also thrilling. For the past… I’m gonna say six months I had been pushing through I related string of strange numbers I had found. The first number caught my attention because I thought it was a loop around, but it didn’t have multiple ends, it was just a single line playing an unusual tone. Okay, so just a weird form of test line. Playing with numbers similar to the one I dialed to get that, I found another line. This one had a voice, it freaked the hell out of me the first time I got in.

“1.”

“2.”

“3.”

“4.”

“5.”

Every syllable was deeply enunciated, the voice low, methodical, and slow.

Then, an even stranger tone played.

Okay, it was definitely a test line. I redialed in a few times. The voice always played from one. The recording was in response to my call, not playing permanently on loop, which is what you would expect. The point escaped me though I will admit. Normal test lines played a simple tone immediately.

After playing with that discovery, I found myself getting a headache and laid off the phreaking for a few days. Of course, it wasn’t long to I was back at it, poking around that mysterious line.

It took a while to find the third line in what, once I found it, I became certain was a series.

“1. 2. 3. 4. 5.” The same voice as before counted up. Then, as before, a tone played.

I screamed in pain.

It felt like my eyes were bleeding, the sound hurt like hell. I fumbled to hang up the call as quickly as I could.

“What the hell was that?” I spoke to myself out loud.

I took a step back from exploring those strange numbers again after that. Eventually, I told another phreaker the story. “Jimmy from Oklahoma”. After an early great used the “X from Y” pattern for nicknames it kind of became a recurring thing in the community. Of course, none of us used our real names in this very illegal hobby.

“Maybe it’s a military experiment. Y’know, testing tones that can kill you or mind control.” I had called him up and ran down the basics. Just as I expected, Jimmy leapt right to wild theories. Still, I can’t say I hadn’t thought the same.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “Seems a little weird to just leave the thing running though, doesn’t it? You can’t need to call in anytime and test something like that on a lark.”

“Who says they aren’t still tinkering with that shit? You could’ve got… lucky? Unlucky? I can’t rightly say.” He retorted.

“Wanna see?” I had known the whole time I was going to nudge him to call the line. Ever since number three, these things had freaked me out, pun intended, but not bad enough I didn’t want to share the weird.

Jimmy paused.

“Fuck it. Give me the number.”

I was merciful and gave him the second number. It was weird, but not ear-shreddingly painful. I waited while he made the call before reconnecting.

“Well shit. That was weird. Couldn’t hear the tone you talked ‘bout though. Just that damn creepy voice countin’ up.”

“Huh? Is this one of those sounds on the edge of our hearing? Like, did you screw up your ears and can’t hear it? Because that sound wasn’t subtle.” I was confused.

“Can’t say I know. Anyhow, you wanna follow these? Then my advice is don’t listen close and be quick to hang the hell up.”

We chatted a little about other news, he quickly hung up though, complaining of a headache. The similarity to what I endured was not lost on me.

I want to say that I seriously thought about dropping the chase. But as long as I forced myself to stay away, I don’t think I ever believed that I wouldn’t go back.

With numbers one, two, and three I had enough to start seeing a pattern in how the to reach these weird lines. Each was increasingly secured, that is used more of the key tones not found on your phone. If a normal phone number looks like 555-5555 then number four looked more like 5*5-AC5D. The “numbers” weren’t just randomly adding more of the little-used tones though, it had a pattern to it.

Two weeks after nearly fainting dialing the third line, I held the phone far away from my ear and dialed the fourth.

Nothing happened. The call disconnected.

For a moment I considered that I had the wrong number. I redialed, this time holding the phone to my ear. A 1000Hz tone sounded and the line hung up.

The behavior of a completely normal test line.

I refused to believe that a test line was squatting on this weird number by chance. So, I began to play around with it. Eventually, I cracked the code: It needed me to put in an “answer” tone before disconnecting.

The other end of the line sounded like something between an ocean and a dozen squeaky wheels squealing out of synch with each other. It wasn’t as painful as the last, but it was strange. I took a recording of the sounds on cassette.

Encouraged by not dying, I chased number 5, then 6 over the next few weeks. The security kept getting tougher. I needed to put in priority codes before the number, time keys and sounds after answering, stuff that made me feel like a genius for cracking even if it was more obsession and way too much time sunk.

The squeals in five were like four, but somehow clearer. Six really started to excite me. I thought I could start to...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ft1qvj/i_used_to_be_big_into_phreaking_i_found_something/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/keanojeano on 2024-09-30 16:22:38+00:00.

---

I was waiting for the tram on a cold, dreary evening. A light drizzle did little more than mildly annoy as stray droplets of rain stung my face as a cool breeze washed them away. I sat at the stop, earphones in, blasting music, drowning myself in noise so that the silence would never creep in. I dreaded silence. The silence that would allow my own thoughts to run rampant. Every new thought mingling into the cacophony of voices. Every past mistake, every current detail, and every future outcome coming together in a melting pot of overcomplication and anxiety until it all comes full circle, and the overwhelming noise turns into a deafening blanket of silence once more.

And, I dreaded how comfortable I could come to grow in that blanket of silence.

The tram approached, its headlights illuminating the surrounding grey, the sound of it grinding to a halt barely penetrating the music blasting in my ears. Its doors slid open, beckoning me in. I stood up and received its welcome as I stepped into the third-most car from the front. There was a middle aged bloke sitting at the back of the car, clearly in a stupor from knocking back one too many, a lady a bit further up than me that seemed exhausted - the baby carrier containing a wailing child next to her no doubt the culprit, and a group of teenage boys at the front-end of the car clamored around each other in high spirits over their impending bar crawl. 

Then the man entered from the same door I just came through. 

‘Strange, I was the only one at that stop. He must have just barely made it,’ I thought to myself.

The man swaggered in, hands thrust in his pockets as his shoulders swayed with confidence. He had a disheveled look about him, but not in an entirely unappealing way. His dark oak coloured hair was roughed up in a way that seemed intentional. His dusty brown leather jacket heavily worn along with the dull checkered shirt beneath it, and his dark blue jeans tattered through years of wear. His heavy boots clicked with every step as he made his way to sit directly opposite me. Leaning comfortably against the backrest, hands still in his pockets, legs splayed out and chin upturned as he scanned the car.

‘What a character,’ my inner monologue chimed in.

A beep broke up my music. I looked down at my phone, only to see that my earphones were running on 5 percent battery.

‘Shit.’

I cursed the forced obsolescence of wired earphones with most modern smartphones, realising I would have to stew in silence for the majority of the 15 minute tram ride. 

I looked back up from my phone, only to see the man’s eyes fixed on me. Pure intent and scrutiny glaring at me through the snake-like slits of eyes.

‘Great, and there’s a fucking weirdo that might just kill me sitting right in front of me.’

I dodged direct eye contact with him, glancing off to his sides hoping it would deter him from sizing me up like his next meal. Yet I could still feel it in my peripherals. His scorching hot stare burning its way into me. 

3 minutes would pass until my earphones bit the bullet, and I was forced to confront the reality in front of me.

Still dodging the infernal gaze from the man, I attempted to eavesdrop on the teens. It was mostly about how hammered they planned on getting, how fine this one girl one of them was trying to get with was - the standard fare. An occasional burst of crying from the child or unconscious belch from the middle aged bloke would serve as a welcome reprieve. Yet behind it all, there was the man. Unmoving. Unflinching. Unwavering, as he seemed to await the meeting of our eyes. It got to the point where I was about to meet his eyes head on, just to see what he had to say, if anything at all. A morbid curiosity overcame me, yet I resisted. This man was the epitome of stranger danger. 

“Hey, you.”

His voice, hushed yet booming, resounded off the walls of the car in a way that made it sound like it came from every direction at once. It’s like he had spoken directly to my psyche. My eyes were pulled towards his, some intangible force compelling them to do so. I couldn’t blink nor could I look away, no matter how hard I tried to pull my eyes away from his. In that moment, it felt as though it was just me and him. The banter between the boys, the cries of the child, and the drunken babbles of the bloke - all gone. It felt like I had been transported into some strange pocket dimension. 

His eyes relaxed a little, and were now accompanied with a wry smile

“Finally got your attention, have I?”

His voice was soft but intense, understanding but demanding. Everything about this man seemed to contradict itself. And in that moment, I seemed to be entirely his as my world consisted of his beady, red-hot orbs boring into me.

“You’re one of those strange ones, aren’t you? I have been doing this countless years, and I have peered into the depths of many a man’s soul. I see their lust for power, their lust for control, and well, their lust outright. Selfish men. Depraved men. Spiteful men. Everyone has their demons.”

The man leaned in, elbows resting on his knees as he rested his chin against his knuckles.

“But you… You’re a breed seldom seen, growing in popularity over the years. You yearn for… Nothing. To be clear, it’s not as if you aren’t wanting for anything. The thing you yearn for is quite literally Nothing. The sudden annihilation of existence itself.”

The man was not wrong.

“Well, I can give you exactly that.”

He snapped his fingers, and with its echoes my surroundings ceased to exist. I was suddenly floating in nothingness. An infinite abyss; a total vacuum. As I floated I could feel my physical self dissipate, dissolving into the warm-yet-cold soup of nothingness. I could feel nothing, yet everything, all at once. I looked around. I had no body. I had no need for eyes, as there was nothing to see. No need for ears, as there was nothing to hear. No need for a mouth, as there was nothing to say. Just my consciousness, letting the currents of the ocean of Nothing take me where it pleases. The silence did not feel like silence. Silence invited the noise to flood my thoughts, barraging me until it beat me into submission. Yet now, this silence was peaceful - a true silence, where the overcomplications, the overanalysations, the overthinking was all truly silenced as well. He was right. This is what I yearned for. 

What is there to worry about, when there is nothing at all?

From the darkness, two fiery specks of light lit up in the distance, followed by the man’s voice. I had been returned to the tram, the man still seated right in front of me.

“That was just a glimpse, my friend.”

He extended his hand towards me, palm outstretched.

“This will be to seal the deal.”

I was prepared to do it. To shake his hand, to make this deal with what I could only fathom as the Devil himself. 

It was a moment of silence that lasted long enough for the noise to creep in. But the noise wasn’t that of discord, as it usually was. It was a harmonious birdsong. Memories of pleasant breezes and sunny days - memories of laughter, of joy, shared between family and friends. Happiness. Happiness that would disappear along with everything else. My own happiness, as well as the peoples’ I had shared it with, along with every person to have ever existed. It was in that moment that I realised it wasn’t my right to take that away. As much as I hated the noise, as much as I hated the gnawing, grating feeling always eating away at me, there were things I loved just as much.

“I refuse.”

The man pulled his hand back. There was no look of disappointment on his face. Instead, the corners of his mouth pulled into a little smile, and he retreated back into his chair.

“Good choice. I see that I helped you come to terms about something. Well, so long. Don’t say the Devil never did you any favours.”

He stood up from his chair, gestured his hand in a smug wave, and thrust them back into his pockets. I still couldn’t move. I was still focusing on where his eyes had been, and still felt that magnetic pull towards there. It was like time was frozen. He ambled out of my peripheral view, and with that, out of existence itself. 

“Farewell, and may we never meet again.”

Time came back to its usual flow. I could move. I was exhausted. I crashed into the backrest of my seat, gasping for air. The mother looked at me, concerned, while the boys continued to laugh amongst each other, and the drunk bloke at the back continued to sleep. The mother scooched over to me and laid her hand on my shoulder, asking if I was alright. I said it was nothing to worry about, as if I hadn’t just said no to a deal with the Devil himself. A deal that would have ceased all of existence itself.

I was the last to leave the tram. I got home, and called my family back home. I let them know how much I loved them, and went to bed shortly after. I slept in the silence, but the noise never came.

Today, I sit here, in a park. It’s a sunny yet breezy day. The birds sing their song. The squirrels scamper around. People walking by, their own lives chugging along. Their own troubles, their own triumphs, their own experiences. In this park alone, there was so much of everything. I had learned how to be content, by just being. All of this happening while I write this now on my notes app: my experience with the man who offered me Nothing.

And should this man ever approach you with a similar offer, please, do not say yes. There is so, so much more to life than you think.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Smart-Bus3973 on 2024-09-30 09:30:23+00:00.

---

I’ve been working the night shift at this small-town radio station for the better part of three years. My show ‘Night Vibes’ wasn’t exactly prime-time radio, but it paid the bills, and I got to talk about whatever the hell I wanted.

Insomniacs, long-haul truckers, and the occasional stoner called in to chat about their weird theories or play requests. Most nights, it was the same old thing.

Until the night Daniel called. And that call changed my life forever.

It was close to midnight. The phone lines had been quiet for a while, and I was halfway through sipping my coffee when the line lit up. I hit the button, leaned into the mic, and put on my usual cheery DJ voice.

“Night Vibes, you’re on the air. Who’s this?”

“Mark, I’m calling from the future.” I heard a voice blare from the other end of the line.

I immediately rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair.

‘Not another prank call,’ I sighed to myself. Or worse, this could be a conspiracy nut. I was about to hang up when the voice continued speaking.

“Tomorrow morning at 7:42, there will be a crash on Highway 4. A delivery truck will turn turtle. No one will die, but it’ll cause a pile-up and lead to a ton of traffic on the highway stretching back miles.”

“Sure,” I said, smirking into the microphone. “You’ve got my attention buddy. What’s next? An Alien invasion? Somebody winning the lottery? Or maybe even a zombie apocalypse?”

The voice on the other end didn’t flinch. In fact, he stayed silent for so long that I thought the line had gone dead. Then his voice cut across the static, more resolute this time, carrying an edge of certainty that chilled me.

“Check the news in the morning, Mark. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

But the next morning was different.

I woke up late, groggy from the long shift, and checked my phone like I always did, scanning the latest headlines. My eyes stopped at one in particular: "Delivery Truck Causes Massive Accident on Highway 4: No Fatalities."

The timestamp read 7:42 am.

My stomach dropped, and a shiver crawled up my spine. My hand trembled as I stared at the screen, unable to fully process what had just happened. This couldn’t be real. But it was—exactly as Daniel had warned. The accident, the time, the location—every detail matched.

 For the first time, I felt it—that creeping unease, like the world had shifted slightly off balance. I spent the rest of the day turning the call over in my head, trying to convince myself it was just a coincidence.

“People predict things all the time, right?” I asked myself, but deep down, I knew better. It wasn’t just a lucky guess. I tried to chalk it up to mishearing the time or imagining the entire thing, but the knot in my stomach refused to loosen.

When I returned to work that evening, I couldn’t help but wonder—would Daniel call again? Part of me hoped he wouldn’t, but part of me needed to know.

As I began my shift, I clicked to take the first call. "Night Vibes, you're on the air."

A familiar voice crackled through the line. "It's Daniel," he said, calm and matter-of-fact. "There’s going to be a fire tomorrow. In the basement of St. Mary’s Hospital. No one will be hurt, but they won’t find out what caused it."

I felt a chill crawl up my spine once again. This time, there was no mocking reply, no sarcastic comeback from me.

I was shaken, and Daniel could hear it in my silence. He did not laugh nor did he gloat about getting it right the previous night. He had simply moved on to his next prediction and that made me panic even the more.

“Don’t bother warning them,” he added. “They won’t believe you. In fact nobody will believe you. They never do.”

“What the hell do you want?” I asked suddenly, my voice more aggressive than I had intended.

“You’ll see,” he said, in a matter of fact manner. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

Click. He disconnected the call and was gone, leaving me speechless for the second time in two days. This was getting very frustrating and also made me very anxious at the same time.

 I I considered calling the police, but what if they thought I was involved? If the fire happened just like Daniel said, I could easily be pegged as the culprit. But since he insisted no one would be hurt, I decided to wait. To see if his prediction was real.

The following morning, the news confirmed it: a fire had broken out in the basement of St. Mary’s Hospital. Just like he said, no one was hurt, and the cause remained unknown. I tried to let it go, but I couldn’t. It was too real. Paranoia crept in, making me feel like someone was watching me, like I was being manipulated in some twisted game.

But this time I knew he would call again, in fact I was certain of it. So when the third call eventually came in, I was already dreading it.

“Tomorrow evening, Mark, at 7:34. A shootout will happen at Riley’s supermarket. One person will die from a bullet wound.”

 

I clenched my fists as my heart started racing uncontrollably.

“Why are you telling me this? Are you doing this all by yourself? Are you making these things happen? Are you so starved for attention?” I asked, almost yelling into the microphone.

“No, Mark. I’m just telling you what I know,” Daniel replied in a calm voice.

“You’re full of shit!” I snapped, slamming my hand down on the desk. “If you can predict this, why not stop it? Why not prevent people from getting hurt?”

There was a pause, then the voice came back, quieter this time. “It’s not about stopping anything, Mark. It’s about what happens after.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked leaning into the microphone. “What will happen later?”

But to my growing frustration, Daniel had already disconnected the call.

That night, I realized I could no longer keep quiet. I called the police, told them about the shooting and the location. They thought I was crazy, but after some convincing, they agreed to station a patrol car nearby, just in case.

But I later learned I was in for more disappointment. The shooting had happened despite the police presence. The footage showed a body being carried out on a stretcher, loaded into an ambulance. My heart sank.

I didn’t go into work the next night. I couldn’t. Daniel’s phone calls were gnawing at me, and I felt like a pawn in his twisted little game. Sleep was impossible; his voice kept replaying in my head: “It’s about what happens after.”

I didn’t want to know what came after.

As I sat there in the dark, my thoughts spinning, my phone suddenly rang. The display flashed an unknown number. I hesitated, my heart pounding, but I answered.

It was Daniel.

"I thought you quit," he said, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Tell me what you want," I whispered, barely holding myself together. "What happens after?"

“You’ll find out soon enough, Mark. We’re getting close now. I’ll call again tomorrow. But this time, it’ll be for you. So you need to be in your office for this.”

The line went dead, and I was left in a cold sweat.

What did he mean by ‘for me’? This wasn’t just about some event I’d hear about on the news anymore—this was different. This felt personal.

I spent the entire morning pacing my apartment, chain-smoking, and staring at the clock. Each time I glanced at the phone, I half-expected it to ring, Daniel’s voice slipping through the static. By nightfall, I had made my decision: I had to go to the station. Hiding wouldn’t make a difference, and something deep inside told me Daniel wanted me there.

But I was in for more surprises. When I arrived at the parking garage, I was shocked to find my car missing. It had vanished without a trace, and I couldn’t fathom how. My heart raced as I noticed a strange figure peering at me from behind one of the concrete pillars. I caught only a glimpse, but it sent me into a panic and I began running towards the exit.

I ran all the way to my office, relief washing over me only after I finally locked the door behind me and sank into my chair.  The familiar hum of the studio provided comfort, but it was short-lived. A couple of minutes later, the phone began to ring.

I hesitated, my hand hovering over the receiver. This was it. Whatever Daniel wanted, it was about to happen. Swallowing hard, I finally picked up the phone.

"Mark," his voice crackled through the line. "I told you I’d call. Are you ready?"

“Yes,” I replied after a moment’s pause, determined to see this through.

“Very well,” Daniel said, his voice cold and detached. I heard a sound—like fingers snapping.

Suddenly, the TV in my studio flickered on and my jaw dropped when I saw video footage myself sitting alone in my car, parked across from Riley’s Supermarket. A police car was stationed just some feet ahead of me. I realized I was staking out the place, waiting for something.

Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead as two figures, dressed in black and wearing masks, approached the supermarket entrance. They were heavily armed. In an instant, the police jumped out of their vehicles, guns raised, and gunfire erupted.

The masked men sprayed bullets indiscriminately from their automatic weapons, and I watched in horror as one of the stray bullets slammed into my chest while I sat helpless in the car. I gasped, feeling a sharp, phantom pain as I saw myself slump forward, blood soaking through my shirt.

The police eventually overpowered the gunmen, arresting them, but it didn’t matter. I watched in disbelief as my consciousness faded.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t in the car anymore. I stood next...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Opalpea on 2024-09-30 07:23:42+00:00.

---

A few weeks into my sophomore year, I could already tell this was a waste of time. It couldn’t get more mundane. That tiny dorm building only housed 23 students, and all my life revolved around were classes and study sessions. I would be lucky if I even had time to hang out with a friend. The midterms were approaching, which meant I barely had human interactions at all. With strict staff and days that just blend together, I was already counting down the day I get out of here.

For the most part, I had no interest in getting into trouble. Every night, I abided by the 11 PM curfew like clockwork, sliding into bed by 10:30 PM and trying my best to make the day end as soon as possible. After all, every five minutes starting from 10:30 PM until 10:45 PM, the dorm speakers echo a robotic voice saying:

STAY - IN - BED

As far as I know, it happened every single night, without fail. No one questioned it. All students made sure to follow the clear orders. In any case, no one was interested in getting an earful. After so long though, I still couldn't tell if a staff member bothered to repeat those directions or if it was just a lazy recording.

As the early days of autumn rolled in, the nights grew longer, the campus feeling eerily still. I welcomed the chill in the air with my oversized sweater. I should finally be comfortable as I settle into bed. Yet, on that night, I could feel a sense of unease creeping in.

I blamed my night study sessions and my caffeine filled system for my increased paranoia the past few weeks. As darkness fell, the feeling of being watched returned night after night. But one dreadful night, my unease morphed into tangible fear. While in bed, I glanced outside my window.

That’s when I saw it, a massive green locust, alive yet eerily frozen. Its large glistening eyes fixated squarely on me. I pulled back, a shiver coursing down my spine. Was this thing really watching me? It's just an insect, I rationalized. It probably just found a cozy nook.

The following nights, much to my growing horror, it returned, perched in the same spot, unmoving at precisely the same hour. I couldn’t escape the thought: What was it thinking? Could it even think? For reasons I couldn’t explain, it was particularly unsettling.

I didn’t dare talk about it to anyone, not wanting to risk getting mocked for being afraid of a mere insect. But as my thoughts spiraled, the locust became an inescapable obsession. Each night, I found myself counting the minutes until it made its appearance. What did it want? Has it always been there? I found myself getting increasingly more curious, night after night.

My curiosity transformed into determination. I needed to know just how long it sits there and watches. The idea of being watched for the entirety of the night was creeping me out. I quickly set an alarm for 2 AM.

Awaked by the alarm three hours later, I was bleary-eyed and disoriented in the dark. To my surprise, I was greeted by an absence, the locust was gone. Relief washed over me, yet it left behind a lurking curiosity. Why did it keep returning at the same hour every night? I felt a mixture of dread and intrigue, finally, I decided to peer out the window.

A pit formed in my stomach when my eyes landed on the scene in front of me.

A swarm of locusts, feasting ravenously on something rotting. The nauseating stench was unbearable. A jumbled mess of bloodied pale fingers. And dangling from their mandibles, lifeless eyeballs, staring at me, as if making a silent plea for help.

I shuddered.

The mere number of them sent shivers down my spine. I could practically feel my heart slamming against my chest.

Do they know I'm watching? Should I not be watching? Just how sentient are they? My thoughts began spiraling. The instinct to report this horror hit me, I couldn't possibly move on with my life after witnessing such monstrosity.

Am I next? Were those eyeballs… no calm down you're going crazy. I struggled to regain my composure. Only a couple hours later was I finally able to get back to sleep.

As sunlight crept in, I woke up feeling exhausted. I tried to shake off the image of the swarm, but they lingered like shadows. Eventually, I reached my class, still feeling foggy from the previous sleepless night. I needed to know what was going on. My first class dragged painfully.

Although I was filled with dread, I couldn't help but exit into the yard, where I finally reached that spot. Around me laid scrapes of blackened reddened leaves, remnants of the horrors that occurred just hours ago.

I took a deep breath, thoughts swirling in my mind. I had to tell someone before I start losing it.

“You won’t believe what I saw last night!” I said in a shaky voice as I passed my friend Mark in the hallway.

He quickly interrupted. “Sorry, man! Gotta hurry to class. I’m late!” he called over his shoulder, as he hurried down the hall. Disheartened, I let out a sigh and watched as he left me with my unshared burden.

The night got darker, and the air got even chillier than the previous nights. I could almost feel it through my bones. Lying down in bed, I tried to ignore my anxious thoughts, but that didn't come easily, not when the guardian by my window was missing. Tonight, it decided to go elsewhere. I wondered why. I tossed and turned, trying my best to have deep steady breaths. Finally, I gave in to exhaustion.

Hours later, I woke up abruptly, my chest tight, as if a heavy weight settled upon it. I felt immense guilt.

When I opened my eyes, the sight that met me was nothing short of a nightmare. There, hovering just inches from my face, sat the very locust that had plagued my nights. Its enormous black eyes bore into mine. My muscles clenched. I felt my blood running cold in my veins. Paralyzed by sheer terror, I couldn't move a muscle.

And then, as if summoned, a swarm exploded, pouring over me. I felt their elongated legs scratch against my skin, their bodies crushing against my chest.

They are here for vengeance, I realized as my eyes widened in horror, for I witnessed their grotesque feast!

Chaos erupted. The hungry beasts turned my room into a battlefield. Papers flew off my desk. They started tearing at me mercilessly and furiously, while leaving nauseating pain and dread.

I-I'm getting devoured alive! My heart drummed wildly. The weight of terror was suffocating. I need to escape.. I must..

After what seemed like an eternity, at last, I reached for the door with all my might and sprant into the nearest emergency exit, not daring to look behind. I rushed to the nearest bus station, stumbling all the way. The whole trip was a haze. A little over an hour later, I finally got back to the safety of my home. I could finally find solace.

The next morning came, I did not get a wink of sleep. Still shaking under my sheets and drenched in sweat. As I laid there, attempting to regain my senses, I realized how close I had come to a horrifying fate. My breath came in shallow gasps, while my heart raced.

I couldn’t take it any more. I hopped into the shower, still exhausted, hoping to wash away the terrors. I decided then to grab something to eat.

“Hey, I didn't expect to see you here” My brother was startled to see me enter the kitchen early in the morning. “When did you arrive anyway?”

“Last night..” I mumbled, my face must have shown signs of unspoken horrors.

“How come?”

“I just needed.. some things” I said while avoiding eye contact, and grabbing whatever leftovers I could find.

He didn't press any further and decided to change the subject “Oh yeah! Did I tell you about my new pet I got the other day?”

“No, I'll check it out later,” I replied as I left to my room. I felt bad. He seemed enthusiastic, but I'm not in the mood to discuss pets right now. I just need to lie in bed and clear my head.

I should finally feel at ease, but I can't shake off the feeling of looming danger, breathing down my neck.

Wherever I look, I see eyes, lurking in the corners, begging me to let my guard down.

I can still hear their buzzing in my ears.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wild-Tea-9242 on 2024-09-30 04:59:48+00:00.

---

When I was a child, I had a phobia of bears. I'd say it was a pretty rational fear, actually. After all, they are massive killing machines that could easily outrun you and crush your skull in their jaws. At ten years old, I had seen a movie about a killer bear, hunting a group of people lost in the woods and picking them off one by one. My parents hadn't intended for me to see it, I just happened to witness it on my friend's television when I was over at his house one evening.

However, this fear was kept a secret by me, even when my family packed up and went on a week-long camping trip to the mountains. My twin sister and I were informed of how to stay safe as we stayed in that maze of a forest. We were to never stray too far, and never keep food in our tent, or it would attract bears. We had a can of bear mace with us, and my father was armed with a rifle he was licensed to carry. He wasn't a hunter, he was just a very cautious man whose favorite phrase was 'better safe than sorry.'

He explained to us that many dangers, animal and otherwise, could be lurking in the woods. After all, we were secluded. No nearby park rangers and friendly campers for miles. He never liked the thought of us being vulnerable, and I wasn't about to complain. Despite the security of all our precautions, I still had nightmares of waking up to a bear sniffing around outside my tent.

I slept in a small tent alone, and so did my sister, Esther. We were pretty trustworthy and independent kids, so they trusted us with our own tents while they slept in a bigger one together. We grew up sheltered from the harsh realities of life and the shocking horror movies that instilled nightmares into other children's heads; because of this, growing up we weren't as anxious of the dark or 'things that go bump in the night' as other kids. I hadn't needed a nightlight since I was three, but boy how things had changed since then.

My friend, George, had laid-back parents who let him practically do whatever he wanted, and that meant watching whatever he wanted. He had pressured me into sharing his hobby of watching horror movies, which ranged from laughable failures to terrifying masterpieces. This left an impression on me. It felt like those movies had warped my mind. Every creak in my house at night was now a possible intruder, and every shadow could have a masked serial killer using it as a cover to catch me off guard. Despite this, I enjoyed those movies with him, and like a horrible addiction I couldn't shake, I just kept coming back.

But enough of that, I would like to tell you a story that still confuses and terrifies me to this day. It started with that one family camping trip. For most of the week, it was your average vacation. We would swim in the lake nearby on a humid afternoon, we would eat sausages roasted over the fire for dinner and make s'mores for dessert. Dad told us a few cliche campfire stories and then mom would crawl into our tents and kiss us goodnight before she retired into her own.

I absolutely dreaded bedtime during camping. I dreaded when the fire would be put out, dousing us all in darkness. I dreaded when I would be the last one to fall asleep, and a lonely feeling would creep up on me. I dreaded when I had to take a leak in the middle of the night, and would crawl out of my tent with a flashlight, aiming it in all directions in a rather paranoid manner. When dawn would finally crest the mountain peaks and birds began their heavenly chorus in the treetops, a wave of relief would hit me instantly.

One night felt the longest. That day had begun typically, with a trip to the lake in our swimwear. There was a trail circling the lake and we would hike it. Our parents were laying in the sand drinking beer from the cooler, chatting with each other idly as my sister and I decided to take the short walk on the trail. The area wasn't so densely wooded, and the lake was midsized, so they could easily spot us. Esther and I were talking as we sipped from our water bottles, joking about dad's short shorts. We stumbled across the paw prints of a bear embedded in the dirt, pointing in the direction we were walking.

Esther kneeled down in front of the prints, smiling. "Bear paws! Mom said black bears are seen around here a lot. I think black bears are the cutest bears." She noticed my unease. "What's wrong? Are you scared of bears, Eli?"

"Who isn't scared of bears?" I self consciously replied, a bit more snappishly than I intended. "Let's go. They look new. It's probably still around."

Esther ignored me. I was about to yell at her, when I realized she had a perplexed look on her tanned face. She pointed at the paw prints. "Those are the back paws of a bear. You can tell because of how long they are." She stated. "I read a book about all sorts of bears and you can tell the difference between the front and back paws."

Her knowledge wasn't surprising to me. Esther was a huge fan of animals, even the dangerous, predatory ones. She wanted to be a zoologist when she grew up, and she made it known constantly. However, I wasn't interested in hearing any fun facts from her at that moment. I mean, I never was, but especially not right then.

"So what? Let's go!" I grew more and more antsy with each second that passed. I kept looking around us at the surrounding trees, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of a hulking beast with razor claws.

Esther didn't let up. She still looked confused, as if she were struggling over a very complex puzzle. Her eyes, which were a murky brown like the lake's waters, followed the trail of footprints which cut off at a bush. She stood up and brushed dirt off her knees.

"Eli," she started, her eyebrows furrowed, "there's only back paw prints. It's like he was standing up and walking on his two feet." The serious expression dissolved as she burst into laughter. "I just imagined it! It looks so funny! So cute!"

I gawked at her. A bear? Cute? I simply rolled my eyes as we returned to the lake's shore, ignoring what she'd said. We promptly told our parents of our findings but they weren't particularly concerned. We stayed there for another hour. I was swimming backwards, enjoying myself, when something caught the corner of my eye. A flash of movement on the other side of the lake.

I stood upright from my backstroke position, curious. At this point, I was relaxed, no longer worried about a bear, and I figured it could have been a wandering stag we could admire from afar. I slightly squinted my eyes, having lost sight of it among the trees' many overlapping shadows. That's when I saw a big furry arm move further behind a thick tree trunk.

My heart sank. It was definitely a bear, no other animal had such an identical appendage. The way it's arm hung down made it obvious it was in a standing position. Now, I couldn't see it, because it had hid itself completely.

Was it scared of us? That's normal, I heard. Often, the big scary animals we feared were scared of us as well, but that did little to quell my anxiety. I started to swim back to where my sister and parents were playing in the shallow end. I did not say anything yet, I just kept an eye on that side of the woods.

I was almost there when a large, furry head peeked out from behind the tree. Just as quick as it had done that, it drew back. It wasn't too quick for me to notice some pretty startling details, however. Despite the distance, I could see white in its eyes, because they were so big and gaping. Wait. Bears didn't have very noticeable whites in their eyes, did they? There was something else pretty off about its face, but I didn't look long enough to figure it out.

I explained to my family what I'd seen, and they finally agreed to leave. We got our stuff ready pretty quickly and left the lake. I can't tell you how many times I looked over my shoulder as we walked back, my hands shaky.

"Calm down, bud." My father said soothingly. "It was probably just curious. Besides, we have the mace in case it decides to bother us."

I said nothing in response. Esther held my hand reassuringly and I didn't give any reaction to that either. I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that crept up on me. I kept replaying the memory of its head poking out and staring at me with wide, oddly human-like eyes. Thinking back on it, I started to feel like something was also wrong with its snout, but still didn't know what specifically it was.

The rest of that evening before bed transpired uneventfully. I was silent for the most part, convincing myself in my head that I had imagined the creepy aspects of the bear's face. Too many horror movies will do that to you, I reasoned with myself. That's the explanation my parents would give me. They were definitely not the superstitious or spiritual type, so they could provide a rational explanation for anything.

We started preparing for bed, hanging our food up far away so the scent wouldn't attract any animals, and dousing the fire again. I made sure to take care of my business before crawling into my tent, to prevent my usual 3 AM nature calls. I settled into my covers, trying to fall asleep before everyone else. My family, as always, stayed awake in their tents for about an hour with their lanterns shining from inside. Usually, they were up reading, they were all bookworms unlike me. Despite my best efforts to fall asleep, their lamps turned off one by one before mine.

Wide awake, I stared at the roof of my baby blue ten...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BadandyTheRed on 2024-09-30 03:34:13+00:00.

---

Part 1

Placing the phone to my ear and not knowing for certain what to expect I managed a meek,

“Hello?”

A voice on the other end responded, they sounded very young, likely a child.

“Hello, is this 911? We need help, we got in a big car accident and mommy and daddy are not moving, I think they are really hurt, please help.” My heart sank, I started to panic I did not know if this was really happening or was going to happen like the other call. Whatever the case this kid’s parents were seriously injured or worse. I couldn't exactly call 911 myself and tell them that something bad somewhere was going to happen. I resolved to get as much information from the terrified child on the phone as possible. Maybe then I could do something about it, whatever that might be.

I heard crying on the line and I spoke slowly and clearly to try and reassure the poor thing that help would arrive, just not in the way she likely expected.

“I know this is scary but I promise I am going to try and help. What is your name and your parents' names.” The crying abated slightly and the trembling reply was,

“Chloe, my name is Chloe. My parents are Richard and Abigail.”

“That is great Chloe, thank you and what is your last name?”

“It’s Keller.” I was grateful she was old enough to know their family surname.

“Thank you, Chloe, can you tell me what happened? How did your mommy and daddy get hurt? What happened with the car accident did your car hit something? Or did someone hit your family's car?”

“We were just driving down the road and we were waiting at a red light and as soon as it turned green and we started going again a silver car hit us on the side and knocked our car over and it sped off.” I heard more crying and I tried to speed up the questioning without pressuring her, I didn't know how long I had.

“Do you know what type of car your family has? What color of car is it and what is the brand name on the back.” There was brief hesitation and then she spoke again,

“It is a red car; I think the label says it is a toy something, toy ta. I don’t know anything else that is just what the label says.” Red Toyota was something to go on at least, though I had wished I had the model as well. I did not bother asking for the plate number, I doubted she would know or be able to check that.

“Thank you, Chloe you are being so brave. Now can you see where you are? Are you able to see any road signs to help find where you and your family are?” I hoped she was able to see something to help find them, I had a terrible feeling that if this was somewhere rural, I might not be able to find wherever it was happening.

“I think I see a sign; I can't get out of the car I am stuck; it is getting hard to see there is smoke everywhere. I think I can see a sign by the light we were passing it says Bishpop or Bishop or something I can't tell from here, please it is getting hard to breathe in here.”

I was dreading the implication of what she said last. If there was a fire and she was stuck in that vehicle and no one was around to help she would not have much time.

“Okay, that is great, can you see another sign or anything else that can help locate you and your mommy and daddy?” She started to speak again but went into a coughing fit that lasted for several seconds. She managed to start again,

“I don’t see another street sign, but there is a bus stop or something near the road I think I see a number eighteen on it. I think..... oh no help! The car is on fire now, help...... please..........Help.....” Static assaulted my eardrums as I lowered the phone in an anxiety fueled stupor. The phone was dead again of course, no indication it had just answered a call from a terrified little girl in the future. I had to do something; I had no idea if it was really going to happen twice, I would not take any chances though. I hoped that the call came from within the city limits otherwise it could be anywhere and the chance of finding the right street and getting there on time tomorrow was near impossible.

I looked up the municipal bus routes and tried to find a bus stop or route marked eighteen. With a little map-work I was able to locate it and sure enough it was right near the street light and intersection of Bishop Street and Mullen Ave. I had my location, or so I thought. Now I just needed to know when it was going to happen. I realized I forgot to ask what time it was when I was asking for details. I checked the phone just in case it had a time stamp from the call but it would not display anything. My hunch was that since the call yesterday came later in the evening and the actual event occurred at a similar time of night, that the emergencies that correspond to the calls occurred at the same time, just on the subsequent day. I did not want to risk it in case I was wrong so I resolved to take the next day off of work and get to that intersection and go on a stakeout and wait.

I got there at around six in the morning and parked on the curb, near the bus stop but not blocking it. It was going to be a long day, but I tried to remain alert and vigilant. As I had expected nothing happened in the morning or afternoon. I was about to conclude my theory as correct and expect the accident to occur near ten o’clock in the evening based on the time of the previous call. It was four forty-two in the afternoon and I was about to step out of the car to find a nearby public restroom, since I had been sitting there for so long. Suddenly the phone sprang to life with that eerie chime. I looked at the road frantically for a red Toyota. The phone kept ringing and I realized it might not be related to this instance, it might be a different emergency call. I answered and I heard a new desperate voice begging for help.

“Hello, 911? My name is Stacy Thomas I am at the rest stop on exit 112 and we need ambulance and police here right now! A woman has been assaulted and she is in bad shape I think she is still alive but I don’t know, please send someone!”

It was another one, I had to get more information.

“Alright Miss Thomas did you see anything happen or did you just find this woman?”

“I was driving on the interstate and stopped to use the restroom. When I got to the woman's room there was an out of order sign in front but I heard a cry for help and found a woman who was battered and barely conscious inside. I don’t know what happened but we need help here now!” I considered how I could ask for more details without sounding strange and upsetting the woman on the phone.

“Alright I promise help will arrive. Would you please tell me if the woman has an ID on her to identify. Also, if she has any keys on her would you be able to tell what car she has parked there, if it is still there?” There was an audible hesitation and I figured she was considering the odd question.

“Isn't that something the police can do when they get here? We need help now she is barely holding on; this is a medical emergency as well; can’t the police investigate?”

It was a fair question and I could tell she was getting impatient so I was considering how to rephrase it to emphasize the importance of the detail when to my shock and horror I heard the audible static that signaled the end of the divining phone call.

“Hello? Hell....O.....Are.....Still.....There....” Five more seconds of loud static and the phone was dead. I wrote down all of the details I had for that call; they would have to do. I figured at least I had a location and a general time, though the call was after it happened so I would have to get there early enough to try and stop it.

I wrote down my game plan for tomorrow in my notebook. After my deliberation I noticed, it was starting to get dark outside and I had to focus on the accident that was going to happen that day. One emergency at a time, I figured.

It was getting closer to ten and I was on high alert. I still did not know what I was going to do to stop the accident. When it was just a few minutes before ten I got out of my car and walked up to the light. I was just going to have to get their attention when I saw them and hopefully stop them from crossing at the fateful moment. Sure enough, just a few minutes after ten, a red Toyota Corolla was heading towards the light and came to a stop. I looked in and saw a man driving the car with a woman in the passenger's seat and a child in the back seat. I tried to flag them down but they may have thought I was a pan handler and the father ignored my attempts at getting their attention. My heart was racing, the light was about to change to green and I knew in my gut it was going to happen. I decided to do something crazy and I leaped into the road directly blocking the car from going any further.

The father scowled and started honking the horn at me and the mother had a concerned, almost pitying look on her face. I realized I probably looked crazy to them but I had to try and stop them from going at just that moment. I looked behind me and the light turned green. Nothing happened and when I did not see a speeding car immediately, I started to doubt myself. The father looked angry now and was unbuckling his seat-belt, probably to get out and throw me off of the road. He never got the chance; I felt the air pressure and wind blas...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Glittering-Slip2879 on 2024-09-30 01:52:35+00:00.

---

I used to be a trucker. Was for about 10 years I think? I don't do driving anymore. Try to limit as much as I can, even outside of work.

Now, I don't have a fear of driving. I have a fear of destinations. Every time you get into a car, you have a destination in mind. A place you wanna go. Even if you don't have a specific place in mind, that place is just away.

The saying “it's about the journey, not the destination”? Bullshit. When is the car ride to your vacation spot the fun part of the trip? Never. Usually just awkwardly quiet. That's besides the point though. What I hate the most though, is driving through the Midwest. I swear, every single one of those towns is just the same. Identical. Cookie cutter. Gas station, few neighborhoods, corner store. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.

Its mid summer. I’ve been going through miles and miles of just cornfields, as far as the eye can see. Flat fields of corn. Oddly beautiful during the day, like a sea of green spreading out there. During the night though, you can only imagine what might be hiding in those cornstalks. As a trucker, you have to remain vigilant. If something, or for some god forsaken reason, someone, were to dart out, I wouldn't be able to stop. Just don't like the fields at night.

I’m on route 23, somewhere between Iowa and Nebraska, and its getting dark. When it gets dark in the midwest, all you have is the lights on your truck, and the light of the moon. Here’s something you might not know, the majority of large truck crashes happen in rural areas. I personally have had some of my closest calls in rural areas. Just nothing for miles, not even a turn in the road, and your brain basically just starts to turn off, go on autopilot.

Never a good thing when your mind starts to wander while operating a 30 ton killing machine. So, when I start to get tired, I start to look for a place to rest for the night. That's what I was doing when I stumbled across exit 202.

I had driven down this route a good few times before, but this exit was new to me. I just figured there might have been some new development since the last time I had been down the route. I was curious, tired, and hungry, so I took the exit, and headed down the road.

Corn. That's all I can say, corn. This road was narrow, a struggle to stay in my lane as the highway ended and gave way to a mostly neglected road, unkempt and rough. Looking into the distance, there was nothing. No lights. No buildings. Not even another car on the road. Just corn. So much corn.

Then that's when I saw it. A small clearing on the side of the road, with a large neon pink sign beckoning me closer.

Mabel’s Diner. Getting closer, it looked like it was on its last legs. The light was dim, flickering in the night. From what I could see from the safety of my truck, the diner looked rusted and near decrepit. Although, an open sign and lights within, with no where else to go, I hopped out of my truck and entered the building.

As I entered, a weak sounding bell heralded my entry. The place was nearly empty, with a few patrons who barely even looked up from their plates as I walked in. The waitress behind the counter looked at me with a dull gaze. This poor woman seemed exhausted. As if she had been working here as long as the building had been. Her name tag was only more proof of this, reading Mabel. I just asked for the house special, and she served me some pretty basic eggs and sausage with a tired smile.

My nose began to sniffle. I’ve always had allergies. Something about this place though, was especially bad. Like stuck in a hayloft bad. My nose just would not stop leaking, my eyes were starting to water, and I was severely starting to regret not taking my allergy medicine earlier.

As I ate, my mind began to wander. The food was just forgettable. It was sustaining, but utterly unfulfilling. Makes sense why the place looked so worn down, who would come all the way out here for this?

That's when a big feeling of unease began to creep into my chest. The place was silent. Not a single noise. There is always noise no matter where you go. Scraping of utensils on plates, quiet murmuring, hell, even the humming of lights or even a fly buzzing past.

The place was just utterly silent. I quickly paid for my meal, throwing down a wad of cash as I left, leaving all of the disheveled patrons behind me. I walked out into that pitch black parking lot, and came to a terrible realization.

The parking lot was empty.

Not a single vehicle was out there, including my truck. It was gone. I was stranded in this horrible place. I pulled out my phone, tried calling my boss, and of course because I’m in the middle of nowhere, no signal, and no escape. I heard a faint jingle of a bell opening, and a cold voice cutting through my chest. Mabel, she said to me,

“Oh dear, your truck gone? Come on in, stay a while. We’ll call someone for you.”

She stood so still in the doorframe, a silhouette dimly lit by the dingy light behind her. When people stand still, they still move. Their chest rises and falls as they breathe. Maybe a drum of their fingers against their leg. A small shifting back and forth in their stance. But she was deathly still, like a mannequin. It wasn’t just that, but her voice just sounded…wrong. Flat, hollow. I was filled with a sense of dread, like if I followed along with her, I would not be leaving that diner.

So I slowly turned around, and began walking back the way I came. Maybe if I made it back to the highway, I could hail someone down and get to a place to fill in my boss, and figure out what to do about my truck. And I walked. And I walked, and I walked, and I walked. The corn all around me, so utterly alone. It was dark. No lights, no nothing. Just the rustling of corn and the moonlight to guide me.

Then I heard that piercing voice again. “Stay a while. We’ll keep you company.” I spun around, and there she stood, standing in the road, deathly still. “Stay a while.”

The corn to my sides shifted as some of the patrons of the bar slowly made their way out. Now looking closer, I came to a terrible realization. The reason they were silent, the reason they didn't even seem to breathe. In the glimmer of the moonlight, as they approached me, I saw what they really were. Their skin was stretched tight, more of a mask than their own flesh. Peeking from underneath the seams of their skin, around their neck, was straw, poking out from between the stitches that held them together. They grabbed me, holding onto me with a strength I had never felt before. Mabel just got closer and closer to me. I trashed against their grip, screaming and crying against the men who were holding me back.

Mabel only got closer, her cold, dead, eyes staring into me. “Stay a while.” Her hand stretched out, touching my neck, an icy stillness spreading through my body.

Adrenaline is one hell of a drug. I kicked her right in the stomach, with all of my strength. It was like kicking a brick wall. She stumbled back, looking more confused than shocked. The men's grip on my loosened just barely enough, and I broke loose, running as fast as I could for the highway. My heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through, letting me push past the ache and pain of my joints and my ragged gasping for air. I kept running and running, running past the burn of my lungs and the tightness of my throat.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally saw headlights in the distance. I waved my arms, screaming until my voice gave out, and he stopped for me. I explained my situation, that someone was trying to kill me. He let me into his car, and started driving to a nearby town. Toward the diner. I began to panic, to tell him to turn around to the highway, that the people who attacked me were this way.

And he looked at me confused. That the highway was nowhere nearby. That there was no “Mabel’s Diner.” That there was no exit 202.

A feeling of pure fear flooded me. We drove for a while, and as I saw the lights of the town in the distance, the man was right. There were no signs of my assailants. There were no signs of the diner. No signs of my truck. The cornfields ended, and I was greeted by a small midwestern town. The man dropped me off at the local police station, and I gave them my statement. I called my boss about the situation, and they sent someone in the area to swing by and bring me back home.

When I got back and tried reporting my truck and all its details, they gave me the most confusing revelation yet. My truck was still in the garage. Only when I went to check on it, it wasn't the same truck. Different license plate, the color was a different shade, and the keys in my pocket, did not work on this one. I brought it up to my supervisor, and he looked just as confused as I did. The keys didn't go to any truck in the garage, or any on the record ever. I still have the keys now, not sure what to do with them. I quit pretty soon after, not a big fan of leaving my town, much less the state. Especially those cornfields. God I hate those cornfields. I’m just trying to separate from it all. I’m worried that this might be a curse for me, cause on the highway to get my groceries today, I saw an exit 143.

And despite all the information I look for it online, there is no exit 143.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/313deezy on 2024-09-30 01:30:17+00:00.

---

The room was silent except for the hum of machines and the distant beeping of heart monitors. I had been awake for 72 hours straight, and yet, I felt strangely lucid—almost as if my senses had sharpened rather than dulled. This was not natural. No amount of caffeine or adrenaline should be able to keep a person this alert after so many hours of forced consciousness. But this wasn’t a normal situation, either.

I had volunteered for the experiment, or at least that’s what they made me believe. A patriot, they called me. I had undergone all the necessary briefings, signed the waivers with words I barely comprehended, and let them inject me with whatever cocktail of experimental drugs and nanites they had cooked up in their hidden labs. The No Sleep Program, they called it. In theory, it was meant to enhance human endurance, eliminate the need for sleep altogether. A soldier who didn’t need rest could outperform any opponent. Imagine the advantage, they said.

But they didn’t tell us what would happen when the mind fought back.

It started on the fifth day. Or maybe it was the sixth? Time was slippery in that place. The dim lighting never changed, keeping us in a constant twilight. I was sitting in the corner of the room, staring at the floor, when I noticed something shift in the periphery of my vision. At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me, a flicker of something passing through my field of view. But when I turned to look, I saw it again—a shadow, moving along the edge of the wall.

My heart began to race. My brain was screaming at me to blink, to reset, but I couldn’t. The shadow didn’t disappear; it grew. Slowly, it formed into something more distinct. A figure. Tall, humanoid, but stretched, like it had been distorted by some unseen force. It didn’t have a face. Or maybe it did, but my mind wouldn’t allow me to comprehend it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the afterimage of that thing remained burned into my mind’s eye. When I opened them again, the figure was standing at the foot of my bed. Watching. No... not watching. It was waiting. For what, I had no idea.

I tried to scream, but my throat was dry, my voice strangled. I had to remind myself that none of this was real. It was just my mind reacting to the lack of sleep. I had read about hallucinations—seen the reports, even watched the grainy black-and-white surveillance footage of past participants flailing at invisible enemies or sobbing uncontrollably at figments of their imagination.

But this felt different. Too real. Too vivid.

In the reflection of the one-way mirror, I saw the scientists watching me. They were calm, dispassionate, their eyes fixed on the monitors that recorded every biological metric, but I knew they could see what I saw. I knew they could see the shadow figure just as clearly as I did. Yet, they did nothing. No comforting words, no sedatives. Just cold, clinical observation.

I began to wonder if they had created that thing. Maybe it wasn’t just a side effect. Maybe it was part of the program. A test. What happens when you push a person beyond the limits of human endurance? What does the mind conjure when it is deprived of its natural rest cycles?

The hallucinations grew worse with every passing hour. I started to hear things too—whispers, faint at first, but growing louder. Voices from people I had never met, and some I swore I recognized. One was my mother’s voice, though she had died years ago. Another was the voice of my old squad leader, dead from an IED in Iraq. They called to me, urged me to let go, to succumb to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

But the rules were clear: No sleep. No escape.

On the tenth day, reality fractured.

I was no longer in the sterile confines of the CIA lab. I was in a war zone. Dust, blood, and fire filled the air. The ground beneath me shook with the force of explosions, and distant screams echoed through the night. I ran, but my legs felt like lead. I had to get out, had to escape the chaos. I looked around for my comrades, but all I saw were those shadow figures, moving in the haze like specters of death.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was gone. I was back in the lab, my heart hammering in my chest, sweat pouring down my face. My body trembled, every muscle taut with fear and confusion. But I was alone. The figures, the war, the voices—they were all gone. The room was silent again.

I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I didn’t even know if I was still me anymore. The boundaries of self were blurring, my thoughts splintering into a thousand fragments. I tried to remember why I had volunteered for this—why I had agreed to put myself through this torture. For my country? For science? For the promise of a future where sleep was no longer a necessity?

No. I couldn’t even remember my own motivations anymore. The only thing I knew for certain was that I was trapped. Trapped in a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from, no matter how hard I tried.

And then, one night—or was it day?—I heard a voice that was different from the others. Clearer. Realer.

“You can stop this,” it said. “You just have to let go.”

I looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice. It was a man’s voice. Calm, almost soothing. But there was something about it that made my skin crawl. It didn’t belong here.

“Who are you?” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure my voice even made a sound.

The voice chuckled, and I felt a cold breeze brush against the back of my neck. “I am the one watching,” it said. “I’ve always been watching. You were never supposed to last this long.”

“What are you?” I asked, my heart pounding.

“I’m your mind,” the voice replied. “The part of you they tried to suppress. But you see, even they can’t control what you really are.”

And then I realized. The figures, the voices, the hallucinations—they weren’t just side effects. They were manifestations of something deeper. The experiment hadn’t just kept me awake; it had awakened something within me. Something dark. Something that had been waiting in the shadows of my mind all along.

The voice grew quieter, as if retreating back into the recesses of my consciousness, but not before it left me with one final thought.

“Sleep,” it whispered, “is for the weak.”

And then, there was nothing but silence.

But I knew that even if I somehow made it out of that lab, I would never be free of the thing they had awakened. It would follow me. Forever.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-09-30 01:12:08+00:00.

---

I was married to my wife for seventeen years and never once had she turned to me and told me she loved me.

For ten of the seventeen years the marriage had been sexless. This wasn’t on the part of my wife. She always had a high libido whereas mine has always been low. I guess we just wanted different things when it came to sex. She wanted wild and dangerous sex, while all I wanted was passionate lovemaking between two people who loved each other.

To be fair, we were two very different people when we met. They say opposites attract, and at the time I felt lucky to have found her. She worked as a psychologist and taught at a very prestigious university. I owned a small building company and we met when I was contracted to do work in the building where she taught.

The marriage wasn’t always bad. At the start, she was amazing and tried hard to make it work, but it didn’t take long for the differences between us to become a barrier.

The last three years have been the hardest. The constant arguing meant we no longer shared a bed together. Whenever we do manage to be in the room together, the air is thick with a tension that is pressed down on every breath, filling the room with an unspoken weight. It had reached a point where the love I craved was no longer just a longing, but a gnawing hunger.

When I first hired a sex worker it started as a way to just feel the warmth of a woman. I wanted to feel like I was wanted and loved even if it was a hollow performance.

The first two times I hired a sex worker it was just sex. It was nice and passionate at times, but it wasn’t the sex I was missing. When I hired the sex worker the third time, I made it clear I didn’t want sex; I just wanted someone to hold and to hold me. It felt great, but it was still missing the emotional aspect and that's when I came up with the idea for the flashcards.

I hired the same sex worker every time. Gemma was considerably younger than me. She was the same age my wife was when we first met. Apart from age, the only other thing that resembled my wife was the colour of her eyes.

By our fourth encounter, Gemma knew what I was after, so when I pulled out the flashcards, she was happy to go along with it.

“You make me feel safe.”

"Hold me tightly and don’t let go.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I love you so much.”

Gemma was perfect. I didn’t need to prompt her and she knew exactly when to read the cards back to me. Her touch was warm and gentle as if she could sense the weight of my loneliness, wrapping me in an embrace that felt both safe and electric. With each encounter, I felt more alive, as if she were breathing colour back into my grey existence.

My encounters with Gemma went from once a month, to a couple nights a week. My need for love and validation became like a drug. I was hooked. The withdrawal was unbearable and left me feeling empty like I had a dark void in my soul.

There was a change in me that didn’t go unnoticed by my wife. I started dressing differently. There was what you could call a pep in my step, especially around my wife. I won’t lie, it started having a strange effect on my relationship with her. She was easier to be around, but I did suspect she knew something was up.

The motel where Gemma and I met was a little more upmarket than the usual sleaziness and despair of a roadside motel. It wasn’t five stars, but it did offer a certain discreteness.

When the door opened, I was taken aback. Gemma stood before me, but it felt as if my wife had stepped into the room. She wore the same soft blue dress that my wife loved, its fabric hugging her figure just right, and her hair was styled in the same way, long and cascading with those effortless waves. Even her eyes seemed to shine with that familiar sparkle, making my heart race with a mix of longing and confusion.

As she stepped inside, I noticed how she embodied my wife’s mannerisms perfectly: the way she tilted her head when listening, the gentle laugh that danced from her lips and the soft way she held her hands. It felt surreal, a haunting echo of my wife. My heart raced, torn between pleasure and a disquieting sense of unease. Was I still with Gemma, or had I somehow crossed a line into a disturbing fantasy.

Gemma’s uncanny resemblance to my wife sent a chill down my spine. The same blue dress, the exact haircut, and her mannerisms mirrored my wife's so perfectly that it felt like a cruel joke.

“How did you know to dress like this?” I asked.

She smiled, tilting her head just like my wife. “I thought you’d like it. Don’t you remember how much she loved this dress?”

My heart raced as a knot twisted in my stomach. Was this a coincidence, or had she been watching us? I wasn’t sure what to think, and I couldn’t, in good faith, continue this charade.

“I have to go,” I said as I quickly left.

That evening, a fragile tension hung in the air as my wife and I sat across from each other at the dining table. She glanced up, her blue eyes searching mine, and for the first time in ages, I felt a flicker of something I thought I had lost.

“I’ve missed you,” she said softly.

“Really?” I replied. It was the first time in ten years I heard even a hint of empathy from her mouth.

She nodded as the tension in her shoulders slightly eased before she reached across the table, and gently brushed my fingers.

As we moved to the bedroom, an unfamiliar warmth washed over us as our barriers slowly crumbled.

“Let’s forget everything for a moment,” she said.

That night she gave me everything I had longed for in our relationship. For the first time, I felt the affection I craved as we made passionate love.

As we lay there in the sweaty aftermath of our lovemaking, I revelled in the closeness. But that was quickly shattered when my wife started echoing the same phrases from the flashcard I had Gemma recite.

I lay there, stunned, my heart pounding as her words echoed in the darkness.

"You make me feel safe," she whispered.

How could she know those exact words? My mind raced as I pulled away slightly, the intimacy suddenly replaced by a chilling unease.

I shrugged off the previous night as a strange coincidence, convincing myself that I was overthinking things. My wife had simply said the right things at the right time, nothing more. The next evening, I decided to sleep in the spare bedroom, seeking solitude.

Sometime during the night, I was jolted from my sleep as I felt a familiar warmth. Opening my eyes, I froze. Gemma was lying beside me, her arms were wrapped around me in a tight embrace. A chilling feeling of dread crept up my spine as I looked around the room. All the flashcards I had made for our encounters were now nailed to the walls of the room.

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered, repeating each phrase like a ritual, her voice eerily soft.

I couldn’t handle it anymore. The flashcards, the strange way my wife had been acting, the eerie resemblance Gemma had started to take on everything felt like it was closing in on me. I needed space. I needed to breathe. So, I went to the motel. The same place where I had met Gemma before, back when things were simpler, back when I thought I had some control over my life.

I’d barely settled in when I heard a knock on the door. My heart stopped. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Reluctantly, I opened it, and there she was Gemma, but something was off. She looked exactly like my wife again, but this time, there was no warmth. Her eyes were cold, just like the way my wife used to look at me when we argued.

“You couldn’t stay away, could you?” she said, her voice dripping with venom.

“Gemma, why are you doing this?”

She stepped inside, not waiting for an invitation.

“Gemma? Is that what you call me now? You pathetic little man.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. That’s exactly how my wife used to talk to me in our worst moments.

“You think paying for affection makes you a man? You think a few nice words on flashcards are enough to fix your sad, broken life?” She said in a cold unrelenting tone.

“Stop it,” I said, shaking.

She ignored me, walking further into the room. “You’ve always been weak. That’s why she can’t love you. You disgust her.”

“Shut up!” I shouted.

“You’re worthless. You were never enough for her. You’ll never be enough for anyone.”

I snapped. The words, the look in her eyes, the way she embodied everything my wife had said and done to break me over the years, it was too much. I lunged at her, shoving her hard. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I just wanted her to stop. But she stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the coffee table. Her body crashed through the glass, as I stood there, frozen in horror as she lay motionless on the floor, blood pooling around her.

“What have I done?” I thought to myself.

I rushed over to her, but she wasn’t moving. The blood was everywhere, glistening under the motel lights. I didn’t know what to do. My mind was spinning out of control. In a haze, I dragged her into the bathroom, laying her body in the tub. My hands were shaking as I wiped the sweat from my forehead. For a moment I thought about walking away and leaving her for the cleaning staff to find.

I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus. I needed help so I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

“There’s been an accident. “Someone’s hurt.”

The police arrived quickly, faster than I expected. I led them to the bathroom, trying to calm my racing heart. I w...

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