nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SalamiMommie on 2024-09-29 18:57:44+00:00.

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My Grandpa used to tell me the best stories when he was alive. He grew up in the mountains and lived a very hard life. He had eight other siblings and they had to raise each other as his parents were gone often. One of the ways he helped provide was making moonshine.

A man named Lucius helped my grandpa make corn liquor. They ran two stills at once and were extremely successful. Grandpa said they almost got caught a few times by Tennessee police but never did.

Grandpa said he kept the money on him and was able to help take care of his siblings. He said Lucius buried his in mason jars and would keep it hidden in the dirt. He knew where he hid it too. They had a good relationship and knew Grandpa wouldn’t steal it from him.

Lucius had no family and died before he could have kids. He said Lucius was driving a trunk load when some cops got behind him with sirens a blazing. He went too fast around a curve and the car flipped many times going down a mountain.

Grandpa said he destroyed the stills and stopped making shine after that. He claims he didn’t dig up the money because he was so filled with guilt. He became a Christian and tried to live an honest life. He said that money didn’t belong to him.

The property belonged to him and all his siblings which became a headache when they’d all debate what to do with the land. There was forty acres. It was deep, deep in the woods.

Grandpa wanted to donate the land, some wanted to sell, and some didn’t. So nothing ever did get done ultimately. Grandma told them she didn’t want anything to do with after he passed away.

I would go up there occasionally to deer hunt and camp once in a blue moon. I had memories of him showing me the land and where the stills once were. He shown me a place near by where the money supposedly was buried. He stacked a few rocks by a tree in that are. He also built a tiny cross and placed in the ground near by as a tribute to Lucius. He used to scare me by saying that Lucius haunts the area.

I made the decision that I was going to find out if it was truly there. I needed money for sure, the economy is terrible and cost of living isn’t going down anytime soon. But I also just needed to know I guess. Plus, all that money was doing was sitting there.

I informed the two relatives that were still alive that I was going to go camping and one gave me the key to the gate. I drove to it and let myself in.

I had to drive across a tiny body of water before I could park my truck. Grandpa said he had to walk a mile from their run down cabin to the edge of the road daily to get to the school bus.

I put my 45 in my holster and carried along the trail after turning on my battery powered lantern and grabbing a shovel. You never know if you’d see a coyote or a tweaker. Meth has become a real scary problem in this county.

Finding the area wasn’t too hard. What was scary was hearing the wind howl and seeing an occasional possums eyes glowing back. I could have sworn I heard a voice saying “turn back.”

I found the cross that Grandpa built for his departed friend. There was a lot of ground to cover so I began digging in every direction.

I must have spent a good half hour looking and felt like giving up..that was until I hit something.

I reached into the ground and moved more dirt with my hands until I felt the jar. I tugged until it made its way out.

My ears began to ring and buzz aggressively. I felt wind push past my ear. I dropped the jar to cover them. I looked forward and seen something running at me. It was two dogs but I could see through them.

I stood up and seen a shotgun pointed at me with a man I could see through holding it. I fell down.

“Stop right there! You ain’t taking my money.” It had to be Lucius. He was a young man wearing overalls and clean shaved.

One of the dogs ran to me and bit my leg. I tried hitting him with a rock but my hand went straight through. My hand was freezing as if I buried it in snow.

“Back up, Blue!” He commanded and the dog returned to the owner. I placed my good hand on top of the dog bite that was now burning. I could see my jeans being stained by blood.

“Please, please don’t do this Lucius.” I begged as I took my hand to slowly reach for my pistol. I realized it wasn’t going to do me any good anyway.

“How do you know my name?” He lowered his shotgun.

“I’m Jim’s Grandson.”

“Jim who?”

“Your partner. I’m sorry. I just needed the money.”

He stood quiet for what felt like an eternity.

“Where is Jim?” He kept his gun at his side.

“He passed away not too long ago. He talked about you to me often.”

He let out a smirk.

“He was a crazy one, I tell you what. I reckon it’s time I go see him.” He reached into his overall pocket and pulled out a jar.

“Drink this.”

“But I-“

“Drink or I shoot.” The smell was strong.

I swallowed a mouth full and it felt like my insides were on fire. It wasn’t a normal liquor burn. I felt so much pain in my body. It felt as if my insides literally caught on fire.

I woke up in my bed. My head was pounding something fierce. I looked down at my jeans and the stain was still there. I could feel the bite too. I managed to make it to the counter and swallow some Tylenol. I looked through my window to see my truck parked.

I hobbled out and unlocked my door. The backseat was filled with dirty mason jars full of money.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PinkWhite_RoyalBlue on 2024-09-29 22:53:55+00:00.

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Every night, whenever I would get up to get myself a glass of water, the coat rack on the balcony outside of mine and Christopher’s room would always scare the shit out of me. The rack itself was tall and thin, a large metal sphere perched atop the peak like an eye surveying its surroundings, but we almost never saw the metal due to the avalanche of coats. In the daytime, there was nothing special about the coat rack but at night, it was a different story.

Christopher was a big fan of horror movies - Black Christmas, When a Stranger Calls, Scream, you name it - and wanted to pass this love down to our children. I was never a fearful man, and would even go as far as to call myself brave, but horror was never my jam; the same could be said for our youngest son, Bob, who had accidentally walked in on us watching the wardrobe scene from The Conjuring and had been leaving his door slightly open every night since. Roy, the oldest, had taken more after Chris in his enjoyment for all things ghastly and ghostly, though at the age of 11, he'd never seen anything more intense than Poltergeist. If Christopher ever woke up in the middle of the night, a lifetime of watching horror had numbed him to any potential scare but I was not so lucky and thus, the vaguely humanoid shape would scare me shitless whenever I woke up in the middle of the night.

Let's get this out of the way now, waking up at night wasn't a regular occurrence for me - it just so happened that whenever I would, the coat rack was always there, standing on the balcony perpendicular to our bed, overlooking the starry skies of Martha's Vineyard. It's why I tried to drink water and use the restroom before I went to sleep, so I wouldn't have to encounter that cursed hunk of metal, even if I always knew it would be there, just standing still.

On one particularly hot night in the middle of July, I had woken up feeling particularly parched. I got out of bed, making sure not to look at balcony as I walked to the door and out of the room, making my way downstairs into the kitchen. Bob's door was, as it always had been, slightly opened, his light snores being barely-but-surely audible. I poured myself a glass of water and, still sipping it, walked back upstairs, making sure to close the door behind me but having made a grave mistake when I turned back around - I forgot to avert my gaze and had stared directly at the coat rack. I tripped over my own feet and fell, the glass in my hand getting caught between the floor and my temple and shattering, sending several small shards into my head. I yelled out in pain as Christopher awoke and yelled out at the same time, grabbing several bandages from the bathroom and wrapping them around my head. I could hear the stirring of Bob and Roy downstairs as they had likely heard the thump and my vision began to blur.

A couple hours later, I had awoken in the hospital. The injury fortunately wasn't too serious but did require a fair bit of stitching, which the nurses thankfully applied while I was unconscious. Chris and the boys had stayed in the room with me the whole time and were overjoyed to see my eyes open - Bob ran up and hugged me, which caused a throbbing pain in my head, alerting me to the stiches in the first place. After some paperwork was done, I was free to go.

"Steven, we really need to do something about that coat rack," Christopher said to me when we got back home, staring at the ungodly object.

And so we did.

After several years of the coat rack being the source of fear in our household, the two of us took the heavy coats off, threw them on the floor for the time being, and carried the rack downstairs. We placed it next to Bob's bed in his room as a precaution, just so it wouldn't scare anyone else in the living room or any other part of the house where; in fact, Bob had told us that the rack made him feel safe. That night, as I went to sleep, I knew I would no longer have to worry about getting scared if I had to get up for some water.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

In the middle of the night, a small bout of famine hit me. I eased my way out of the bed and nearly jumped out of my skin. The coat rack once again stood on the balcony and while my eyes were still getting used to the dark, I could just barely make out the faint humanoid shape of it standing there.

I guess Bob must have gotten scared and moved it back, I thought. I'll need to talk to him tomorrow about this.

I stepped over the coats littering the floor and walked downstairs - just to be safe, I drank out of a paper cup and drank the entire thing in the kitchen. As I was heading up, something caught my attention - the door to Bob's room was ajar, as opposed to his usual slight opening. Intrigued, I peered my head inside the room; perhaps Bob had just stepped out to use the restroom or get some water?

The first thing I noticed when I looked inside was the fact that Bob was no longer in his bed, and the second thing was Bob's dead body lying on the ground. A small bloody dent was evident in the center of his forehead, his limbs strewn about as if he had been dragged out directly from underneath his covers, from underneath his safety. I'm not afraid to admit that I yelled, screamed even, bringing to the room the attention of both Roy and Christopher. Roy only managed to look at the scene for a brief moment before his eyes rolled up to the back of his head and he fainted; Chris held me as I, in return, held Bob in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was only after the fact that I realized something, something which had been nagging me for the entirety of the aftermath. Bob lay next to the coat rack which we had placed there, free entirely of coats as Bob owned none.

So if the coat rack was in Bob's room the entire time, then what the fuck was on our balcony that night?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/jebstewart on 2024-09-29 20:29:27+00:00.

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I tapped my fingers along the tattered steering wheel, trying perpetually to soothe my swirling mind. I’d always had heavy anxiety and driving seemed to exacerbate it. Maybe, in this instance at least, it wouldn’t be as much of a hindrance as I once thought it to be. 

The sun hadn’t risen quite yet as I hopped and scooted along the various backroads to my workplace. I always tried like hell to avoid the main roads. 

The first few rays threaded up beyond the horizon, still mostly concealed by the canopy of withering oaks overhead. Twisting pavement crumbled at its edges, collapsing into the deep ditches that ran along the length of my route. A less seasoned traveler would surely miss the deep potholes beneath the dark mornings cloak. 

Despite the treacherous conditions, my old ‘Yota hardly missed a beat. It’d been my first and only truck ever since I’d begun driving, eating the horrible rookie mistakes that came with owning a manual vehicle. The frame rot would surely be its demise. 

My anxiety eased off as the beams of light finally chewed their way through the treelines autumn-eaten limbs. Squirrels hopped and darted through the foliage, playing chicken with me as I slammed the brakes every so often as to not turn them into a spot on the ground. I didn’t mind having to stop for the things, it helped keep my tiresome mind at bay. 

Suddenly, a swath of light etched itself on the pavement which rounded my next turn. Another car. It wasn’t a common sight on this lonely backroad, and it was something that always got my gut in a twist. What if it was a cop? I hadn’t renewed my tags or bothered with insurance since I’d found this new route. Kinda silly, right? Somebody as wound tight as me couldn’t bother with something so important. Silly.

To say I was surprised when the car rounded that corner would be an understatement. It turned slowly, that silver Jeep, that silver Jeep that looked awfully similar to my wifes car. I studied it as it drew nearer. 

My heart dropped when I read the license plate. It was, in fact, my wifes jeep. But what would she be doing heading back home this early in the morning? I knew she never took this route home, either.

As I raised my hand to wave, I noticed something even more peculiar. Something that made my heart sink further than I ever thought possible. 

Admittedly, the windows of her Jeep are tinted, but I swear, I swear I saw a man in the drivers seat. His face looked weird as we began to pass one another, his head turning as we made eye contact. That’s when I realized he was wearing a mask.

I slammed on the brakes, stopping dead in my tracks as I watched the car disappear beyond the oaks. I swear I hadn’t seen her in the passenger seat. Maybe it was a family member borrowing her car? But why the hell wouldn’t she tell me… and why would he be wearing a mask. No… no that makes no sense. Could she be hiding something, like another partner? Seemed unlikely, and still doesn’t explain the mask part.

I backed up and whipped my truck around, shutting the lights off so I could follow without being seen for as long as possible. The once jovial play of the squirrels and the green-brown mess of beauty around me seemed dull now as I followed loosely behind the man in my wifes car. The morning dark had washed away by then and I could see the Jeep careening along the busted road through the barren foliage. 

Then, all at once, the Jeep began picking up speed. At first it was nearly imperceptible, but by the time I’d caught view of the vehicle again I could see it nearly leaving the pavement as it bounced up and down the winding road. My old truck struggled to keep pace with the deranged driver in my wifes car, but I was determined to follow this bastard all the way to Hell. 

By this point I was pretty sure someone had either stolen her car or it was a full blown kidnapping, either way I was hell bent on catching him. I tailed him all the way down the backroad until we’d passed by my house and were now nearing the highway.

I swear I’d seen a moving truck sitting in my driveway.

By then, he’d begun brake checking and swerving like a complete madman. Whoever this guy was, he was adamant about not getting caught. 

The foliage around us had become a blur as we sped closer and closer to the highway. I had to put an end to this chase, quickly. If he reached the highway there’s no way my old truck would be able to keep up. I guess I’d seen enough episodes of Cops to at least attempt a pit maneuver.

The next time he brake checked me, instead of slowing down I pressed onward, sliding beside the Jeep as my truck struggled to not slide into the cavernous ditch to my left. My heart was beating so fast, I could feel my vision beginning to blur as I jerked the wheel to the right, clipping the back corner of the Jeep. In an instant, my truck had been turned completely around as the squeal of burning rubber shattered the perfect morning quiet. 

Then, I heard a monstrous boom. 

Once I’d come to a halt, I hopped out of the cab and promptly twisted my ankle in one of those god damned pot holes. I’d later found out that I’d broken my ankle that way, but hadn’t even felt the pain through the surge of adrenaline. I hobbled forward, making my way closer to my wifes overturned Jeep. 

The vehicle sat in a crumbled mess along the ditch, a thread of smoke reaching its gray tendrils towards the sky. The surrounding woods had grown eerily silent. 

The door to the Jeep squealed open as the masked man pushed his way out. His once white button-up shirt hung off his body in bloody ropes, the ski mask he wore was riddled with holes revealing patches of blond hair which stuck out in different directions. His eyes were bloodshot and screamed insanity. 

“Look what ya’ fucking did!”, he screamed, haphazardly raising a shotgun in my direction. The first shot rang out, blasting a hole in the windshield of my truck behind me. The second brought me back to reality, flying somewhere into the random thickets of brush.

I hobble-ran back to my truck, flinging the door open as he reloaded the bullet that would surely kill me. Another blast rang out, this one ripped the mirror clean off my door. I braced myself, waiting for the next boom.

From the depths of the smoldering Jeep I could hear a faint scream. My wifes scream. 

I gritted my teeth and pulled myself back into the trucks cab, fumbling stupidly for the keys. The next bullet tore through my windshield and chewed a hole through the passenger seat. Yellow foam spewed from the smoking cavern it had left. 

“You’re fucked!”, he sounded more like an animal, like a demon, than a man. He was going to kill me. 

I could hear the scrape of footsteps grow closer as he reloaded the shotgun once more. Finally, I got the key jammed in the ignition and twisted it. The old ‘Yota came to life as I depressed the clutch and lurched forward, barreling straight for the man who had kidnapped my love, my life.

 

His last shot missed entirely as I smashed into the masked man, sending him hurtling over the ditch and into a tree. My truck followed shortly thereafter, pinning his mangled body against the stout oak. 

The world went quiet and my adrenaline eased as I slipped into unconsciousness. 

Whatever fight I’d had left was gone upon reawakening, my vision seemed like one of those old cartoons where random holes of nothing permeated in and out. My head screamed and my body agreed as the pain from my leg made moving an inch seem unbearable, but still, I persisted.

I pushed the smashed-up door aside and slowly made my way back out. A great plume of smoke billowed from underneath the hood of my now-dead truck.

 

Truthfully, despite what he had done, I was hesitant to see the gore that sat just out of view. I hobbled closer, nearing the grisly sight that awaited when a flash of white hot pain screamed through my back. I fell to my knees.

“You son of a bitch!”, Sarah screamed, “you killed him!”, she continued, pulling the knife from my back, ready to plunge it in once more until I turned over and met her gaze. Sarah, my love, my everything, was holding a knife that was now stained with my blood. Her eyes seemed both vicious and weepy all at once. 

She dropped the knife and backed away, blubbering quietly, repeating, “I loved him”, over and over. She fell back, curling up on the shattered glass that littered the road.

I wish I could say that I’d said or done something heroic, but in that moment it seemed as though my mind had retreated to somewhere far, far away. 

By some sort of luck, or divine intervention if you believe in such things, a squad car happened upon the wreckage. Perhaps one of the houses tucked away on that backroad had called in the commotion. I’m still not sure.

Apparently, the guys name was Scott [REDACTED], who had been one of my wifes work colleagues. They’d gotten romantically involved at some point and he got her hooked on drugs. That morning, according to Sarah, they planned on coming to our house and killing me in my sleep.

She must not have been listening when I told her I had a meeting before work that day and was going to be leaving early. I guess if she planned to kill me then there was no point in listening to whatever it was I had to say. Oh well.

Oddly, my driving anxiety seems to have lessened ever since the incident. Then again, everything seems pretty numb at this point. Either way, my wife will most likely be in prison for the rest of her life, which gives me plenty of time to think about what I’ll say to her when I visit.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/shinu97 on 2024-09-29 20:11:50+00:00.

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It’s a new “wonder” drug that just entered the market - or at least that's what the doctor on that online prescription service told me. You know the kind of service I'm talking about. The kind that gets advertised on YouTube ads all the time or pops up in between commercial breaks of your favorite reality tv show. This one came to me the old fashioned way though, slipped through the mail slot in my front door inconspicuously.

Are YOU tired of feeling TIRED? Are YOU one of the millions of people suffering from crippling anxiety? Have trouble getting out of bed? Just plain SAD? Go to CARE4U dot com today to speak to a licensed physician and feel better FASTER!

I’ve gotta admit that I’m not one to usually fall for these kinds of things but I’ve really been going through a rough patch in my mental health journey and was looking for a way to start feeling like myself again. I’ve always been an anxious person, even when having no reason to be and it had gotten to a point where I was exhausted. The Zoloft, Citalopram, Hydroxyzine - nothing my primary care doctor prescribed did anything except make me nauseous. So what the heck? Might as well try whatever I can.

The website looked modern enough and the link to schedule a virtual meeting was easy to find so I put in my email address, picked a time slot and waited to receive an email confirming the appointment. I was told I would be meeting with a physician named Dr. Watkins. Seemed legit enough and I was excited to try something new. When the time came I received an email with a Zoom link and hopped on the call.

A figure sitting behind a wide oak desk wearing a sterile white doctor's coat greeted me. I couldn’t really make out his face as the lighting in the room he was in was poor and only illuminated the bottom half of his figure. But even in the shadows I could make out a smile populated with small, white teeth.

“Sorry the picture quality is poor, they’re remodeling my office and I'm forced to take meetings in my own house. I’m Dr. Watkins.”

“No problem at all! Nice to meet you and thank you for seeing me.” I said cheerily. I was trying not to come across as awkward but something was eerily unsettling about the environment he was portrayed in.

“So in the form you filled out you mentioned you have been suffering from some severe anxiety and that the normal course of medicines hasn't been taking any effect. Can you…”

A voice somewhere distant in his surroundings interrupted him and he quickly muted the sound on his end and got up from his desk, bumping his computer and shifting the image to a slightly different angle of the room. It was dirty. Clothes littered the floor and it was obvious that he had just hauled some desk into the corner of his bedroom to take calls. It was kinda odd, and made me begin to question his validity but he quickly returned and apologized for the interruption.

After speaking to him for some time and explaining my situation I began to feel better as he really seemed to know his stuff about other medications and procedures for dealing with depression and anxiety. I chalked the weird surroundings up to him getting booted out of his normal office and quickly having to make do at home.

Eventually he brought up this new “wonder” drug as he described it. He was really excited about it and said it had significantly improved a majority of his clients' lives. It went by the commercial name of Colereo. I had never heard of it but, again, I was willing to try anything at this point. Dr. Watkins seemed very excited when I agreed to give the drug a try (his wide, tiny tooth filled grin showed even more clear). When I tried to give him my pharmacy he quickly noted that through CARE4U.com he could directly ship the medication to my house. Seemed convenient so I agreed, gave him my address and ended the call, hopeful for something that might work. Before the call ended he mentioned that I should try it for at least a week before I should stop taking it or worry about any initial side effects. He said some stomach pain was normal and I was used to that with the other medicines I had tried.

A few days later a small package arrived at my doorstep and when I opened it I was greeted by a small, orange pill bottle with my name on it and instructions for how to take the medicine.

Take two pills a day w/ food.

Seemed easy enough. I finished my morning coffee, toast with butter and eggs and popped one of the small blue pills in my mouth and swallowed with a big gulp of water. I immediately felt a rumble in my stomach. It was a bit painful but quickly subsided with some passing of gas. I thought I should maybe start going easy on the coffee. Morning flatulence concluded, I went about my day as normal. That night I ate my dinner and took the second pill. More stomach disturbances but nothing too crazy to be concerned about.

Everything was normal until the fourth day of taking the new medication. I had been having stomach rumbles but nothing that couldn't be attributed to excess coffee or my body getting used to the Colereo. What wasn’t normal was the kick I felt in my stomach after taking my nightly dose. I had been sitting on the sofa watching tv when suddenly my abdomen jerked hard and it felt like a small lump bounced against the inside of my stomach. Almost like…a baby kick? Ugh I hate thinking about it. It was pretty painful too. I remembered what Dr. Watkins said about the initial side effects and did my best to ignore it, going to bed and trying to sleep off the weirdness.

The fifth day was the worst. I was bedridden most of the day, feeling more of those kicks and also constantly feeling full, like I had been eating massive meals even though I hadn’t been able to get down any food. I thought enough was enough and tried to go on CARE4U.com to schedule another meeting with Dr. Watkins to explain the situation and get some answers. The trouble was, the website seemingly didn't exist anymore. I searched every possible word combination I could think of and after hours of scouring the internet I couldn’t find any trace that CARE4U ever existed. I also tried looking up Dr. Watkins and found a ton of doctors that go by that name but none with that wide, toothy smile I could remember so vividly. I knew I wasn’t losing it either. I was alert and lucid because of the pain I was experiencing. I stopped taking the medication. It was getting late and I decided to try to sleep and go see a real doctor in the morning as something was clearly wrong.

That night I had the most intense nightmare I have ever experienced in my entire life. I dreamt I was floating inside a vast expanse of pitch black. I was weightless in the void, drifting slowly, the sound of my heart echoing like a drum. My stomach was expanding and contracting like a balloon being inflated just to the point of exploding and then shriveling back down to its measly, wrinkled, concave form. That’s when I realized the drum sound wasn’t my heart but the sound of the kick…kick…kick inside my stomach. It grew louder and louder. My stomach expanded further and further. Eventually it burst and some kind of light and energy poured out and I awoke in a deep sweat.

I wasn’t in my bed. I was laying on the floor of my kitchen. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time. That’s when I noticed the empty pill bottle on the ground next to me. My heart sank. I looked at my phone and realized I had slept through the night AND the next day as well. My stomach began hurting again. It was swelling up as well. I slapped myself to make sure I wasn’t having one of those dreams inside of a dream. No good. I was definitely awake. As the swelling got worse I ran to the bathroom. Now it felt like something was clawing at me inside of my stomach. I could feel individual fingernails scraping the inside of me. Little toes. Elbows. I could feel the shape of something desperately trying to get out. I opened my mouth and a moaning sound came out. Not something that was being produced by my own vocal chords.

I puked.

I puked something out.

I puked some thing out.

It looked like some kind of large frog with small, human-like arms and legs. It was black and wet and had little bumps all over it. It looked up at me with human eyes. Not little black dots like frogs have but human eyes with whites, pupils, irises…everything. It jumped out of the toilet, ran down the hall and crashed out through an open window in the living room.

I sat there in amazement and shock. I didn’t know what to do. Do I call someone? Do I run? The strangest part of all though was that I felt better. Like wayyyy better. No more stomach pain and no internal trauma that I could feel. I rushed myself to the E.R. and told the nurses everything that had happened. They checked my vitals and did some scans but everything looked normal. They also did a psych exam on me and that came back normal as well. There were definite signs that I threw up and everyone just assumed I must have had bad food poisoning. I mentioned the drug I was taking and no one had heard of it. The nurse told me to stop taking it and to not trust any online physician again.

When I got back home the window was still broken, confirming any suspicions I might have that I dreamt it.

It took a few months for me to get over the shock. After that though…I haven’t experienced any anxiety or trauma. In fact I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. My job is going great, I a...

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Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fsdjh1/i_think_my_antidepression_medicine_grew_something/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CMCWrites on 2024-09-29 20:30:31+00:00.

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Did you know my eyes used to be brown?

Before I start, I must beg of you one thing: do not speculate about my identity. You already know who I am. If you have passed a radio in the local shops even once over the last decade, you've heard my voice. Perhaps you've been a rabid fan at my concerts, perhaps you physically recoil at the sound of my lisp, perhaps you're entirely neutral towards me. Love me or hate me, you know me. My situation is extremely unique, so it is difficult to anonymize my story. So please, if you can think of anything that may help me, share it, but keep my situation between us.

Since I was a lad I've been prone to acne, of all places, on the sides of my neck. My parents, my teachers, and the town’s doctor swore up and down that it was hormonal, temporary. Once my growth spurt finished, they assured me, it would be a thing of the past.

The thing that annoyed me the most about this acne is that it never came to a head. No way to pop it and find relief in watching the pus ooze out, feeling it deflate. 

This didn't stop me from trying. I would struggle for what seemed like hours in the mirror, squeezing the hard bumps between my two forefingers in hopes that they'd burst. It never happened.

Instead, my acne would only grow angrier, more inflamed, when I tried. I would enter the bathroom with a neck speckled with small rosy bumps, visible only up close. I'd exit with what looked like huge welts, no closer to being popped than when I approached the mirror in the first place. My skin, and ego, would be bruised.

So I learned to wear my hair long, to cover it up. When I was a younger teenager, it looked greasy, oafish. Though, I will admit, I grew into the look quite a bit as time went on. The fairer sex took a liking to the sensitive, long-haired poet type I had become. 

My confidence increased exponentially as a result, thank God, but I would still come home to the bathroom mirror all the same. No matter how secure in myself I felt, the mirror was my grave reminder of my embarrassment of a neck.

I must apologise for droning on about this topic for so long. It was a big deal in the way that acne is a big deal to teenagers. No one around me seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn't care.

It didn't affect the one thing that was most important to me at the time: singing.

I set up with my guitar around my tiny town, at first on the streets that weren't so crowded. A low stakes test run, if you will. I’d open my wee notebook to one of the dozens of poems I had set to a melody, and bare my heart to the world.

I loved the attention. And boy, did I get a lot of it. At the end of those first performances, I’d find my guitar case overflowing with more than a couple of quid. With my confidence boosted, I'd then move to the town’s main streets, then the square.

I was 17, about to go to uni, and I was doing about as well as one could do in our sleepy village. I was playing cafes, pubs, a party or two. It was beginning to look like an actual viable career option for me, much to my parents’ chagrin. 

Eyes were on me now, a lot of eyes. If I chose to forego uni and take a shot at a musical career, that would mean even more eyes on me. And they wouldn’t be as kind as my neighbours’ and friends’. I knew my music and lyrics could stand the test of the most judgemental ear, but to be a singer you must also, of course, look the part.

As I was becoming a little local celebrity, my acne worsened. I was prescribed a slew of ointments and pills and dealt with the numerous side effects – dryness, itching, peeling – but no medicine made the slightest dent in the issue at hand. The hard bumps underneath the surface of my skin persisted.

Eventually, I booked my first ever venue in the next village over. It was an actual concert venue, albeit a small one, and I was set to play as an opener for a local band. This would mean my biggest audience yet.

Coincidentally, I also had my biggest acne flare yet at that time. One pustule, larger than the rest, was stationed threateningly close to the centre of my neck. I would barely be able to cover it up with my hair.

How I tortured myself for days before the event, praying to whatever God that would listen to just let this one pop. I tried everything. Sticking it with a needle, covering it with toothpaste, caking it with my mother's old concealer. The eyesore on my neck remained glaringly obvious. 

Finally, half an hour before the concert, the biggest one of my life so far, I gave it one last ditch effort in the venue's bathroom mirror, and my dreams came true.

The skin split, and out leaked thick gummy spurts of yellow-green pus. It must have drained for over thirty seconds from the small fissure in my skin. I am not above admitting I let out a moan of pleasure. The thing that I had been wanting to happen for a full decade finally happened. 

When it was spent, I wiped it clean with one of those rough brown paper towels from a dispenser on the wall, and there, on my neck, was an unmistakable green eye.

The skin surrounding it looked doughy, false. It reminded me of the liquid latex I had applied to myself one Halloween to create the illusion of zombie skin sloughing off. But I touched it gingerly along the eye’s lid, and I could feel that the skin was as sensitive as my eyelids’. It was connected to my nerve endings. It was mine. 

The bright green eye, the exact colour of the infected pus, stared back at me in the mirror. I was horrified, my breath suddenly ragged. The white of the eye was pinkish, the pupil dilated. It had sparse blondish lashes on either side of the crusty gash that was the lid. It quivered, alive, seeing. And after a moment, it blinked at me. 

I gasped and jumped back from the mirror. I was frozen. 

A knock came at the door and the stagehand gave me a 5 minute warning, said I was needed on stage. The eye was on the centre-right side of my neck. I looked back and forth between the bathroom door and the mirror. Another knock on the door, more urgent this time.

At a loss for what to do, I pulled up my tee shirt up and around my neck, then buttoned up my jacket over it, creating the illusion of wearing a turtleneck. Yes, yes, that’s where my signature look came from, believe it or not. I digress. I exited the bathroom and made my way to the stage.

It was my best set yet. I’ll be honest, I don’t know how I managed it. Though I was merely the opener, a position usually doomed to a half-hearted smattering of slow claps, I got extended applause at the end of almost every song. I could feel the reverberation of the music around the hall, the audience moving and reacting to my lyrics. I swear, even the headliner didn't get as much response. 

On any other night, my spirits would have soared. But clearly, I was a bit preoccupied.

After the set I rushed back to the bathroom to check my neck. I was hoping, praying, that the eye was in my imagination, a result of pre-show jitters. But I pulled my makeshift turtleneck down and there it was, blinking at me while nestled among my neck acne.

I didn't have time to ponder too long. The bathroom door burst open and I was dragged out into the crowd to celebrate by my cheering friends and family. 

My career took off quickly from that point. I was invited to play larger venues after the success of my first show. You must forgive my ego, but my talent only improved as I began to become the artist you know today. My lyrics became more poetic, tenfold. My melodies more hypnotic. I was just entering my 20’s, and I was on the rise. Somehow my concern about the eye took a back seat. Fame is all-encompassing, after all.

And though the eye on the side of my neck was no longer my biggest concern, it was still there.

It became a pre-show ritual, in the restroom or greenroom or whatever back room to fiddle with my turtleneck until it concealed the problem to my satisfaction. I knew the eye still stared at me beneath whatever colour of stretch cotton covered it up that day. I could feel it. 

I could never communicate with it. Yes, I did try to talk to it, like a madman. “Blink thrice if you can understand me.” So mortifying to admit. But it never blinked twice, let alone thrice.

It followed movement occasionally, but infrequently enough that I was never sure if it was a coincidence or not. It was always trained on my bloody face. I was so used to having the countless eyes of a sea of concertgoers fixed on me, so eventually it didn’t unsettle me quite the way it once had. One extra eye was nothing.

My acne still hadn't cleared up either, but now I knew better than to test my luck by trying to pop anything else on my neck. 

As time passed, I was finally able to grow a substantial enough beard to cover up the problem entirely. I grew it longer and thicker to ensure there were no accidental peeks or slips or glances.

And finally, after three years paying my dues opening for other bands and singers, it was time for me to be the headliner. It wasn't a small venue either, to my delight. More eyes than ever would be on me. Everything had to be flawless from now on. My performances, my appearances.

I had to manage the absolute behemoth that my beard had become over the years. Right after I signed with my first manager, the first thing he said to me was that the “caveman look” wasn't easy to sell. Stick to the turtlenecks if I was that insecure about my acne.

So I shaved, of course. I was careful, of cours...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fsdz1d/acne_took_over_my_neck_then_my_entire_life/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Mintjump on 2024-09-29 17:31:58+00:00.

---

Knock Knock Knock

The knocking was barely loud enough to pull me out of my sleep. With my eyes drooping from tiredness, I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 3:33 AM. Who the hell was at my door at 3 in the morning?

With my back still hurting from the unpacking at this new apartment, I got up and slowly walked to my door. The white painted wooden door looked as if placed in the spotlight by the moonlight coming from the window.

Swing

I swing open the door and… no one. Whoever decided to break my sleep in the night was already gone. Maybe a drunk neighbor knocked on the wrong door before realizing their mistake? Who knows. I closed the door and retired back to my cozy sleep. You can’t blame me for not suspecting more. How could I have known the knocking would come back the next night?

Knock Knock Knock

The knocking came back, breaking my sleep yet again. My eyes shot open, and I checked my phone in frustration. 3:33 AM. I’d had a terrible day, so naturally, I stomped furiously out of the bedroom toward my door.

“This is my second day in this bloody place and you all can’t even let me sleep.” I swing open the door with a frown visible on my face.

There was no one. Of course. I grunted, locked the door, and after mourning my interrupted sleep decided to hit the bed again.

The knocking continued for another three days, leaving me restless each night. It was the same thing at the same time each night. Three knocks at 3:33 AM. The constant commotion had robbed me of sleep, and my exhaustion festered into anger. I was going to find out who was doing this.

So, I sat on my sofa all night waiting for 3:33 AM. By the time the clock hit it, I was struggling to keep my eyes open with all the willpower I had. As soon as the clock hit 3:33, I jumped up, ran to the door with all the anger that had piled up through the nights, and swung open the door yet again… to an empty hallway.

“Motherfucker lucked out today.” I whispered.

And then I heard it.

Knock Knock Knock

But this time the knocking did not come from the main door. It came from behind me. My body grew cold and my anger was replaced with a realization that made my spine shiver. Slowly, and unwillingly, I turned around.

The knocking had come from my bedroom door which was shut close. Was someone in my bedroom? Was I in danger? What should I do? Should I call the cops? All the adrenaline pumped by my anger had dried out while I contemplated what to do.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I asked loudly. When no answer came back, I slowly went and turned the doorknob of my bedroom. As the door squeakily opened, it revealed my bedroom with someone in it. All my blood dried and I stared at the person laying in my bed, unable to move a muscle as if I were in sleep paralysis. The person was… me.

I watched my mangled body, with its blood red eyes and mouth that was frozen in its scream. And then the door flew shut in my face knocking me back on the living room floor. My eyes swelled up and I curled into a little ball and cried for the remainder of the night, unable to process the fact that I just saw my very own dead body.

I must have dozed off because the next thing was me waking up the next night. With a dried mouth and tired eyes, I crawled my way to my phone in the living room and checked the time. I was a minute early. I waited for a minute until 3:33 AM hit.

Knock Knock Knock

Even though I was curled up just in front of the main door, I couldn’t muster the courage to open it. But then it flew open, showing me the empty hallway. I kept staring at the empty hallway and after a while noticed that the roof had a person stuck to it. And then, without warning, the figure dropped with a loud thud. I screamed and cried as I saw the person was my body. Laying on the floor, it looked at me with its dead eyes that bled tears of blood.

“Please Stop!” I cried.

It did not stop though. Every night, I pass out from exhaustion after crying, only to wake moments before the inevitable knock. I don’t eat or drink anymore. What's the point? The knocks have shown me so many ways that I can die, each one worse than the last. I can’t take this anymore. I want to escape but the doors won’t let me.

I am writing this at 3:30 AM. Only three minutes until the knocking shows another death of me. I just wish this time it kills me for real. Because I am scared, I am scared that this is going to continue forever.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/APCleriot on 2024-09-29 16:19:29+00:00.

---

I wish she wouldn't do that. I should have told her instead of burying my feelings until they exploded out of my mouth.

“Stop talking to me from another room!” I screamed from the kitchen.

My wife was in the front room, busy at something, probably the fish tank, and attempting to tell me about her day. We'd started the conversation in the kitchen when she characteristically left to do something else in another room.

I used to follow her around but it became apparent she would just keep leaving my vicinity until I gave up the pursuit. Then we'd have a scrambled chat filled with extended pauses and requests to repeat ourselves.

I was annoyed by this quirk of hers. I'm not sure how it didn't drive her nuts. We never really conversed in any ideal or acceptable way.

Bills got missed. Chores left undone. We didn't delegate tasks because our communication habits sucked.

“What?” she called back after my outburst.

“Fucking helllllllllll!” I roared. “God fucking damn fucking hell! Can you not stay in the same fucking room as me if you want to talk?! You started this fucking conversation!”

For a stretch of too many seconds, there was quiet.

“For fuck's sake, answer me! Or better yet, get in here! Speak to me! To my face! Not from another room! Not from a different floor! Here! Now!” Spittle crawled through my beard like the frothing of a mad dog.

Again, nothing. No response. Fuck this. I scooped up my keys and intended to hit the road for the local pub. When I passed the front room, I hesitated. My wife wasn't there after all.

“Fucking bullshit.” It didn't matter where she was, only that she wasn't in the same room as me. I was so pissed, I walked right by the car in the driveway - I usually parked on the street but didn't that day for no reason I can remember - and couldn't be bothered to go back.

As a result, I walked to some basement lounge featuring an awful band and skunky, overpriced beer. After spending too much to get inebriated, I left on the wrong side of midnight but before last call.

The calming effects of the alcohol, and time were a formula for guilt. I felt bad, and intended to apologise to her when I got home, unless she was sleeping.

Lights in the dining room and hallway said she'd waited up.

While fishing for keys, I drunkenly stumbled and shouldered the front door. It drifted open because it hadn't been fully closed.

“Dear?” I called. “Everything okay?”

“Sure is!” she chimed, from the kitchen. The adjacent living room issued the noise of some reality TV show. “Why? What's up?” A girlish giggle bubbled after the questions.

I sighed, already beginning to feel irked. With my shoes still on, I clomped down the hall and into the kitchen. “You left the front-” The lights were off, and so was the TV. She wasn't there.

“Dear?” I thought she might be hiding behind the couch. Maybe she'd felt like drinking too, and believed a lighthearted revenge prank was in order. I probably deserved it, but definitely didn't enjoy the prospect.

I went to the couch and, in the only hiding spot available, there was nothing. The only other place she could have gone would be the back deck, and I would have heard the sliding door open and close. Even drunk, however, I saw the lock had been toggled shut, a feature that only worked from inside the house.

“Dear?” I tried again, figuring I'd simply been mistaken about the TV, and her location.

“Yeah? What's up?” This time her voice and queries seemed to come from the front room. However unlikely, she must have crossed the doorway of the hallway and gone through the dining area without my noticing.

Again, too much alcohol explained the inconsistency.

“Dear, I'm-”

Not in the front room either, but something had changed, evidence of her passing: the light had been switched off.

“Are you running away from me? I understand. I just want-”

“Dear,” she called from upstairs, “would you please bring me a glass of wine? The bottle on the counter.”

I huffed, but went to do her bidding, though fulfilling such requests always made me feel like a servant. A bottle of cheap merlot, the kind we drank when we were young and broke, waited accusingly by the microwave.

Half had already been drunk, another intentional symbol of what had been lost in our relationship. Pretty passive aggressive, I thought.

“Dear?” she called from our bedroom as I brought the wine. But again, the lights were off. She wasn't there waiting.

“Dear?” I echoed back. “Where are you?”

“What do you mean? I'm over here.” She sounded happily confused.

The master bathroom. Light came from under the closed door. The showerhead hissed, and the glass door banged shut. She wanted to drink in the shower, of course.

But when I went in, there again, nothing was as it should be. No bathroom lights. No shower. No wife.

I began to feel uneasy. “Dear? What's going on?”

“Dear?” she called from elsewhere. “The wine?”

“Where are you?” Each time I asked my voice seemed quieter.

“Over here,” she said, impatiently.

I went back into the hallway. She'd shut off the lights there too. There were two other bedrooms and another bathroom behind closed doors that always, always stood open before.

“Where-”

“Here!” she shrieked, and it seemed as if her lips grazed my ear. I spun. Some of the wine spilled onto the hardwood. “Over here, dear.”

The second bathroom. My hands trembled as I reached for the handle. Light slid from under the door. Another faucet came on. She had no reason to use that tub. We never used it. It was dirty from neglect.

Praying to a god I never believed in didn't help. The bathtub wasn't running. The lights were off. No one inside.

“What the hell is going on?!” I bellowed before shivering, and flinching when she called again.

“Dear?” Her voice became patient again, and seemed to be downstairs. Had she somehow slipped behind my back? The lights had to be a trick. The shower and the tub too. It could only be revenge. Nothing else made sense.

“Stop running!” I shouted. “I'm trying to bring your wine! The wine you asked me to bring!” I tried to laugh but the sound died in my throat as lights from the front hall stretched lazily up the stairs and into the dark hallway where I could hardly dare to move.

“Dear!” she shouted, again close.

“Dear?” Again far, possibly the basement or garage.

“Dearrrrrrrrrrr,” once more, like the final breath of the dead.

My nerves snapped and I wobbled forward to the top of the stairs. I had to get out of here. I had wandered into the wrong house, a nightmare. Down, down, down the steps into shadows instead of the light promised a moment ago.

Hands stiff and useless, I tried the door. The deadbolt had been thrown by me. I always locked up everything at night. It stuck a little sometimes. Pulling on the handle and turning the switch required two hands.

Remarkably, I hadn't dropped the wine in my panicked state. Placing the glass on the nearby end table, I ignored another call from her.

“Dear, where are you trying to go? I'm not out there. No one is out there.” Her words overlapped one another. No human being talks like that! It cannot be my wife!

I opened the front door to be confronted by an unusually dense fog, full of swirling tendrils reaching forward, coming for me like clawed fingers. All of my short, rapid breaths inhaled the fumes, and smothered my airways. I fell to my knees. My vision began to fade, but not before I saw the legions of tortured visages in the gloom: all seemed to beg for relief until they realised I could do nothing. Their collective anger erupted into a cursed howl. Or maybe they were warning me.

I fell backward into the house before the first foggy finger could reach the threshold. Then I kicked shut the door, and fought unconsciousness until I could cough up whatever plague now lives in the new eternal night outside my home.

I could breathe. I could breathe. That's all that mattered until…

“Dear? What's up?” Cheerful. Too cheerful.

I practically whispered back, “N-nothing, dear.” I picked up the wine, and have been trying to bring it to her ever since. It's an endless journey through my house. She does not let me stop. If I try, the calls come sharper, louder, and with promises of harm and death.

“The wine! The wine! I'll have your skin!”

I write on my phone while on the move.

I cannot get out. I am going to die soon, I'm sure. This message is both a plea and a warning.

Help me if you can. Help my wife. I don't know what she has become.

Be kind to your significant other.

You'll miss those pet peeves when they're gone. They are part of the person you love.

I should have been patient. I shouldn't have given up following her. I shouldn't have yelled.

I miss my wife. I'm afraid I won't see her again. I'm afraid I will.

It'll be the end soon if I don't. It will be death, I know, if she lets me find her, if I see the horror I have made.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheBatBelfry on 2024-09-29 10:53:20+00:00.

---

My name is Allison Marshall. Alice for short. And i'm NOT afraid of the dark.

I was around 11-12 when I found the old teddy bear under my bed. I was drawing and dropped my crayon between the gap.

I got out of bed and grabbed my flashlight. Bringing myself down to the ground, I shun the light underneath to find a teddy bear lying next to my crayon.

As soon as the light hit it, the bear sat up and looked at me. I gasped and turned the flashlight off while quickly getting back up on my feet.

Doubting what I seen, I crouch and point the light back to the bear who once again sat up and stared at me.

Being a curious child, I experimented with the bear who would only move in the light. Didn't move at all when in the dark.

I remember having little playdates with the teddy bear after my mother would go to sleep. Bonding over the following days. Eventually I adopted my newfound friend as Barry the Bear.

There was a particular game Barry liked to play. Hide and Seek.

But instead of hiding to have me find him, Barry would collect certain objects like a doll, a jack in the box, and a cymbal monkey.

This game of hide and seek followed different rules. I turn the light off to let Barry wander in the dark. I count to ten and turn the light on. I then make my guess to which toy Barry is currently behind.

I pointed at the cymbal monkey to which the jack in the box popped out on its own. Light off then on, I pointed at the doll to which the monkey started jumping. Light off and on, I pointed at the jack in the box. It popped out and I cheered victoriously.

One night, I was too tired to play so I went straight to sleep. The light in my mother's room came on and the sound of glass breaking woke me up.

I got up and went to go check on her. She stood there lifeless. I poked her arm to see if she was okay. She turned her head revealing a wide uncanny smile on her face. Her eyes completely black.

I stepped away and asked if she was alright. She pushed me into the hall and walked over to the drawers. I ran to my room and locked the door. I then sat in the darkest corner of my room and waited.

Some time passed and the house was completely silent. I quietly walked towards the door and peeked under it. A kitchen knife came swinging through the gap, sinking directly into my right eye.

I screamed in horror and pulled away. My hand on my injured eye as blood rushed out, I used my free hand to open the window then slid under my bed. I covered my mouth as my mother used the knife to slide past the lock and burst the door wide open.

A burning candle was shoved into her mouth as a light source. The wax melted away at her cheeks and chin.

She headed to the window and just as she peeked her head over, I came out from under the bed and pushed her. Her body fell down 4 stories and landed on the trash can below.

I looked out the window once then went to the living room to call 911. They showed up a few minutes later and took me to the hospital.

Over the years, I went home to home and eventually grew out of foster care. I now work as a tattoo artist in the downtown area and live in a simple studio apartment.

Several doctors offered me glass eyes but I stuck with an eye patch as a reminder of that night.

It took a while to get over my fear of light. I was paranoid for a long time and only stayed in dark areas, taking only the night shifts.

But as I grew older, and the more time I had to process. It finally came to me. How Barry switched from toy to toy. Possessing my mother.

It was never the toys or my mother. It was their shadow.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-09-29 08:13:24+00:00.

---

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

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

Alright, I should probably slow down. Start where I left off last time. If you’re new to this schtick, go start at the beginning. By the way, I thought I should provide you guys with an easy way to keep track of these experiences, if only to have a neat little log of my death throes. So, I made an index on its own dedicated subreddit. I’ll keep updating it as and when I post, so check back every so often if you’re interested. In the meantime, if you want to discuss anything, feel free to drop a post or two there. I’ll try to be involved, provided I’m not actively in the jaws of some monstrosity at that point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He came back. And he died.”

He nodded. “And he died.”

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We faced each other across a small table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A lot to keep track of.”

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

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

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

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

“Ah.” Durham scratched his chin, smiling. “That’s a good question, ...

---

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

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/WINDY_ORBITS_ on 2024-09-28 16:58:21+00:00.

---

When I was sixteen, my family moved into an old Victorian house on Elderberry Lane. It had character, with its creaking floors, faded wallpaper, and the kind of charm that seemed to whisper stories from its past. My parents were enamored, but I felt a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake.

From the moment we stepped inside, I noticed something off about the place. The air was thick, almost as if it were holding its breath. At night, I would hear the faint sound of laughter echoing through the halls, but when I followed the sound, I found nothing—just shadows dancing in the moonlight.

As weeks passed, I grew more familiar with the house’s quirks. I discovered a dusty attic filled with old furniture and boxes of forgotten memories. Among the clutter, I found an antique mirror, its surface clouded with age. I decided to clean it, and as I did, a chill crept down my spine. The reflection stared back at me, but the room behind me seemed darker, almost as if something were hiding in the shadows.

One night, while lying in bed, I was jolted awake by a soft tapping sound. It was rhythmic, almost like someone was trying to get my attention. I sat up, straining to hear, and my heart dropped when I recognized the familiar sound of laughter—the same laughter that haunted my dreams. Gathering my courage, I slipped out of bed and followed the sound.

I crept down the hall, the old wooden floorboards groaning beneath my feet. As I reached the attic door, the laughter stopped. I hesitated, feeling a strange pull to open the door. With a deep breath, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

The attic was dimly lit by a single window, the moonlight casting eerie shadows across the room. My heart raced as I scanned the area, my eyes landing on the mirror. It stood against the wall, now reflecting an image that sent a shiver down my spine.

In the mirror, I saw not just my own reflection, but the outline of a girl—her face pale, eyes wide and hollow. I stepped closer, and the girl seemed to mimic my movements, her mouth moving but no sound escaping. Suddenly, a cold breeze rushed through the attic, extinguishing the flickering candlelight. I stumbled back, the mirror’s surface shimmering as if it were alive.

Terrified, I fled back to my room, locking the door behind me. That night, I hardly slept, every creak of the house sending my heart racing. The next morning, I decided to confide in my best friend, Emily, who had always been fascinated by the supernatural.

When I told her about the mirror and the girl, she was intrigued. “We should do a séance!” she exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. I was hesitant, but part of me wanted to know more about what was happening in my house. After some convincing, I agreed.

That weekend, we gathered in the attic with candles, a Ouija board, and a sense of dread. As we sat in a circle, the air grew colder. I could feel a presence, heavy and suffocating. We placed our fingers on the planchette, and Emily began to ask questions.

“Is anyone here with us?” she asked, her voice shaking. The planchette moved slowly, spelling out “Y-E-S.”

“What do you want?” I asked, my heart pounding. The planchette darted to “G-I-R-L.”

“Who are you?” Emily asked, her face pale. It spelled “S-A-R-A-H.”

As the session continued, we learned that Sarah was a girl who had lived in the house over a century ago. She had gone missing one night, and her body was never found. My stomach churned with a mix of fear and sadness.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, and the planchette spelled out “H-E-L-P.”

That’s when everything went wrong. The attic temperature plummeted, and a deafening crash echoed through the room. The mirror shattered, sending shards flying. In the chaos, Emily and I screamed, but we couldn’t escape the sense of dread that enveloped us.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shards, a distorted version of Sarah with hollow eyes and a haunting smile. “Help me,” she whispered, and I felt an icy grip on my arm.

In a panic, I shouted for her to leave me alone, and with that, the figure vanished, but the air remained thick with tension. We fled the attic, not daring to look back.

For days afterward, the house felt different. I started to notice more strange occurrences—doors slamming, shadows flitting by. Emily suggested we research the house’s history, and what we found only deepened my dread. Sarah hadn’t just gone missing; she had been murdered by a family member who wanted her inheritance.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I lay in bed, wide awake, when I heard the soft laughter again, this time coming from the hallway. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I had to confront whatever was haunting my home.

Arming myself with a flashlight, I crept down the hall to the attic, ready to face the truth. I pushed the door open, and the air felt electric. The moonlight illuminated the remnants of the shattered mirror. As I stepped inside, I felt a cold breath on my neck.

“Help me,” a whisper echoed, sending chills down my spine. I turned to see Sarah’s figure hovering near the broken mirror. “I’m trapped here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Why me?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Because you can help me find peace.”

I realized then that Sarah was not a monster but a victim, trapped in a cycle of pain and anger. I took a deep breath, determination flooding through me. “How can I help you?”

She pointed to the shards of glass scattered across the floor. “Find my locket,” she whispered. “It holds my spirit.”

With newfound purpose, I began searching the attic. Hours passed, but I couldn’t find it. Just as I was about to give up, my fingers brushed against something cool and metallic. I pulled out a small, heart-shaped locket, its surface tarnished but beautiful.

As I opened it, a warm light enveloped the attic, and Sarah’s figure shimmered before me. “Thank you,” she said, a serene smile on her face. “Now I can finally rest.”

The air grew lighter, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me. With that, Sarah’s figure faded, leaving the attic silent. I knew I had freed her spirit, and in doing so, I had liberated myself from the fear that had haunted me for so long.

In the days that followed, the house felt different—lighter, more welcoming. The laughter faded, replaced by the comforting creaks of an old home. While I’d never forget my experience, I knew that Elderberry Lane would always hold a piece of me, and I would forever cherish the memory of the girl who taught me the importance of compassion and understanding.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/philosophysubboy on 2024-09-29 04:56:29+00:00.

---

I’ve been working for a cleaning company for a couple of years now, and you see some weird stuff, but nothing compares to what happened at the old Fischer house. The memory of that day still crawls under my skin, and sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever shake the feeling that something is watching me—something dark.

It started like any other job. Mrs. Fischer had passed away a few weeks ago, and her family wanted the place cleaned up so they could sell it. The house was big, a dusty old thing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thick woods that seemed to swallow up the sunlight. It was one of those places that immediately felt wrong the moment you stepped inside.

The air was stale, thick with the smell of rot and neglect. Every step I took on the creaky wooden floors echoed through the empty rooms, the only other sound being the wind outside rattling the broken windows. I started in the living room, wiping down furniture and sweeping the floor, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that had settled in my gut.

It was in one of the upstairs bedrooms where I found it—a small, leather-bound diary tucked under a loose floorboard. The diary looked ancient, the pages yellowed and brittle, the leather cracked from age. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just some old family keepsake.

But when I opened it, something changed in the air around me.

The first page was written in shaky, old-fashioned handwriting, dated July 12th, 1910. It was signed by a priest named Father Augustine. His words were strange, like he was documenting something terrible that had happened.

"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. I write this to recount the horrors that befell the village of St. Cuthbert, for my soul will never rest until the truth is known."

I kept reading, feeling a shiver crawl up my spine.

"It began with the children. Their laughter twisted into screams, and their eyes... their eyes turned black as night. One by one, they fell to the curse, speaking in tongues, writhing like serpents upon the ground. At first, we thought it was a sickness, but it was not of this world. It was the work of the devil himself."

The room suddenly felt colder, and I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing behind me. But the house was empty. I was alone. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to keep reading.

"I was called to the village when the first child died. Her body twisted in unnatural ways, her mouth open in a silent scream. The villagers whispered of demons, of something unholy that had come to our land. I did not believe them. I was a man of God. I was a fool."

"The first exorcism failed."

"Deus in adiutorium meum intende. The words of the ritual did nothing. The child laughed—a laugh that was not her own. She spoke to me in the voice of a thousand serpents, mocking God, mocking my faith. And then she died, her body turning cold and stiff in my arms."*

I slammed the book shut, my heart racing. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, a creeping sense of dread that was getting harder to ignore. But I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know more.

I opened the diary again, flipping through the pages. The priest's handwriting grew more frantic as the entries went on, his Latin prayers scattered throughout the text, as if he were desperately trying to cling to his faith.

"I have seen the face of evil. It wears the skin of the innocent, but its soul is black. The demon is no longer in one body. It moves through the village like a plague, corrupting, consuming. I tried to perform another exorcism tonight. It went wrong—so very wrong."

"Daemones me circumdederunt. The demon was stronger than I could have imagined. It spoke my name. It knew me. It taunted me, saying it had been waiting for me. I could feel its presence in the room, crawling beneath my skin, filling the air with its stench."*

Suddenly, I heard a soft creak behind me. I jumped, the diary slipping from my hands and falling to the floor. I whipped around, my heart in my throat, but the room was still empty. The shadows seemed to shift, though, moving in ways that didn’t feel right.

It was like something was here with me.

I picked up the diary again, my hands shaking. I wanted to stop reading, but something was pulling me in, like the words had a power of their own. I flipped to the last entry, dated October 31st, 1910.

"The village is lost. The demon has claimed them all. Men, women, children—it moves through them like a plague, leaving only death and madness in its wake. I hear its voice in my sleep now. It whispers to me, calls to me. I know what I must do."

"This is no longer a battle of faith. This is survival. I will confront it tonight. Fiat voluntas tua. If these are my last words, let it be known that I fought, though I fear I fight in vain."

The last line was written in shaky, barely legible script.

"I hear it now. It is coming for me."

As soon as I finished reading, the wind outside picked up, howling against the windows. The house groaned, the floorboards creaking as if something heavy was moving through the halls. My breath came in short, panicked bursts, and every instinct told me to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

Then, the whispers started.

They were soft at first, like the wind slipping through cracks in the walls, but they grew louder, more insistent. Words I couldn’t understand, spoken in a language that made my skin crawl. The same language that Father Augustine had written in.

"Daemones... ad te veniunt..."

The room seemed to darken, the shadows stretching across the walls, twisting and writhing like something alive. My heart pounded in my chest, and I backed toward the door, clutching the diary like it was my only lifeline.

But then I saw it.

In the corner of the room, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood. It was tall, its skin pale and stretched tight over its bones, its eyes black and empty. It didn’t move, but I could feel its gaze on me, cold and malevolent.

My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I was frozen in place, unable to look away from the thing in the corner. Then, it smiled.

The smile stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in half, revealing rows of sharp, blackened teeth. And then it spoke, its voice a low, guttural rasp that seemed to echo inside my head.

"Fiat voluntas tua."

I bolted. I ran faster than I’ve ever run before, down the stairs, through the darkened halls, out the front door. I didn’t stop until I was in my car, slamming the door behind me and fumbling for the keys.

The house loomed in the rearview mirror as I sped away, its dark windows staring after me like eyes.

I never went back to the Fischer house. I quit my job the next day, moved to a new town, tried to forget everything I’d read in that diary. But I can’t shake the feeling that something followed me. The whispers still come at night, creeping into the edges of my dreams, filling my mind with dark, ancient words I don’t understand.

And right now as I'm writing this, I feel like I’m being watched. Like there’s something standing in the corner of the room, smiling.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wild-Tea-9242 on 2024-09-28 18:57:02+00:00.

---

We ran into the Eye Ripper house and locked the front door. I closed the curtains of the front windows but not before seeing the wraiths we had disturbed in the forest flood onto the pavement. Some of them shambled, some of them floated, some of them sprinted, some of them even seemed to glitch forward like they were teleporting.

Yazmine shuddered and hugged herself as she sat on the sofa pushed against the wall. It was just a minute before those things began banging on the front door, a cacophony of ghostly utterances bleeding through into the house.

“Come on, we're going into the basement,” I whispered as I tugged Yazmine along to the kitchen, “there's a way we can escape in there if they get in.”

We ran into the basement and shut the door behind us, sitting on the top step and listening in case one of those things broke in. It felt like an hour had passed, with the distant sounds of ghoulish wailing and fists banging against the front door aside from our soft breathing.

I heard footsteps in the kitchen and felt fear shoot through me. “They got in.” I panicked as I stood. The doorknob twisted as someone tried to get through the basement door. “Come on, Yaz!” I grabbed her shoulder, ready to make a break for the crawlspace, then:

“Dude, Grace, it's me, open the goddamn door.” Vanessa hissed from the other side.

I unlocked the door to the sight of the blonde alt girl holding the sachet in one hand and pinching her nostrils closed with her other hand. She seemed to be panting, her forehead beaded with perspiration.

“Where's that fucking ghost kid?” She asked, the look on her face making it clear she was fed up. “I had to outrun so many of those things and I got in through the back door but now they're blocking that exit, too.”

“We'll use the crawlspace,” I took the sachet from her and handed the camera back. “I don't know where William is, but the ouija is down here, so we should be able to call him.”

I led the way back downstairs. After collecting the Ouija board and planchette from where it had been thrown the last time we used it, we set it up in front of the furnace and sat ourselves around it. We didn't have candles but we set up flashlights to illuminate the area again.

I squeezed Yazmine's hand, noticing the faraway look on her face, “Are you okay?”

“I just want this to be over.” She replied, shaking her head.

“Let's get it over with, then,” Vanessa took a deep breath, “is the spirit of-”

The ragged scream of a woman alongside frantic banging against the basement door resounded throughout the room.

“Um, Vanessa, did you lock the back door?” I asked slowly.

Vanessa blinked at me. “Uh-”

“GIVE IT BACK!” The only words I could make out among the wails, whispers, crying, and laughter leaked through the basement door. “GIVE US OUR EYES BACK!”

“You didn't!” Spit flew out my mouth as I glared accusingly at Vanessa.

“Fuck, I'm sorry, I forgot!” Tears ran down her cheeks.

“We're just lucky they can't go through fucking walls.” I spat, looking down at the board. “Just hurry up and say the words!”

“Is the spirit of William Crawford present?” The words rushed out of Vanessa's mouth clumsily. “We have something you might want.”

“There.” Yazmine pointed behind Vanessa, scaring the living daylights out of her as she whirled around and saw the apparition of the brunette little boy peeking around the corner of the entryway to the other room.

“Here!” Vanessa hastily snatched the sachet from me and raised it to him. He crept forward almost shyly, emerging from the shadow into the flashlight.

I stood up and grabbed the sachet back, staring at the spirit with a hard look on my face. Vanessa and Yazmine looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Grace, are you an idiot?!” Vanessa demanded to know.

William reached his white fingers out, his eyeless face contorted into a frozen expression of rage from the moment he appeared. His mouth was open in a way that implied he was yelling, not in fear or pain but anger, and his dark eyebrows were furrowed over his empty sockets. His presence felt like death, as if the Grim Reaper were looking over us, and the edges of his flesh were transparent. He seemed the most inhuman out of every entity we had encountered, his skin so light it was nearly transparent, an intricate spider web of black veins visible all throughout his body. He was more ghost-like even compared to the other kids, he almost seemed like a hologram or an image displayed in front of us by an old school projector.

“If I give you this,” I began after swallowing the lump in my throat, “you have to let us go, and you have to set free all the souls you've trapped here. They weren't responsible for what happened to you, and what you're doing is very bad.”

There was silence as William seemed to stare at me with the two dark pools set into his face, no humanity evident in him at all, from the way his body was frozen in the same rigid posture, with his hand reaching, to his face not moving a muscle. Then, a slow moan, like an injured zombie, croaked from deep within his throat as he was suddenly inches closer to me without ever moving his legs. Still reaching for the sachet.

“No!” I snapped, lifting it away from him. I could hear Vanessa's labored breathing behind me as she panicked at my rash actions. “You have to promise…pinky promise.” Sticking my pinky out, I tried to appeal to the little kid that was likely still hidden deep within the evil that had corrupted his soul.

There was another long silence as his head tilted down with him staring unwaveringly at my pinky. Then, the rage filled expression quite literally faded from his face like a PowerPoint transition, into a look of regretful sorrow. His eyebrows were upturned and his mouth shaped into a quivering whimper with wrinkles spread along his chin as if he were about to burst into tears. His hand, without any sort of motion, switched from expectantly awaiting me putting the sachet in his hands to holding his little pinky out. I linked our pinky fingers, and shivered as his flesh felt like touching a hard block of ice.

Then, I gave him his eyes back. He cradled the sachet in his cupped hands, the same look of silent weeping frozen on his face as he, like all the others, rescinded into the darkness and vanished. His presence departing felt like Armageddon storm clouds withdrawing from the sky and making way for a smiling sun and wispy clouds. The atmosphere seemed lighter. The banging and hollering outside the basement had ceased.

The three of us hugged, crying in the basement, which now felt safer as it was relieved of that oppressive atmosphere it had before. Instead of escaping via the crawlspace, we walked out the front door. The ghosts from the woods were still out there, but now their backs were facing us and they were calmly walking away, down the street. We were happy to find that John had forgotten his keys in the house when he left earlier, although it was bittersweet knowing we would use his car to get out of this mess without him riding along with us.

Vanessa, being the only one with the ability to drive out of the three of us, took the driver's seat and inserted the key in the ignition. She placed the camera on the middle console, next to Yazmine who was riding shotgun. I sat in the middle of the back seat and buckled my seatbelt as she made a U-turn and drove slowly out of there. I watched the Eye Ripper house and the unfinished suburb get smaller on the horizon. I also watched the spirits leaving with us, and among them was John, Bryce, and Zack. Vanessa cried softly as we passed them, sniffing snot back up her nose and wiping her face. I felt numb and simply observed them as we passed, same as Yazmine. The ghosts didn't have their eyes back but I wasn't too concerned. I assumed that if they were walking out of this place without attacking anyone, then they were free. William had honored my request.

The sun was rising, finally. The peachy light of dawn entered the car as we drove along the road flanked by trees. I rolled down the window a bit and heard birdsong, and a bug smacked against the windshield. The critters were back.

“That place…” I said. “I think it was another realm.”

Vanessa nodded. “Yeah, that explains why nothing living was there, and why none of those missing people's cars were found. That car graveyard in the woods was so creepy. It's so creepy that they hid evidence of people being there. Now that I think about it, all that stuff people left behind must've appeared after we entered the realm. When we left the basement it seemed like less stuff was in there. At first I thought we entered the realm when we did the Ouija board thing, but then I got to thinking, it must've happened as soon as we stepped foot in that basement. The basement was basically a gateway and…”

Her rambling became white noise as I looked out the window, reflecting on everything and being so relieved I was finally going home.

Then I looked at Yazmine's window and my heart stopped.

She was looking almost wistfully out the window as well, and thanks to the light of daybreak I could see her reflection in the glass.

Her reflection was eyeless.

Immediately, it felt like the air was short and it was impossible to breathe.

No… No, no, NO. Not her too. Anyone but her.

I closed my eyes and rubbed them vigorously, hoping it was a hallucination brought on by stress and trauma. When I ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1frle81/we_were_trapped_in_an_abandoned_suburb_pt6_finale/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HailtokingTeddy on 2024-09-28 17:29:45+00:00.

---

Below is what is accepted to be the official transcript of the Cockpit Voice Recorder of Sky Bridge Logistics (SBL) Flight 729. This Transcript was transcribed with the help of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), The Federal Security Service (FSB) of Moscow, the Interstate Aviation Committee (IAC) of Moscow, with help from the United Nations. All of which have signed off on this copy being accessible to [Redacted] to help further understand the cause and nature of the incident in question.

Due to the Investigation being ongoing at this time, it was agreed upon by all parties involved that this Transcript not be released to the public in any capacity to avoid any unwanted attention towards the investigation. Any and all personnel who violate this agreement shall be met with both disciplinary (full termination) and legal action as necessary.

Description of Flight in question: SBL Flight 729 is a Tupolev TU-204-100C aircraft, acquisitioned by the United States government (presidential office) in connection with the Russian Federation (Kremlin Seal) for the transport of sensitive cargo. Maximum takeoff weight: 103mt Date of last Maintenance Check: August 7th, 2023 State of Aircraft (Before Incident): Flight Ready State of Aircraft (Currently): Presumed Flight Ready

Due to the extremely volatile nature of this joint operation, the amount of information within this document is all you will have to use to help in the process of the investigation

Aboard SBL Flight 729 during the incident flight was forty-seven gas canisters, two separate lab equipment kits that included heavy machinery, a supply of Hazmat suits outfitted to withstand the contents of the aforementioned canisters, and one offloader for the combined weight of 54mt

The Flight Crew of SBL Flight 729 were as follows:

Cpt. Joseph "Matchbox" McCoy, United States Air force - Pilot (age 39) Kpt. Maksim Glazastov, Russian Aerospace Force - Co-pilot (age 37) Sqn Ldr Zahir Rao, Indian Air Force - Flight Engineer (age 42)

The Flight was scheduled to take off at 0600 UTC on August 9th, 2023, however, it had been delayed to 0645 UTC due to complications with both loading the aforementioned cargo, and clearance issues between the main 2 governments involved. At approximately 0647 UTC, SBL Flight 729 took off from runway 9/27 on Fort Liberty Airforce Base, North Carolina, heading East towards it's intended Destination of Ukrainka Air Base in Amur Oblast, Russia. This flight was scheduled to make a refueling stop in Istanbul. The flight lasted a total of 16 minutes. Exactly 9 minutes into the flight, a Mayday was sent out by Captain McCoy to the Air Traffic Control tower where he was cleared to return to Fort Liberty. Captain McCoy successfully made a 180° turn at flight level 89, and began his descent. Eye witnesses report seeing the aircraft dumping fuel and descending "rapidly" and flying "sluggishly" before making touchdown at 0703 UTC. Emergency vehicles were on seen awaiting the doors of the aircraft to open, which they never did. Fearing the pilots and crew had fallen unconscious from whatever emergency had caused their return, the emergency responders rushed to the aircraft at 0710 UTC. Upon entering the aircraft they were met with what one responder called "dark blue smoke" blowing out of the open door. Once the smoke cleared, responders entered the airplane to retrieve the crew and search for a fire. No fire was located, nor was any member of the crew.

After the engines were shut off by a responder and extensive search was done in and around the aircraft looking for any survivors or remains, none were located. All cargo from the aircraft was removed and carefully examined. One of the canisters marked as "HOPCCN" had suffered minor damage causing the contents to drain to about 95% capacity. Apart from this, all else appeared normal.

The agency of [Redacted] is tasked with listening and reviewing the Transcript of the CVR Recording of the flight in question, which has been approved by both governments. All parties involved are to be notified immediately and simultaneously if there is a discovery made from your findings. To help, the names of the crew will be placed beside their respective CAMs.

CVR OF FLIGHT 729 0647 CAM-2 (Maksim) V1

Cam-1(McCoy) Rotate Gears up.

ATC- Flight 729 you are cleared to climb to flight level 160

0648 Cam-2(Maksim) Cleared for flight level 160. Affirm

Cam-1(McCoy) Climbing to Flight level 160.

(Sound of engine rpms increasing)

Not a bad day for flying, eh boys?

0649 Cam-2(Maksim) I'd agree

Cam-3(Rao) Affirm from back here

(Undetermined noise)

Cam-2(Maksim) What was that?

0650 Cam-1(McCoy) I heard it too. Sounded like a bird maybe

Cam-3(Rao) No. It came from inside.

Cam-2(Maksim) Inside? Something in the plane?

0651 Cam-1(McCoy) Maybe something wasn't tied down enough. No indicator lights flashing. You got anything?

Cam-2(Maksim) Negative. All green

Cam-3(Rao) Do you smell that? Smells like... eggs

Cam-1(McCoy) Gas leak? Should we mask up? I don't smell anything. Do you?

Cam-2(Maksim) Not yet. You still smell it Rao?

0652 Cam-3(Rao) Yes.. getting stronger. Maybe mask up?

Cam-2(Maksim) Affirm. Masking

Cam-1(McCoy) Masking. Should we call it in? I still don't smell anything.

Cam-2(Maksim) Negative. They will just have us turn around. We can check at Istan 0653 Cam-1(McCoy) Alright.

(Undetermined noise)

Cam-2(Maksim) That was louder that time. Sounded like someone banging on the cockpit door

Cam-3(Rao) I'll check. One second. Rao stands and opens the cockpit door at this time

Cam-1(McCoy) Is...Is that smoke?

0654

Cam-2(Maksim) Could be. I don't have any indicators on. Maybe the cargo?

Cam-3(Rao) Call it in. I can barely see back there.

0655 Cam-1(McCoy) - to ATC Radio Flight 729 Mayday Mayday Mayday

ATC Flight 729 this is tower, state your emergency.

Cam-1(McCoy) Flight 729 we have a possible gas leak in our cargo looks like smoke requesting an immediate 180 degree turn back to FLA Base.

0656 ATC Copy flight 729. Return to Base authorized turn right and descend to flight level 050. Dump fuel after turn

Cam-1(McCoy) Turning right and descending to flight level 050 flight 729.

Cam-2(Maksim) Hard to see. It's getting heavier

Cam-3(Rao) Dumping fuel. Are masks compromised? I'm getting a bit nervous.

0657

Cam-2(Maksim) I don't know. What do you see? It's hard to tell.

Cam-1(McCoy) Easy guys. It's not far. We haven't been up here long.

Cam-3(Rao) Oh gods. Oh gods what is happening*

translated from Hindi Cam-2(Maksim) What is it Rao?

Cam-3(Rao) Hands. My hands. I can see past them* *translated from Hindi

0658 Cam-1(McCoy) What's he saying? I can't understand.

Cam-2(Maksim) Something about his hands. Did you touch something? I can barely see you Rao. In the smoke.

Cam-1(McCoy) There isn't that much smoke what are you- oh Jesus Christ! Maksim your eyes!

Cam-2(Maksim) What do you mean captain? What is it? It is happening* *translated from Russian

Cam-3(Rao) Can't touch the board. Hands go in it. Why?* *Translated from Hindi 0659 Cam-1(McCoy) - to ATC Mayday. Mayday. Flight 729 in need of medical on landing. Repeat. In need of medical when landing. Something isn't right.

ATC Flight 729 acknowledged. Will have rescue personnel at the ready. What's going on?

Cam-2(Maksim) Captain. Captain I can't see. Can you fly? I can't see. What is it?* *Translated from Russian Cam-1(McCoy) - to ATC I-I don't know. Maksim's eyes. They're- they're empty. I-I can't see them.

Cam-2(Maksim) Captain. What? Am I dying?* *Translated from Russian

0700 ATC flight 729 can you repeat? Did you say eyes?

Cam-1(McCoy) Just hang in there pal. I'm gonna land this thing. You will be fine. Rao? Is fuel dumped?..... Rao? Oh god.

ATC Flight 729 can you repeat? Are you receiving?

Cam-2(Maksim) What.... what is it? Is Rao alive?* *Translated

Cam-1(McCoy) It's- It's just his clothes. Why?

0701 ATC Flight 729 we have your visual. Can you hear us?

Cam-1(McCoy) - to ATC Yes. Yes Flight 729 we hear you. I'm...I'm trying to put her down. My-my hands keep slipping. Through the Yoke. Holy fucking shit my hands are slipping through the Yoke.

Cam-2(Maksim) God. I can't. Feel. My hands. Ugh

Cam-1(McCoy) Just stay with me buddy! I can see the runway. We are almost there. I'm keeping it steady. Just hold on!

ATC Flight 729 we have the runway clear. Are you able to land?

Cam-1(McCoy) - To ATC I- I think so. I haven't lost it. Not yet. Gears are down. I-

(Sound of plane touching down)

0702 Cam-1(McCoy) Down. Brakes. Feet in floor. Breaks. I can't hit the buttons. What is happening. Maksim is gone too. Holy fuck he's gone. I-

(Undetermined noise)

Cam-1,2,3(unknown) staticit's donestatic

End of transmission.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Constant_Pace5407 on 2024-09-28 04:54:03+00:00.

---

We had an uncle, Cooper, and would occasionally visit his family, though they usually came to our place. There was always something unsettling about them. They gave off a chilling vibe I could never quite explain. Aunt Anna, in particular, always told strange stories—stories I could never tell if they were meant as jokes or rooted in some disturbing truth. There was something fundamentally off about her and my older cousin, Alyssa. The younger brother, Sam, seemed fine—maybe he was too young to be tainted by whatever was wrong with the rest of the family. Uncle Cooper always seemed distant, like he was moving through life in a daze.

One day, they shared another eerie tale—this time about a little boy gasping for breath while his parents stood by, smiling. It gave me goosebumps. There was always something in their stories, a sense of truth, that made them even more terrifying.

Days passed, and I had almost forgotten about it when, out of the blue, we received an invitation to dinner at their place. It was a large gathering with 4-5 other families. Out of courtesy, my parents accepted. So, on a Friday night, my parents, my older brother Paul, and I went over. Uncle Peter and Aunt Nina, two of the kindest people I knew, were also there.

As we entered, they gave each of us a necklace with a large stone attached to it. We assumed it was a simple gesture of hospitality, nothing out of the ordinary in the city. Everything seemed normal at first. The adults mingled, drinks were poured, and people chatted. I didn’t know many of the guests, but it felt like just another social event.

Uncle Cooper had a large lawn outside, and as the evening went on, more and more people, including my parents and Paul, moved outside to smoke. It was winter, and a thick fog had settled, making it hard to see anything out there. The necklace I was wearing began to feel heavy, so I handed it to Aunt Nina for safekeeping and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

That’s when I saw something through the kitchen window. Someone was gasping for breath outside while Alyssa watched with a sinister smile on her face. It was as if she was somehow controlling him. Fear gripped me. I tried to run back inside, but Alyssa saw me and gave me the creepiest smile.

Panicking, I rushed into the living room, hoping to find someone—anyone. But the room was nearly empty. The only person left was Uncle Peter, who was clearly a bit tipsy. I told him what I had seen, but he didn’t take me seriously—probably assuming I was just being paranoid like a typical teenager. We went outside to check, but the moment I stepped out, I couldn't breathe. It was like something was suffocating me. We rushed back inside, and suddenly I could breathe again. Uncle Peter still thought I was overreacting.

I asked him where Aunt Nina was because, deep down, I had a gut feeling that I needed that necklace to go outside.

Uncle Peter called Aunt Nina on her cell, who said she had left the necklace on the table in the living room. But something was off—Nina would never have just stayed outside if she thought I was scared. Uncle Peter started to sense it too. We frantically searched for the necklace when Aunt Anna, Uncle Cooper, and Alyssa walked in, their faces twisted into sinister smiles. Aunt Anna touched Uncle Peter lightly, and his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes went blank, and suddenly he wasn’t in control anymore. He grabbed a knife and started walking toward me.

Terrified, I backed away as Uncle Peter advanced, all while Aunt Anna, Uncle Cooper, and Alyssa watched in silence. In a fake, eerie voice, Peter asked Cooper, "What are you doing, Peter? Are you okay, Nicole?" But I knew something was horribly wrong. I managed to dodge Peter’s attack and ran, frantically searching for the necklace. When I finally found it, I grabbed it and dashed outside.

What I saw outside was chaos—six bodies lay scattered across the lawn. It looked like some twisted version of the Hunger Games. Desperate, I searched for my parents and brother, but they were nowhere to be found. I fled into a nearby deserted street, calling for my mom, dad, and Paul.

Eventually, I heard my mom’s voice calling for me. When we found each other, she hugged me tightly. She had a wound on her head but seemed otherwise fine. I asked where Dad and Paul were, and she said they had gone looking for me while she hid in one of the empty houses. We rushed back into the house, but doing so seemed to reveal our location to whoever was hunting us.

I asked my mom what was happening, but she simply told me to be quiet and warned me not to trust anyone—not even Dad or Paul—and to never, under any circumstances, let Cooper’s family touch me.

Just then, we heard the door creak open. It was Sam, crying softly and asking if we were there. He seemed scared and confused, saying his parents were acting strange. My mom, despite my pleas, couldn’t resist her motherly instinct. She asked me to stay hidden and bolt if anything goes wrong. Alyssa was waiting outside and just as my mom revealed herself, Alyssa entered the house. Horrified, I slipped out the fire exit, leaving my mom behind and feeling helpless and alone.

I found Paul not long after—or rather, he found me. He came out of nowhere and attacked me, choking me. Desperate, I grabbed at everything around me, including his necklace, which snapped off. As soon as it did, Paul stopped choking me and seemed like himself again. But he started suffocating like I had before. I quickly put the necklace back on him, and he returned to normal. That’s when we realized that the necklaces were somehow protecting us, breaking whatever spell was controlling them.

We needed to find our parents and escape. Fortunately, Mom found us, but Dad was still missing. After another near-deadly encounter, Mom decided we had to leave immediately. We ran for the car, but when we reached it, Alyssa, Peter, Anna, and even little Sam were already waiting for us.

We barely made it to the car. As mom turned on the ignition, Aunt Anna called out to Paul, and just from glancing back at her, he changed. He started attacking Mom, smashing her head against the steering wheel. It had all been a trap—Paul had never truly been free from their control.

In a panic, I grabbed the pepper spray my mom had given me and sprayed it into Paul’s eyes. We managed to shove him out of the car and sped off, leaving the horror behind us. But no investigation was ever done. No one believed our story. We moved far away, but even now, at 18, I’m still haunted by what happened that night. The scars may have healed, but the memories never will.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2024-09-28 21:14:56+00:00.

---

I write this as a reminder. To put all that I’ve seen and heard into words. For far too long, I’ve looked back on these past few years as something impossible; something that happened to someone else. But that’s far from the truth, even if the truth and I have always had a tentative relationship at the best of times.

Consider this a confession. A peek behind the curtain of something I never would’ve believed.

 

Let’s start from the top.

My mother was a police officer in a busy metropolitan area. I never wanted to be a police officer like her, but it seemed inevitable. No matter what I tried to study, I would always fall back on that familiar role; the law keeper. Arbiter and diplomat. The one who settles disputes and held people to their word. For a while I thought I might get into politics, but I get too flustered in debates. I can’t stand a dishonest argument, so politician or lawyer were not an option.

So when I say that I never wanted to be a police officer, that’s God’s honest truth. But I had to be. It was the only thing that made sense.

 

My mother died of cervical cancer in my last year at the academy, so when I finally got to walk my own beat, I couldn’t help but to feel that I’d replaced her. My handler was very understanding of what I was going through, so when it was time to hit the streets, she cut me a lot of slack.

A little too much, it turns out.

See, there was this one part of the city that my handler told me to actively avoid. Whenever we got a call originating from this one area, my handler actively ignored it; unless it was something akin to an ongoing shootout. It got to the point where we would respond to calls, only to never show up. It was shady as hell, but practice is often very different from theory. I thought it was some kind of unwritten rule.

 

Turns out, it was a lot worse than I’d imagined. My handler and a couple of other officers were economically involved with what can best be described as a smorgasbord of illicit dealings. Ignoring calls allowed both traffickers and dealers to run rampant, and we got a cut of the deal. Well, they did.

The union swept a lot of it under the rug. Three officers quit their jobs and went into private security, but I didn’t want that. I still felt like I had my mom’s boots on; I was in her place. So when it was my time to plead my case, I did what I could to make a fair and reasonable argument. But as I’ve said, I’m not good in debates.

I remember the chief looking up from his papers as an advisor whispered in his ear. He gave me a concerned look.

“Obviously, we can’t keep you here,” he explained. “But if you’re really up for it, we got something in mind. But you got to be really up for it.”

I agreed. Hell or high water, I’d do my job.

 

This is how I ended up as a rookie in the Tomskog Police Department.

Tomskog is a shitty little rural Minnesota town in the middle of nowhere. If you don’t know where to take an uncomfortable left off the highway, you’ll miss it. There are no signs, and most people who move there never leave. It’s like a social black hole; the equivalent of unsubscribing from all internet platforms and walking into the woods.

According to the chief, a lot of officers with questionable backgrounds were given a chance to work at Tomskog PD. Not because they desperately needed people, but because it was a good way to gain some brownie points with the local government and keeping the union happy. In fact, people with questionable ethics were encouraged at the Tomskog PD.

I thought it might have to do with a lack of action. I mean, a bad cop can’t really do any harm if there’s nothing to do.

 

I got to the station on a foggy November morning after a hasty over-the-weekend move. There was space for two squad cars on the lot out front, but both were out on patrol. A shoddy white plastic sign with ‘Tomskog PD’ hung outside, along with the town seal; a blue sunflower on a golden shield. I’d never seen those things before I got to Tomskog, but all of a sudden, they were everywhere.

Six people looked up from their desks as I entered. Most of them paid me no mind, but the sheriff painstakingly got up from his chair to greet me. A man in his early fifties with the build of a human meatball and the handlebar mustache of an ex-wrestler. He reminded me of a cartoon character; only with less of a smile.

“Mason Brooks,” he said, offering a meaty hand. “My condolences.”

“Excuse me?”

“My condolences,” he repeated. “I imagine you ain’t too excited to be here.”

“Oh, uh… yeah, no, it’s fine,” I said. “Happy to be of service.”

“You shittin’ me?” he laughed. “Well ain’t you the bell of the ball.”

 

He gave me the tour of the place. The armory, the evidence lockup, the holding cells, and of course, my desk. If he hadn’t pointed it out, I would’ve thought it was taken already. There was an unwashed coffee cup and a candy wrapper on it.

“Don’t mind that,” Mason said. “People kinda come and go.”

“Didn’t figure this place would have that kind of turnover.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He picked up a name sign from the edge of the desk. It was blank.

 

I met my partner as he abused a vending machine. He was a balding man in his late 30’s, wearing a kind of pinkish round sunglasses that made me think of John Lennon. I offered him a bill to try the machine again, but he waved me off.

“If you hit it just right, you don’t have to pay,” he said, giving the machine another bashing.

Mason just grinned – business as usual, it seemed.

“This is Nick Aitken, your partner, and for the time being, handler,” Mason explained. “Again, my condolences.”

“Shit, didn’t I just have a partner?” Nick asked.

“Either I haven’t had my mornin’ irish or someone’s beaten my head straight, cuz I can’t see two of you,” Mason frowned. “Desk is empty, name’s gone, time for a newbie.”

“Right.”

 

Nick shook my hand as a coke rolled out. He seemed more eager about a free coke than to have someone watching his back. Mason gave me an apologetic smile.

“He’ll show you the ropes,” he said. “Man’s an idiot, but you’d do well to listen. Idiots live long ‘round here.”

“He ain’t joking about that,” Nick added, not looking up from his coke.

And with that, we were on our way. Nick fired up a cigarette long before we left the station, then took me round the back to a civilian vehicle. An egg-white Volvo with rust stains that reminded me of bird shit.

“All squad cars taken, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah, folks are cleaning up after Patrick.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You’ll see. Maybe.”

 

Tomskog has a single main road stretching through the entire town. There was a gas station, a high school, a couple of shops. A peculiar flower shop at the corner that seemed to only sell those trademark blue sunflowers. There was a sort of upward tilt on the west side of town that made the houses look stacked on top of one another. On the other side of town was a vast lake, eloquently named Frog Lake, where houses stretched out along the western ridge.

It was a peaceful enough place, and in the right light, you could tell it was someone’s home. But like with most little towns, you can’t imagine what kind of people live there. It’s like when you see a house in the middle of nowhere – who chooses to live there? What happened? I guess I hadn’t yet come to the realization that I was about to become one of those people.

Nick pulled up next to a corner pub. A place that looked old enough to have grandchildren. Before getting out of the car, Nick gave me a tired look.

“We’re just gonna talk to a guy,” he said. “He never comes into town unless there’s something shitty going on. We’re gonna have a chat.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t ask him any questions. Leave that to me. And don’t touch him, he’s a bit contagious.”

“In what way?”

“Every way that matters,” he sighed. “And what did I say about questions?”

“You said not to ask him any. You never said anything about asking you any.”

He tilted down his pink sunglasses, giving me a tired look. Shaking his head, he got out of the car.

“I give you a week, rookie.”

 

Stepping into the pub, there was only two other people present. The owner; a sturdy man in his 70’s who seemed transfixed on a thick-screen TV that played mostly static. The other was a man in his 40’s with long dark hair. He had a couple of silver streaks running along his ears, a clean-shaven look, and a trucker cap. Much like Nick, the guy seemed comfortable wearing sunglasses indoors.

“Digman,” said Nick. “You drag your sorry ass back to town, huh?”

“Meeting family,” the man smiled. “It’s a special day.”

“You gonna ‘cause any trouble?”

“Of course not.”

“Let me rephrase that,” said Nick, throwing me a tired look. “What kind of trouble you causing?”

“Nothing,” the man replied. “Just meeting family. Maybe going for a walk.”

 

Nick wasn’t very happy with that answer, but there was little he could do. They said their goodbyes, and we stepped outside. The moment we got out, Nick fired up another cigarette and called it in.

“Digman’s up to some shit,” he spoke into the radio. “Keep a tail on him.”

Mason’s voice came through. They didn’t seem to bother with codes or formalities.

“Nick, you’re a snake. You’re all tail. You stick to ‘im.”

“Come on,” Nick groaned. “The newbie can do it.”

“Do we need to have a discussion about the division of labor, Nick?”

Nick took his hands off the radio and looked up at the sky with a sigh.

“No, sir.”

 

That was our first assignment; spying on a civilian fo...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1frodeb/where_the_bad_cops_go_part_1/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Money_Strength_9320 on 2024-09-28 21:58:09+00:00.

---

The station wagon lurched along the deserted back roads, its engine a low growl that seemed to echo through the dense fog clinging to the outskirts of town. The city lights were long gone, swallowed by the dark. Robert Usted’s eyes flicked repeatedly to the rearview mirror. There was no one behind him, but he kept checking, just in case. He gripped the steering wheel, fingers stiff and pale, jaw set tight. Paranoia had seeped into every thought, every nerve. He wasn’t escaping. This wasn’t about getting away. This was about proving a point—one final message to the ones who had hunted him, who had turned his life into a cornered animal’s nightmare.

In the backseat, two small bodies lay crumpled and limp. The soft glow of the dashboard threw their faces into harsh relief—empty eyes staring into nothing. There was a metallic smell hanging in the air, sharp and bitter. It hadn’t been planned, not really. He just wanted to keep them safe, to protect them from the people who were always watching. But his own hands had betrayed him, his rage blinding him. And now, what was left of his family was gone. It was too late to turn back. His wife sat gagged beside him, eyes glazed over. She had stopped crying hours ago. There was no pleading, no desperate attempts to get through to him. Just silent tears and the rise and fall of her chest. She knew he was beyond saving—lost in the labyrinth of his own fears.

The car swerved suddenly, tires skidding on loose gravel as it veered off the paved road and onto a dirt path. It kicked up a cloud of dust that hovered like a ghost in the taillights. Ahead, the outline of a fence materialized in the darkness. Beyond it, a wide, empty field stretched out under the moonlight. Skeletal trees lined the far edge, their branches like claws reaching for the sky. An old barn sagged in the distance, a hulking shadow against the pale light. This was it. The end. He turned to his wife, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “They’ll remember this,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice almost swallowed by the night. “They’ll remember what happened here.”

The device beneath his seat was crude—hastily assembled from pipes and wires, packed tight with potential. It sat there, waiting. All it would take was a turn of the key. One twist, and it would be over. A single flash, and they would never forget him.

She didn’t react, didn’t even look at him. Her gaze was fixed somewhere far away, staring through the windshield, unseeing. It was as if she had turned to stone, her spirit drained. There was no fight left in her, no defiance. What was there to fight for? Her children, pale and still in the backseat, were beyond her reach. The last shreds of her resistance had crumbled away. She was empty now—a shell, caught in a nightmare that had no end.

Robert’s hand hovered over the key. His breathing slowed. This place—this field, these trees—would become a marker, a scar. He could see them out there, hidden in the darkness. The ones who had driven him to this. They would understand. He would make them understand. His lips curled into a thin smile, his grip tightening on the key.

The explosion shattered the night. A violent, blinding burst of fire tore through the vehicle, metal folding inward like paper. Shards of glass and twisted steel rained down as the flames roared, engulfing everything. The blast seemed to consume the sky itself, a towering inferno that burned brighter than day.

Then, silence. The kind of silence that felt final, the kind that smothered everything. Smoke billowed up in thick, black plumes, blotting out the stars. Somewhere, deep in the pasture, horses whinnied in terror, their dark shapes bolting in every direction. Their hooves pounded the earth, a chaotic rhythm against the stillness of the night.

The field, once peaceful and quiet, was a smoldering ruin. Shattered glass glinted in the firelight, and twisted metal lay strewn like bones. The barn stood untouched, a silent witness to the madness that had consumed Robert Usted. All that remained was a charred shell and the acrid scent of scorched earth—a testament to a man who had lost everything and left nothing but destruction in his wake.

The silence in the room was broken only by the soft rustle of pages being turned, the occasional crackle of the fire, and the low rumble of distant thunder rolling in from the horizon. Each of us sat around the cozy living room, hunched over our own copies of Paranoia, eyes fixed on the lines describing the final, horrific moments of Robert Usted’s delusion-driven rampage. The words painted vivid, gruesome pictures in my mind—the shattered glass, the fire, the blood. It was the kind of story that gripped your chest and refused to let go. As I turned the last page of the chapter, my hand trembled slightly.

Stacy’s voice broke the tension first. “Holy hell,” she breathed, lowering her book slowly, as though the weight of what she’d read still lingered in her hands. “That was... intense.” She looked up at us, wide-eyed, the excitement in her expression tinged with something darker. A sliver of fear, maybe. She brushed her hair back behind her ear, as if trying to shake off the lingering discomfort. “I can’t believe they managed to capture it so well—the dread, the absolute madness of it all.”

Axle nodded, his own copy closed now, resting on his lap. He glanced at her, then over at Margret and me, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I think I need a drink after that,” he joked, though his voice held an edge of unease. “It’s like I can feel the crazy radiating off the pages.”

Margret set her book down gently beside her on the sofa, her gaze distant, unfocused. “It’s tragic,” she murmured. “The children… the wife. It’s hard to imagine what it must have been like for her. I mean, knowing she was going to die and just… not fighting anymore.” She shook her head slowly, hugging her arms around herself. “Reading it made me feel… sick, like I was there in that car, feeling everything she must have felt.”

“I know,” I agreed quietly. The flames of the fire seemed to cast long, wavering shadows across the room, making everything feel a little less real. “The author really captured it—the sense of isolation, the paranoia. It was like you could see into Robert’s head, see how the world twisted and warped around him until he didn’t know what was real anymore.”

Stacy leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes alight with the kind of excitement that only comes from being scared and fascinated at the same time. “That’s what makes it so powerful, don’t you think?” she said eagerly. “It’s not just some gory crime story. It’s the psychology of it all—the way it crawls under your skin and makes you think about how easily someone can just… snap.” She paused, then grinned. “That’s why I wanted us all to read it.”

Axle’s smile faltered slightly. He glanced toward the window, where the first faint flashes of lightning lit up the sky. “Well, you’ve succeeded,” he muttered. “I’m definitely freaked out now.” He glanced back at Stacy, raising an eyebrow. “But that’s not why you brought us together tonight, is it?”

Stacy’s grin widened, a mischievous spark flickering in her eyes. “Maybe it was,” she teased. “But... maybe I also thought it’d be a good idea for us to, you know, do a little field trip. A way to—what’s the phrase?—get some closure.”

Margret stiffened beside me. “You’re not serious,” she said softly. “You don’t really want to go out there, do you? To that place?”

“Well, why not? We’re only a couple of miles away from the exact spot it all happened.” Stacy shot back, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “We’ve been living with this story for weeks. We’re all caught up in the fear, the mystery. It’s just a field now. It’s not like anything’s going to jump out at us.”

Axle shifted uncomfortably, glancing at me. I knew he felt the same pull I did—a strange, almost magnetic curiosity. But there was something else too, something that made my stomach twist with dread. I looked at Margret. She was staring at Stacy like she’d lost her mind.

“It’s just an empty patch of land,” I said slowly. “And the only thing we’re likely to find there is a chill from the wind.”

“Exactly,” Stacy said, leaning back in her chair, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. “Don’t you see? That’s why we have to go. We have to finish what we started. It’ll be like… closing a chapter.”

The storm outside rumbled closer, and in the flickering light of the fire, no one moved. No one spoke up to say it was a bad idea. Even Margret, who looked the most apprehensive, remained silent, her eyes shifting between the rest of us, waiting for someone else to call it off.

But no one did.

“We’ll go now,” Stacy murmured, almost to herself. She stood up slowly, like someone in a trance. “Before the storm hits. We’ll go, and then… then we’ll see what’s really out there.”

A chill ran down my spine, but I pushed it aside. We had gone this far. There was no turning back now.

The night air was heavy as we stepped out of Axle and Stacy’s warm, comfortable living room and into the chill of the oncoming storm. The faint scent of rain lingered in the wind, mixing with the crisp scent of freshly turned earth and distant pine. The sky above was bruised with deep purples and angry grays, lit intermittently by flashes of far-off lightning. I could feel the storm’s charge pricking at my skin, as if the very air itself was a...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Shot_Bother9283 on 2024-09-28 15:30:42+00:00.

---

I always wanted an excuse to return home. As a child, my grandfather would tell me childhood tales of our long lost home, stories of skipping school and secret meetings at the old fort, of the long summer nights spent together under the midnight sun, of the sweeping beam of the lighthouse in the darkest of winter nights, and I couldn’t help but romanticise that old fishing village I’ve never set foot in. I spent days as a young boy, dreaming of one day returning to my old town, praying for an opportunity to visit those sprawling islets. And that lighthouse- It’s an understatement to say I was obsessed with that lighthouse. It featured prominently in all my drawings as a child, and would end up being the wallpaper of any device my family purchased until I was 10 years old. 

Ah shit, I can see I’ve been rambling again. For a bit of context, I am a history student currently studying in the University of Helsinki. My family has lived in Finland for 70 years, but we consider our real home to be a small town called Vardø, a fishing settlement located at the very very edge of Norway’s borders, so extremely north that the sun shines long into the night during the summer. The town is further east than Saint Petersburg, Kyiv, and Istanbul, and I’ve heard my grandparents describe it as “the edge of the world”.  My grandfather fled from norway as a child during the german invasion, and settled in Finland, eventually marrying a norwegian girl and starting a life anew.  

The reason I bring this up is because a few weeks ago, as part of my final year thesis, I had the opportunity to visit Vardø, wanting to do my thesis on my family’s history, and, living in some kind of detective fantasy, I began tracing my family’s history there from before the war. I visited my grandfather’s last remaining childhood friends, many of them bound to wheelchairs or stuck with walking canes. I spent long hours at the town hall, combing through every letter or correspondence with my family’s surname attached to it, and gradually began putting a family tree together. 

I realise as I’m writing this that you probably don't care about most of what I’ve just said, after all you probably are looking for the supernatural or occult, not some guy’s rants on how he filled in his family tree, but looking back I wish this was just another one of those boring “inspiring” stories you hear every other middle school student tell during their class project presentation about their family. For I’m afraid I came across something which I can't really write a credible thesis about, so I’ve decided to ask you all what to make of it.

I wouldn’t want to waste your time any longer, so I’ll be brief: during my time in Vardø, I came across an unsent letter written by one of my distant ancestors in 1807, during the waning years of the Denmark-Norway political union. The information given in this account has not been supported by any other secondary or primary source, because of which I can’t exactly publish this as a university paper. So, after some translating and tidying up, here it is.

The following is the (mostly) unaltered account written by Abraham Greseth in the year 1807 A.D, translated to English by ****** Greseth.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

November 25th, 1807

As I write this today, I am still unsure who to address this letter to. It was the suggestion of our town priest, Father Isberg, who instructed me to make a record of these recent incidents after I told him so in confession. I hope this letter shall one day find its way to one of the officials of the court, or to an officer of the Royal armed forces or national guard, so as to finally launch an investigation into the events which transpired in our town. 

Some introduction may be necessary for the reader. My name is Abraham Greseth, and I have lived in Vardø for my entire life. Our town is far to the north, and at the edge of the world, most of the world’s events do not bother us. The war in Europe and the attack on Copenhagen at most got tongues wagging, but neither affected us in any serious way. I myself, during the summer months ply my trade as a fisherman, combing the seas of the north. During the winter months however, I am the keeper of the Vardø lighthouse. 

In his sermons, Father Isberg repeatedly has said that our town is at the edge of the world. As one of the northernmost towns of Europe, and perhaps even the world, he has said beyond our islets, beyond the frigid seas of the north, lies a dimension barren of god and goodness. My own father, the previous keeper of the lighthouse, told me when I was but a boy that during the dark winter nights, in the absence of the midnight sun, it is our light that keeps those horrors at bay, and it is the duty of the keeper to ensure no such demon should creep its way into the land of man. I view the role of keeper with a sacred disposition, and for long I have kept watch over these frigid waters in the darkest of nights.

It was one of those nights of pitch darkness, that he showed up at my doorstep. I was manning the lighthouse as usual, cranking the clockwork that kept the mirrorset turning, at around some hours past midnight, when I heard a loud thumping noise at the door. Assuming it to be some curious animal, I looked down from above and was surprised to see the faint shape of a man knocking vigorously at the door. I grabbed my coat and made my way down to the door to open it and let him in, for my first thought was this fellow must have walked a long distance to get here, having crossed the high piles of snow that separated the lighthouse from the town itself, and he must be thoroughly exhausted from doing so. I opened the door to be greeted by a man dressed in a grey greatcoat. I could see traces of a red uniform underneath the coat, and he wore a tall shako that was covered in snow. A thick scarf remained wrapped around his neck, covering his face up to the top of his nose. 

He seemed to be a soldier, for we have quite a few soldiers in Vardø, mostly stationed in the star fortress they call Vardohus fortress. I myself have been to the fortress several times, going at least twice a month for a quick chess match with its commanding officer, Captain Stahle. We knew most of the soldiers there by face, but I could not recognize this fellow due to the scarf. It was however a time of war, and soldiers were frequently being rotated into and out of the fortress, so I did not think much of it. 

 

He seemed as though he was about to collapse on the doorframe itself, so I ushered him into my quarters, which is a walking distance from the lighthouse. As I lay him on the bed, he closed his eyes and fell unconscious. I inspected his body to be sure of no physical injuries, and I found to my horror that his thumb, forefinger, and ring finger of his right hand had been torn off, with blood still clinging to the stumps. As I bandaged his hand, I tried to remove his headgear to check for any head injuries, only to find it wouldn’t budge. I sat dumbfounded, as I tried to find the buckle for the chinstrap, only to realise it had none. The chinstrap had been fused to the man’s chin, as if it was part of his body. Dumbfounded, I tried to remove his scarf, only to find that it too could not be moved. Not knowing what to do, I decided to leave the man there, and return to my duties in the lighthouse. Locking the door as I left my quarters, I couldn’t help but think about what had just shown up at my doorstep. What was it this man had gone through?

That morning, I returned to find the man had woken up, and removed his scarf and headpiece. At the moment I was confused, and wondered how he could so easily remove his headpiece when I had tried to do so the previous night, but I chalked it up to late night hallucinations. I could now see this soldier was a young boy, barely into his twenties. Locks of brown hair fell across his face.  The man did not speak, but merely looked in my direction as I hung up my coat. 

“You sure do bring up a lot of questions my lad, but you may rest here until you are healthy enough to return to your post.”, I said as I sat in front of the dressing table. I could see him staring at me through the mirror, his beady black eyes focussed on my face. Looking in the mirror, I could see my own hair was messy and dishevelled, much like his was, so I combed it, all the while keeping an eye on him through the mirror. 

He seemed too weak to move, and blankly stared at me through the mirror as I combed my hair. It was as though his gaze was noting down every detail of my face. I checked my teeth, before getting up to prepare breakfast, all the while my guest lay frozen in my bed. While cooking, I thought how strange it was, that despite having walked all that distance from the fort, through piles of dense snow while wind whipped in his face, the soldier was not even shivering, not even showing the faintest sign of being affected by the cold. 

Upon returning from my routine fishing trip, I prepared a bowl of soup, and poured some for the man and myself. For some time, we sipped in silence, until at last, he spoke up. 

“It crossed from hell itself.”

It was my turn to stare blankly at my guest, as his opening words left me dumbfounded. He stared blankly into the soup, spinning his spoon inside without taking a single si...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/night2exclusive on 2024-09-28 14:00:33+00:00.

---

A red room is a dark web phenomenon in which a person or group of people live stream a torture or murder of an individual in a room in the dark web. This has been debunked and proven impossible but they were all wrong, the time I’m writing this, one is being broadcasted. Maybe I’ll go famous, I’ll explain what I mean.

I am the cat of curiosity. If something gets me curious, I will literally do my best to find that. The dark web is something that makes me curious the most. And on there, specifically a dark web chatting site, is where I met my online best friend, Jared ( Aka redmoons).

After 3 years of online talking, we finally met in person. To my surprise, he didn’t murder me. He was exactly how he was online. We played games, drunk and smoked, and of course search through the dark web, regular teenager bro things.

While searching through the common things of the dark web, Jared goes “Hey Alex, want to search for a red room”. Now like I said, YouTubers debunked it and at the time I believed them, so I said to Jared ( They don’t exist). And not surprisingly, he responds saying “Still, we already practically searched through everything, wouldn’t be fun to even try to search for them, it would be like trying to find the One Piece, also, we might even discover new stuff while tryna search it, it would be fun”.

I finally agreed, just to get it over with. After 2 hours of searching I was about to tell him that I wanna give up, and by noticing his facial expressions, I could infer that he wants to secretly give in to. That is, until we find a website condition of numerous links and by each link, is what the website is about. Most of the descriptions for the links are just hitmen or drugs or other illegal stuff and mostly traps set by the FBI but there was one that stood out.

The description by the link said “Red paint”. Jared clicks on it before I could even mention it. It was taking a while to load, and after a while, a live chat was the first to load. Jared screams “I told you!”, while I’m in awe that we could find one. When it finished loading, my awe and Jared’s pride gets vanquished by what we saw.

It was 2 people with clown masks and black clothing inserting screwdrivers into a woman’s chest. Jared goes to the bathroom to vomit, while I could withstand some disgust as I saw things such as these before.

Jared came back and almost vomited again, but in the midst of his gagging, he tried to reach for the mouse to click of the live stream, but I slapped his hand away and immediately start typing. Fueled by rage I type in words I’ll regret. “You dirty scumbags, why don’t you livestream you doing this to yourself”.

After realizing what I just said I felt lightheaded and my heart pumped harder than a shotgun. Jared looks at me like he wanted to kill me, and with the worries flooding through my head and the current situation I am writing this I would honestly prefer he did.

Jared says nothing but “Pack your things, we need to run”, and we do exactly that. However while packing, the message most likely just went through or either the people hosting the red room just saw it, because they just now said “Stay tune for the Alex livestream”.

I almost got a heart attack. Jared looks at me in a silly but serious face. We don’t say anything at each other instead awkward silence as we stare each other off.

No more words exchanged, we just grabbed our bags and we booked the hell out the house. Me and Jared hop in his car and he starts driving recklessly without informing where we were going.

20 minutes after driving I get a notification from the cameras, I thought it was my parents but it was a man wearing a horse mask and holding some sort of toolbox. He said “When I see you” as he lifts up his toolbox.

I get a mini heart attack. Jared gets out the car and so do I, he just keeps running to the woods so I just follow him. 6 minutes of blind running I see a shed, I direct Jared to it and he sprints to it like the first one there wins. I never ran so fast in my life. I tripped and lost sight of Jared but judging on how fast he was running and the persons will to survive he was most likely in the shed, I got back up and Usain bolted to the shed.

However, when I got to the shed Jared wasn’t in sight. I was gonna yell out “Jared” when out of nowhere I hear a robotic voice saying “Broadcasting in 5 seconds”. I look In front of me and it’s a computer with what appears to be a live chat. The robotic voice starts counting down. “5” I was processing what was happening. “4” I am realizing what’s happening “3” Death is weighing on my mind “2” I think of Jared and my Family “Livestream on” This is it.

The guy with the horse mask dances his way to the shed with the same toolbox. However, on the computer a voice can be heard saying “Redmoon donated 50 bucks to the livestream”

Jared.

“Betrayal sucks doesn’t it.” Said the man. “But in this world one must do everything to survive, and you wouldn’t be in this situation hearing me if it wasn’t for your own stupidity”. I grab a beady wooden bat and hit him with it. I ran for the car. I drove until I saw lights. I am currently in a restaurant typing this. So you see, those YouTubers were wrong.

They exist.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Topneighborhood_859 on 2024-09-28 15:16:37+00:00.

---

I will never tell my parents how my grandparents really died. They wouldn’t believe me if I did. You may not either. About a month ago I had just gotten out of class when I checked my phone. To my surprise I had a voicemail from my father. Sure, mom has called me from time to time since I left for college, but when I saw that my father had called me I knew it had to be bad news. I just didn’t know how bad.

“Son, we’re buying you a plane ticket. You need to fly home tonight. There… has been an accident. Call me when you get this.” That’s all the voicemail said. I called them and he explained that my grandfather had been killed in an accident with his combine while harvesting corn. And that the shock of finding him had given my grandmother a heart attack.

The flight was nerve racking. I have never done well with small spaces. And I couldn’t smoke on the flight which made it even worse. I spent the whole flight fidgeting and walking back and forth to the restroom even though I didn’t need to go. I just needed to move around.

My dad was already waiting for me when I landed which ruined my plan of sneaking a cigarette before he showed. He gave me a hug and helped me load my bag in the car. I decided I needed a cigarette bad enough and lit one up in the parking garage. My dad had never seen me smoke and I tried to act as casually as I could. He raised an eyebrow at me as he closed the trunk.

I waited for a lecture or an outburst but all he did was nod. “That’s a nice lighter.” He said. I hadn’t realized I was still fidgeting with it. I handed him the vintage trench lighter. “Ellen, my uh… girlfriend bought it for me a few weeks ago. Found it at an antique store in Seattle.”

He took it in his hand and looked it over approvingly. Then he handed it back. “No smoking in the car. Your mother would never let us hear the end of it.” He instructed. My headache was gone now that I had a sufficient amount of nicotine. I threw the cigarette down and stomped it out with my foot.

AN hour later we were back at my parent’s house. My mother greeted me with a hug. Then she stepped back and looked me up and down. “Your father used to smoke menthols too when he was your age.” She said and gave my father a smirk.

I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed she had caught me or surprised my dad used to smoke. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and walked into the house.

We spent the night catching up on what I had been up to while I was in college. They filled me in on how their business was struggling but they were keeping their head above water. And then eventually my dad filled me in on the details of the funeral. They had decided to do a closed casket on both of my grandparents. The injuries that my grandfather had received apparently were too gruesome for an open casket. And they did a closed casket on my grandmothers so that people would ask why.

The next morning we attended the funeral. There were only a few people. My grandparents were in their eighties and had very few friends that were still around. Afterwards we went back to my parents house and ate.

“Son, your mom and I have talked about this. We need to sell your grandparent’s farm. We have neither the time or money for the upkeep. If you can take a week off school and clean the place up, you know, get it ready to sell… we will give you twenty five percent of whatever we get when it sells.” My father explained.

I took a large bite of chicken and chewed it as I thought it over. I could call the school and explain the situation. And I could easily catch up later. “Yeah, I can do that. But, what do you mean, clean it up. How bad is it?” I asked.

My father and mother exchanged a worried look before she looked back down at her plate. “Just before your grandfather passed your grandmother called me. She told me that he had been diagnosed with dementia.. Between that and their diminished health I suspect that the property is in pretty bad shape.”

“You haven’t been out there?” I asked. It wasn’t more than a couple of hours away. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t been to visit.

My mother replied in a defensive tone. “We have both been working seven days a week at the shop. We had to let all of our employees go. Business is not going too well.”

I nodded and asked what the plan was.

“I will drive you out tomorrow. You can stay there until I pick you up friday. That gives you six days to get things boxed up. I already ordered the boxes. They will be delivered tomorrow.

The following day my father drove me up to the old farm. I spent a few weekends there as a kid. The place always had a creepy vibe but it was fun. I could walk through the corn all day and never reach the end.

As we pulled in there was a large scarecrow. That stood over the corn at the edge of the field. “When did they get that thing?” I asked. My dad didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at it out of the corner of his eye. His face contorted into a look of intense worry… maybe fear. I couldn’t tell. As we passed the scarecrow I looked back. The wind hit it just right and for a second, I would have sworn it turned its head to watch us.

About twenty minutes after I had been dropped off I was still wandering through the house, evaluating the countless knick knacks and pictures. Trying to decide what should be kept, sold or tossed. The phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since I had heard a landline ring I thought it might be the fire alarm.

I answered it. “This is Jim. I am delivering the boxes you ordered but my GPS doesn’t work out here. Can you give me directions?” The man asked.

“Head down old county road about five miles. Make a right at the dirt road.” I said. I tried to think of a landmark knowing how vague that was. “You’ll see a scarecrow. Make a right at the scarecrow.”

The man thanked me and hung up. About a half hour later I was washing the dishes in the sink and cleaning up the kitchen. My grandmother must have just set out lunch before the accident because there were two plates of food on the table. It was so rotten I couldn’t tell what it was anymore.

The pungent smell of mold and rotten food was making me gag so I had to open the kitchen window. I listened to the windchimes on the porch and found it rather relaxing. I began to wonder how many summer days my grandparents sat out on the porch, sipped sweet tea and listened to the wind.

Over the windchimes I heard a scream from the field. I shut off the water and letened closer. I heard the scream again. Almost as if someone was howling in pain. I rushed outside and stood at the edge of the corn. My grandfather had waited too long to harvest his crop. THe sun had bleached the corn until it was now the color of bone. The stalks waved back and forth in the wind. The dry leaves rustled against each other as they swayed.

I heard the noise again and began to walk out into the field toward the noise. “Hello?” I yelled. I passed row after row of maize, looking left and right in the eight inches of space between rows. And then, in the distance I saw a figure move. I began to run after it. I caught glimpses of the figure every few seconds as the wind allowed.

After a while, I lost sight of it. I ran faster and faster trying to catch up with whoever it was. And then I ran full speed into the scarecrow. The straw filling did little to dull the impact with the wood post it was mounted on. I fell back onto my back. I grabbed my nose and could feel the palm of my hand immediately filled with warm blood. I sat up and felt dizzy. My head throbbed with each beat of my heart.

When I was finally able to stand up. I looked up at the scarecrow. It was probably seven feet tall and then another two feet off the ground. I was dressed in blue overalls and a red flannel. The head was a burlap bag with thick red string stitched into a jagged mouth and big black buttons sewn on for eyes. Then it was topped with a straw hat stitched on with the same red string used for the mouth. This thing was intimidating to me at six foot two. Those crows must be terrified of it. I thought to myself.

I pinched my nose to stop the bleeding and began to look around. I saw this scarecrow when we pulled in. there was no way I made it to the road already. I tried to hop up to see over the corn. I couldn’t see anything but more corn all the way to the horizon. And when my feet landed my head felt like it was going to pop. Thick blood began to flow more quickly from my nose. I pinched my nose and held my head back, facing the sky to slow the bleeding. Out of the corner of my eye that’s when I saw it. The scarecrow had turned to face me. I turned to face the oversized doll and figured that it must have been the wind again.

For a second we made eye contact. The big button eyes seemed to be looking right at me. I told myself I was being ridiculous. It was the wind that moved the head. It was just a bag filled with straw. It was the wind that was blowing the stalks and I imagined it was a figure running. It had even been the wind that was howling as it passed through the leaves.

But still, as I stared at it I knew it was staring back. The hair on my arms began to raise, making my arms tingle. My heart began to quicken. And then the scarecrow abruptly lifted its head back up and stared out over the field.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I stole short glances over my shoulder as I pushed through the corn. All I could see was a path...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-09-28 15:50:50+00:00.

---

I make very good money at my job, but I have to work very hard for it. It's a high-pressure job with high risks and tight deadlines. I’m at the top of the food chain in investment banking so I deal with a lot of money. It's not just the money aspect of it. As a financial advisor, my advice could make or break a company, and if I give bad advice, it all comes down to me. Being the best in the business I’m constantly on edge trying to impress my clients.

People see me smiling all the time or carrying this air of confidence that says listen to me. I know what I’m doing. You can’t go wrong with me, but inside I’m dying. My insides are all tied up like a Gordian knot. People have no idea how competitive this job is and the high expectations that the clients expect from me. I’m constantly on the verge of burnout. I’m like an overworked machine ready to splutter out.

By the time I leave the office, my well-oiled brain is a fog of fatigue, which crushes any compassion I have for people. The building I work in is in the banking district, and for some reason, this draws a large homeless crowd that hangs around outside the many buildings looking for handouts.

I get it, these people are the most vulnerable in our society and I don’t see them as less than human, but by the time I leave the office my patients have already been spread thin and any compassion I had when I woke that morning has been hammered down the throat of a Venture Capitalist whom’s investment didn’t materialise into a gold fucking toilet for the many bathrooms in his multi-million-dollar mansion.

Every day, the same four homeless people hang around my building. Even though there are loitering signs and laws that state you can’t beg, the police don’t seem to care.

Most days I don’t care if they are outside my building, but one guy in particular seemed to hate my guts. I don’t carry change, and when he asks, there are only so many ways I can say, “Sorry, no money,” so now, every time I walk past him, he throws me hurtful remarks. I sometimes wonder what went wrong in his life because if he wasn’t homeless he would have been a great comedian. Our encounters were awkward for me, but last week things took a turn for the strange.

"You have all the charm of a spreadsheet and the empathy of a market crash.” he cried out to me as I made my way past him into work.

I’m not a mean person. Yes, I am ruthless in business but I have empathy for people. His remark had really gotten under my skin and I spent most of the day thinking about it to the point it was affecting my decisions at work.

When I left that evening, I was praying he wasn’t outside. I didn’t even look for him, I just kept my head down and made my way to a waiting taxi.

“I’d say you are morally bankrupt, but I’m sure you would find a way to profit from it.”

I was thick-skinned, but it took every fiber of my being to ignore his comment as I jumped into the taxi.

The next morning, sure enough, there he was, sitting by the curb, smiling at me when I jumped from the taxi. It was almost like he was waiting there to taunt me.

"You’re the perfect example of how a suit can make someone look successful while still being completely devoid of substance,” he said with a sly smirk on his face.

His words hit me like a truck. It felt like an attack on my character and it wasn’t how I carried myself.

“What is it you want,” I screamed. “Why are you picking on me?

The cheeky look on his face quickly switched to a downtrodden look of pity.

“I’m hungry. All I want is something to eat.”

To be fair, I wasn’t expecting his response. It was strange, after everything he had called me I didn’t want him to be right. I was compelled to show him I had empathy and I had substance.

“Ok, I can get you something to eat, and if I do, will you leave me alone?”

I walked over to the cafe across the road. I bought a sandwich and a coffee and I made sure I had some cash to give him.

As I watched him wolf down the sandwich, I was struck by how different our lives were. I only ever felt a hunger for recognition or the perfect deal. This poor guy was just hungry for a sandwich.

I was married to my Job and never settled down, so I lived alone in a large one-bedroom penthouse suite. I didn’t have fuck you money, but I could afford a nice lifestyle.

To maintain the lifestyle I was used to taking my work home with me, so my nights usually consisted of me looking over financial reports or chasing down potential clients.

I had just gotten off a call and was pouring myself a glass of expensive Whiskey when suddenly, someone began beating down on my door.

When I peered through the peephole, I was stunned to see the same homeless man from the street. His expression had a mix of urgency and defiance as he continued to beat down my door.

“I need to talk to you,” he shouted. The absurdity of the moment struck me, here was a man I had barely acknowledged, now standing outside my door all because I gave him a sandwich.

“Look, I just need a place to crash for the night,” he pleaded, with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “It’s freezing out here.”

“You can’t just barge in here.” I pleaded. “There are shelters nearby.”

He stepped closer, his presence strangely compelling.

“You think I haven’t tried? They’re full, and I can’t take another night out there.” My heart raced at the thought of letting him in, but a strange mix of empathy and curiosity nudged me to unlock the door.

“Maybe you can come in for a bit and get warm but you have to leave when I tell you to,” I warned.

The homeless man planked himself down on my expensive Italian leather couch. He had piercing blue eyes that peered through the strands of dirty matted hair that covered his face.

He picked up my bottle of Whiskey with his rough, callous hands that bore the marks of long nights on the street.

“Springback, rare, 50-years-old. This is an expensive Whiskey,” he said as he took a deep sniff from the bottle.

“Wow, you really know your Whiskeys,”

Without even asking me he began pouring himself a glass.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked as he took a sip from the glass.

I was confused by his question. If he was someone from my past, it was hard to recognise the person they might have been under the dirt and tattered clothes.

“Should I remember you?” I asked.

“I used to work in your building. We walked past each other many times. I was an accountant for the bank you work for.”

I couldn’t for the life of me remember who he was. But he knew all the people I worked with. He knew the clients I worked with. He even knew the same stories and rumours that made the rounds in the office over the years.

We sat talking and drinking long into the night. For a moment, I had forgotten he was the strange homeless guy who begged outside the building where I worked as we laughed and reminisced about the good old days.

I woke up the following morning with a splitting headache. I didn’t have it in me to kick him out so I let him stay the night.

I was surprised to find he had made himself at home. He had showered and shaved and strutted around my kitchen in my robe as he made himself breakfast. It was strange, it was like he knew his way around as if he lived here before.

“I’m late for work. No offence, but you need to be gone by the time I get back.”

He smiled at me as he buttered a slice of toast.

“We had a good talk last night, but you still haven’t asked me my name?”

“Yes, sorry, what was it again?” My mind was hazy from the Whiskey the night before and I was struggling to concentrate.

“My name is Adam Bleacher.”

“It was good talking to Adam. I really hope you get back on your feet. But I seriously have to go.”

I spent the day in a fog wandering around the office as if I didn’t belong. It was like I had forgotten how to do my job.

As I sat at my desk a picture on my wall caught my eye. It was a picture of me and a few of my colleagues. We had landed a very important client at the time and took a picture together to mark the moment. As I looked closer, I was stunned to see Adam, the homeless guy I had left back at my apartment, standing next to me, and I had my arm around him.

When I came home that evening, exhausted from another relentless day, the air in my apartment felt off. The strange tension from the night before lingered. As I stepped inside, the faint sounds of conversation filled the apartment. To my disbelief, there were three more people homeless, ragged, and worn lounging casually on my couch as though they belonged there.

Adam looked up at me with a grin, sipping from my whiskey again. “Meet my friends,” he said, gesturing to the others. “They worked in your building too, once.”

I wanted to scream, But something about the way he looked at me, there was something dark in his eyes that sent a cold chill up my spine and it rooted me to the spot.

“Come sit with us. This is where you belong.”!

I couldn’t explain it, but I felt like they belonged here and for some strange reason, I didn’t throw them out. I should have. I wanted to, but my limbs felt heavy, and my mind was too hazy to even try. I tried to reason with myself; I had work to do, clients to impress, and deadlines to meet. But a strange lethargy had set in. That night, they stayed again, filling my apartment with their ragged presence, telling stories I couldn’t remember but which felt oddly familiar, as if I were part of them.

Over the ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EmmaWatsonButDumber on 2024-09-28 14:23:45+00:00.

---

It didn't make any sense. I stared at the floor, phone in hand, speechless.

"What do you mean? Where exactly are you?"

"Kev, don't come after me."

"I can't do that. I can't just leave you there."

I could make out heavy breathing on the other side of the phone. "Dad, just tell me where you are. I won't come after you. I promise. I'll be... safe. At the checkpoint. I'll send Martin."

His voice was trembling. "I don't know where I am. I've never been on this side of the forest... I think it's somewhere east."

"Do you see any markings on the trees?"

"Yeah... but none of the good ones. These markings aren't ours."

These markings aren't ours.

I paused, and so did he. I had my phone to my right ear, and suddenly, someone whistled right next to my left, startling me. I took a deep breath. Relax. It means they're far.

"There's something else." my dad said.

The cabin felt cold, and yet I was sweating, suffering from an unexplainable fever. I could barely hold the phone anymore. "Kev, I'm not alone here. Something else is with me. I can't get out, either. It feels like I'm walking in a circle, back and forth, and I'm afraid to go too far. It's as if... it's guarding me. It doesn't want me to get out."

I heard another whistle to my left, only this time it didn't feel like it was directly into my ear anymore. They're getting closer.

"Right. I have to go."

I wanted to hang up, but my hand wasn't listening to me. I just let the phone fall to the ground. In the reflection of the window, I saw myself - pale, dark veins under my eyes, and dry lips. What was going on?

I felt like puking. I kneeled, then started rocking back and forth, unsure what to do, how to play this out. I knew that was surely my dad, because the creatures can't talk on the phone, but I didn't know where he was, and something inside me told me they wouldn't let him go unless I personally went out to look for him. I didn't know whether Martin would help me again and, judging by how fast he'd left me alone there, it didn't seem like he was too eager to reach out.

My stomach turned, and my chest tightened as I puked on the floor of the cabin. The next minutes were a blur - I remember my hands, and my knees crawling to the trap, then basically falling down the ladder and breaking my ankles on the ground, then trying to stand up, and failing. I remained laying on the leaves, staring at the sky. I could just fall asleep here. Forever.

Another whistle to my left, this time, further away.

I didn't have much time until they found me again.

"Hey! Kid!"

Fuck no. So soon?

I lifted myself from the ground enough to look at whoever was coming. It was the lady from the checkpoint. The one who said her shift was about to start.

I mean, that's how it looked. I didn't know whether it was really her.

I didn't answer. Just blankly stared at her grey leather boots and ginger ponytail.

"Are you okay?"

I stood up. She tried to help me, but I yelled at her not to touch me. "Stay away. Now."

A look of confusion swept over her face.

"Where'd you come from?"

"I wanna ask you the same thing."

"What?" she smiled, a bit amused.

"My dad is missing. You find that funny?"

She scratched her head. "Who's your dad?"

"We had this exact same conversation back at the checkpoint, with Martin. You should've remembered."

"I know he's missing, but I don't know his name. I don't know everyone around here." she replied annoyed.

After I'd told her, she shook her head. "Never heard of him."

"Why isn't anyone talking about this? Your park rangers just go missing, hell, I've been here for two days now, and you don't seem to even care! What about my mother? Did you talk to her? Did you talk to Martin, since his egoistical ass left me here-"

"M-Martin didn't come back to the checkpoint." she answered, stoically. "After that night, we didn't see him again."

I stared at her in disbelief. "Take me there. If it's really you. I need to talk to more people. I can't be alone here, with you..."

"I understand your dad is missing, but it's not exactly like it's so uncommon around here, and please be polite. Don't let frustration cloud your judgement and make you unnecessarily irritable..."

"Unnecessarily? I have every right to be angry. What do you mean, it's not so uncommon? Martin said no one went missing here?"

She frowned, tilting her head, then looked away.

I was still feeling sick, but at least I could stand on my own legs. Another whistle echoed, this time deep into the woods. Tall trees surrounded us, and the familiar cabin seemed now desolate and rotten. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Your dad is not the first to go missing. Many went before him, and many will follow. It's not something you can negotiate. It just happens."

"Martin said..."

She slowly shook her head. "It's not something well-known. We don't want to scare our rangers."

When I spoke, I sounded choked out. "Who else went missing?"

She hesitated. Silence filled the space between us, and I could tell she was uncomfortable.

"I did."

I didn't give her time to finish.

I’d been running for so long, that my legs had gone numb. Hitting my shoulders on tree trunks and struggling not to trip and roll on the ground, I felt like running was the only thing that could save me. Deep into the forest, I wondered how long someone could go without water or food.

At some point, I stopped to sit down. I couldn’t take it anymore – my heart was literally telling me that if I didn’t stop soon, it would.

The moment I sat on the moss, I realized I wasn’t alone. I swallowed. I swear to God.

In front of me sat the ginger lady.

“Go away, please. Leave me alone.”

“I just want to help.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I went missing a long time ago. I don’t remember what I was doing, patrolling around, I think. Anyway, post 62 is notorious for… interesting stuff happening around. 62, 24, 46… they’re not haunted, generally speaking, but energy points. And them… as far as I know, they come from the earth. They’re corpses. Forests used to be humanity’s cemeteries and ritual dumpsters in general – I don’t know what went on around here, but these woods have swallowed so much blood. It’s like mass, this blood. This death. The more it gathers, it creates this gravity, and asks for even more. More blood. More death.”

She was softly murmuring, as if telling a bedtime story.

“I saw those markings, and even if I didn’t recognize them, I was ashamed to call and ask. I thought they’d been part of my training and not recognizing them would have made me look bad. Back then, no rules were written down.” She sighed. “Anyway, I came to this clearing in the woods, and, well… I don’t remember how I died. All I know is that I was following my mom’s voice. I don’t remember how it sounds like now.”

“How long have you been there for?”

She ignored my question.

“You are still alive. You could leave. I want to, well, tell you it’s not that bad here.” She smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “There’s always something to do here. They’re always looking for another.”

I shook my head, as she nodded. “Okay. Well, you’re looking for your dad. I think you already know what you need to do. Look behind you.”

I did. Behind me, a blue triangle. Almost fluorescent. When I turned back to her, she was gone.

I walked and walked, each step muffled by the damp earth and fallen leaves. You know, I’d never been in such woods before. They didn’t feel alive in the usual way – millions of little lives roaming around, but they felt like a being of their own, and the earth rose and fell under my feet, almost mocking my breaths.

I passed a bridge, then a tunnel in one of these god-forsaken mountains. When I got out, I could hear whispers and whistles.

How are you?

Why, I’m fine. Just a little ravished.

Well, well, wait. It’s soon, I believe.

I believe, too. Do you believe?

Yes, yes. Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

What was about to happen soon?

I tried calling out for my dad, since my phone and flashlight had died, but someone else answered, and it wasn’t him, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. I passed through this garden of roses, clinging onto my clothes. Roses, our most popular and loved flowers, who never miss a chance to draw blood.

In the distance, more trees. One of them looked broken. Coming closer, I realized something was hanging from it. Or someone. I didn’t recognize their face. I kept walking, and saw more. Hanging from the trees, their bare feet floating above my head, looming over me. I stopped looking at their faces, afraid I’d see my dad.

Eventually, I reached this hill and smelled something burning. Coming closer, I saw this fire, and…

“Martin!”

The minute I said that, pain pierced my shoulder. My back hit the tree. I smelled something metallic.

“Go away.” Said Martin.

“No, it’s me… believe me. I cannot do this now.”

“I already saw you five times. I don’t believe you anymore.”

“No. I’m telling the truth.”

Another razor flew to me, but I dodged it. I started crying and fell to my knees. I told him about the ginger lady, and my dad, and the stars, and my life, in a way that no doppelgänger could. They could try to take my life, but they didn’t know anything about it. Martin’s gaze softened. He sighed.

“I saw over 12 sunsets here. I had to kill them to eat. The mimics...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BothAd7659 on 2024-09-28 08:20:38+00:00.

---

Now, don’t get me wrong. My neighbor, Ray, seems like a nice guy. He’s this handsome man in his mid to late forties. He’s charismatic, bright, and very charming. If I were a few years younger, I might even say I have a little crush on him- though, I’d never admit it.

However, as of recently, I’ve been observing him exhibiting some questionable behavior. Trust me: I’m no stranger to unique habits, given I have a few of my own. But his are a little more… disturbing.

Let me give you some context:

Ray has this spare bedroom in his basement. Instead of renting it out to make extra money, he offers up the room to homeless young women in our town free of charge. Now, to most people, this would appear to be a massive act of service done by a standup guy.

But something about the whole situation is a little off.

Before I start bashing Ray, I want to give him some credit- he had some normal hobbies that he kept up with. He loved to garden. He was constantly digging up his backyard- mulching it and tending to the various species of plants and trees that grew in a seemingly random pattern.

This was normal enough, given a large majority of our community had taken up gardening as a hobby. He would even have some of the women he let stay in his house to help out. I had often seen them digging holes and watering plants under Ray’s supervision.

However, this would never last long, given that these ladies wouldn’t stay longer than a month or two and I didn’t see much of them.

I remember being confused the first time I watched him ushering one lady into his home.

Being the nosey neighbor I am, I had asked him who she was later that day, assuming she was a family member of his who was passing through our tiny, rural town. Or maybe even a lover he was trying to keep discreet.

But when Ray responded, he got all excited and childlike. “Oh! Those are some homeless girls I’ve been taking care of. I love to look out for the homeless population in town. Wanted to make sure they have a safe place to sleep and a nice meal to eat each day.”

I thought it was a bit weird that he was only choosing young girls as tenants but I figured there was a good reason for it. Perhaps he had a female friend or sibling who had been in a similar situation and was more sympathetic to that demographic. At the end of the day, it seemed like a wholesome, innocent contribution to society.

At least, that’s how I tried to view it despite the gnawing feeling in my gut and blaring sirens sounding in my head.

All I knew was that each day, Ray would leave his house at approximately 7 in the morning after having his cup of Joe on the porch and chirping a “good morning” to each passerby. Like clockwork, he’d return at around 5 in the evening, do some yard work, and withdraw back into his house. I usually wouldn’t see much of him for the rest of the day.

He must be quite a man of routine, I thought.

Even so, there was still something about him that was… off. Something in his eyes that wasn’t quite right. Something very few people would take note of if they weren’t looking closely enough.

And on top of that, recently, things started getting even weirder…

The most recent occupant of my neighbor’s downstairs bedroom was this blonde girl who looked no older than 18.

Ray had ushered her into the house like all the rest, with one arm slung around her shoulder and a black jacket shielding most of her face from my view.

From what I could see, she looked fairly well-kept for someone who had supposedly been living on the streets. And what the hell was with the jacket? I mean, for god’s sake, she was no celebrity, right?

The following days, after Ray would leave, I heard some odd sounds coming from his house during all hours of the day. I work most days from home as an independent contractor so I tend to keep an ear out for shenanigans going on in the neighborhood while most of the community is elsewhere.

These noises included but were not limited to heavy metal music, banging on (what sounded like) pots and pans, occasional yelps (like that of a small dog), and loud laughing (or crying; it was a bit hard to tell). I assumed that Ray’s current housemate just had some alternative interests. Again, I’m in no position to judge, granted I have my own unusual hobbies.

Initially, I let it go. When Ray would return, all the noise would cease as if he had just walked in and turned the volume down on the whole household.

I thought about bringing it up to him but decided against it. Something about the whole thing irked me… but there was no evidence of any wrongdoings on Ray’s part. What more could I do besides sit idly by and watch it all unfold?

That was until one night last week. I was up in my bedroom getting settled in for bed when I heard the softest, most muffled tapping noise. It came in increments:

Tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap tap tap tap.

Pause.

Tap tap.

At first, I simply ignored it. But after about 15 minutes, the tapping had grown louder and seemingly more urgent, coming in more frequent increments.

I found myself searching for the source, during which time the noise had almost driven me to the brink of insanity.

I had almost decided that it was an auditory hallucination, courtesy of spending most of my days in silence when my eyes fell upon the closed curtains of my large window sill. Perhaps the tapping was coming from outside. I peeked through the curtains in an attempt to scan the surroundings of my home.

I had discovered Ray’s upstairs bathroom window faced my bedroom window after an unfortunate incident involving me undressing unbeknownst to my audience (Ray) taking an innocent glance outside while brushing his teeth.

I took a liking to keeping my curtains closed after that.

It usually takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the pitch darkness given our town refuses to install street lights and Ray’s lights are usually out by 9 pm. This time, however, I noticed Ray’s upstairs bathroom light was on despite the time being around 10 o’clock.

And there was a silhouette inside, facing me.

The dark figure was far too small to belong to Ray so I assumed it was his blonde occupant, the girl I had seen earlier. Did Ray know she was upstairs? I had never seen any of his tenants use the upstairs bathroom.

What was even more odd were her gestures. She was waving her arms around her head like a lunatic. At first, I thought she might have had a blow drier in her hand or at least something she was using to style her hair.

But upon closer inspection, I realized her hands were empty.

These frantic gestures continued for a moment before the bathroom light turned off and the house went dark.

A chill ran down my spine. The whole scene was perturbing.

That night, I lay awake in bed attempting to rationalize what I had seen.

I began to theorize- perhaps she was a recovering addict and suffering from withdrawals. Or maybe she was trying to kill a fly?

Yet, I couldn’t imagine what scenario would cause her to act so… strange. And I couldn’t shake that feeling that she was in some sort of danger.

In lieu of the incident, I decided to talk to Ray the following morning about what I had seen. I wanted to make sure he was aware of it in case there was something he knew that I didn’t. Or maybe even something he could do to help with whatever was going on.

“Morning, Ray!” I greeted him as I approached his front porch.

He was sitting in the same old rickety rocking chair, sipping from his usual ceramic mug.

“Well good morning, Miss Lisa.” Ray’s face broke out into his famous, dazzling grin. “What can I do for ya this fine morning?”

“I was just wondering about that new tenant of yours. The blonde one, I mean. Who lives downstairs? I saw her in your upstairs bathroom last night and she seemed a bit… well… a bit agitated.”

The look on Ray’s face changed for a moment so brief, if I had blinked I would've missed it. His grin had vanished and his features were consumed by an expression so feverishly unhinged, he was almost unrecognizable.

But just as quickly as his face had become the monstrosity I just described, it morphed back into a look of concern: arched brows, earnest eyes, and a subtle frown.

I had subconsciously taken a few steps back, attempting to make sense of what I had just seen. “Oh, geez, Miss Lisa. I can't apologize enough for the burden. I had no idea Danielle had bothered you last night. She must’ve been toying around in my medicine cabinet, again. I’ll have a talk with her and smooth everything over, I promise.”

I was still trying to process his sudden change in demeanor as I struggled to find a response. “Oh, no, Ray. It was no bother at all. I just wanted to make sure she was okay, is all.”

“Oh, don’t you worry your blessed heart. She’ll be fine. Just a case of night fever, I’m sure.” And he gave me a smile so dazzling, it almost made me forget about the horrific face I had seen him make just moments prior.

You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know something is about to go horribly wrong? Like instead of butterflies in your stomach, it’s moths or bees or something?

That’s precisely how I felt walking back to my house after my interaction with Ray. I spent the entire rest of the day glancing periodically outside my bedroom window- watching… waiting… for the inevitable disaster my gut had anticipated.

But all I saw were the usual activities. Ray leaving the hous...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Prestigious-Watch-37 on 2024-09-28 02:55:05+00:00.

---

Series: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

In the weeks which followed after my return from the hospital my Toby-possessed family did their best, for a short while, to pick up the slack around the house. 

They cooked, they cleaned, and they continued to play their parts outside the house to perfection. 

Their improved behaviour lasted for about a month before they started going back to their old habits of sticking to their rooms and eating junk food. 

I couldn't pick up the slack like I had done before. Not just because of my broken arm, but because I was in no fit state to look after myself, let alone them. 

I had developed chronic insomnia. 

After trying so hard to keep things together myself I, like the rest of my possessed family, just kind of gave up trying. The difference between me and them however was that I stopped leaving the house altogether, whilst they continued their perfect charade as usual. 

They had considered threatening me to make me act right, but quickly found that I just didn't have it in me to be afraid of them like before. 

Nine months passed. My insomnia didn't get any better. Most days I spent with Toby. Although I hadn't been there when the conversation happened, I was sure Toby-Leigh, Toby-Mum, and Toby-Dad had pressured him into keeping constant watch over me. 

In a somewhat ironic twist I had become, in their minds at least, a suicide risk. 

They were giving me too much credit. I had stopped feeling any emotion except for a constant apathetic numbness which, at times, threatened to give way to gut-wrenching dread. 

I lost a lot of weight, dropping from sixty kilograms down to a mere fifty-five kg. Eating any food at all seemed like a gigantic chore. Swallowing even a mouthful of water was like trying not to choke on a throatful of thick maple syrup. 

The only thing which brought me any semblance of joy at all was drawing. For about an hour a day I was able to muster the concentration and effort to draw whatever came to mind. Over the nine months I filled multiple sketch books and notepads with doodles of manga drawings; nothing particularly coherent, just sketches of characters and some landscapes. 

Toby bought me more pens and pencils and paper when I needed it. Most of the time however he just sat in the room with me and watched whatever it was I was doing, whether that was me staring at the TV at whatever show or movie he put on, or him playing a video game; most of the time when I watched I was so lost in my own thoughts all I saw was the lights changing in front of me and the changes in sound. My sleep deprived mind didn't have the bandwidth to concentrate on any of it for more than a few minutes here or there. 

The dirty dishes in the kitchen mounted until a thick, nasty odor stank throughout the entire house. Cups of tea and coffee and cans of soft drinks were left all over the house. 

Over the nine months my possessed family, as well as Toby and myself, watched on as the grime and filth took over close to every inch of the house. 

The curtains were drawn to keep the neighbors from looking in at the mess. The windows were closed, which trapped the horrid stench and the countless flies buzzing around. 

The upstairs toilet was clogged sometime in the fourth month, and no effort was made to fix it. After several more uses of the toilet were made by the others, the bathroom door was simply shut, leaving the contents of the toilet to marinate. 

The sheer horrendous living conditions my Toby-possessed family had descended to was something which I hoped might make them decide to give up control of my family's bodies. 

The incident with whatever the thing was – I had decided at some point that it was a demon, and thought of it as such – had confirmed at least one thing for me. It was possible to give up control of a body. The demon had wanted me to astral project out of my own body, so it was reasonable to assume that Toby, the ones controlling my sister, mother, and father, might also be able to willingly give up their bodies too. 

The question was whether or not there even was my family's minds, their souls, somewhere still in their bodies. Or had Toby, in the act of possessing them, somehow over-written, removed, or erased their souls from their bodies for good?

My biggest consolation was that the Toby's possessing my family weren't able to go from body to body, the way someone might change their t-shirt. They had told me before that they were trapped in their bodies, and only had the power to imprint a new copy of their minds onto other people. For that reason I wasn't afraid they might possess anyone else as a means to avoid living in such a disgusting environment at home. 

The only effort any of them made at home was when they prepared to leave the house to continue their charade. I wondered why they still maintained the charade, and guessed it was their way of taking a break from the reality of being their true Toby-selves at home; getting the same satisfaction of pretending to be my family member's as if they were in a pleasant dream; on some level keeping up the charade must have been exhausting for them.  

One night Toby came upstairs and sat in my bedroom with me. I was sitting on the floor drawing the mote of a heavily fortified castle. 

"Here you go," Toby said, setting down a takeaway cheeseburger and a small bag of salted fries. 

I looked at the food having no appetite for it at all.Toby started eating his own burger. 

"I was thinking we could go out for a walk tonight," said Toby jovially after he swallowed a mouthful of burger, "What do you think?" 

I just stared at him. 

Toby patted the carpet. 

"Darn," he said, "Where's the-" 

"-you forgot these," said Toby-Dad from my bedroom door. 

He stepped over a box containing the moldy remains of a takeaway curry in order to hand over two cans of cola. 

Toby took them and Toby-Dad lingered for a moment. He just stood and watched me drawing the same way Toby liked to watch me. I just kept drawing and at some point over the next ten minutes Toby-Dad left the room without me noticing. 

Toby slurped from his can of cola after chowing down his burger. 

"So," he said, "You want to go for that walk?" 

Again, I just stared at Toby. A part of me was in disbelief with how he was behaving. At some point he seemed to have stopped trying to act guilty about the whole situation. If anything, he seemed pleased how things had turned out. He had only resisted spending every waking hour in my company out of a sense of guilt, but nine months in, he stopped pretending.

He was finally happy. 

"Oh Mike," he said, "Eat something." 

I hadn't eaten in at least twenty-four hours and, if anything, I still felt too full to eat. My lips however were parched so I took my can of cola and took a tentative sip. Swallowing the fizzing sweet liquid was tough. It took me about thirty minutes to manage a handful of gulps. 

I woke up sometime later. 

I quickly found there was something tight against my mouth. It took concentrated effort from me not to gag on the wad of whatever dry fabric was there.

My eyes struggled to open. Slowly, I took in the confines of my Dad's car. I was in the middle backseat. The car was still in the garage. 

Toby was next to me to my left. His eyes were wide and frantic and he, like me, had his mouth gagged and his hands and feet bound with lengths of rope.

Toby-Leigh was sitting unbound, ungagged, to my right. Her face was tinged with gold from the car's dome light.

Toby-Mum was sitting in the passenger seat, also not bound or gagged, and was looking at the three of us in the backseat as if proud of us. 

The car engine was running. Toby-Dad closed the door which led into the house and got into the driver's seat of the car. 

"Okay!" he said, with a strange jovialness, "Everybody ready?" 

Toby squirmed with every ounce of his strength beside me. I just stared back at my Toby-possessed family whilst also trying to continue breathing through my nostrils. 

Toby-Dad turned the keys in the ignition, revving up the car. The emission from the car, trapped in the garage with nowhere to go, started to thicken in the air. 

"Toby you can keep fighting if you want but nothing is going to change," said Toby-Dad. 

It was as if Toby couldn't hear them at all, he continued to try and break free of the rope binding his hands and feet with every fiber of his being. I could see however how utterly useless these attempts of his were. 

My mind felt drowsy, no doubt from whatever they had slipped into my cola before. 

"Wait," said Toby-Leigh, as if remembering something very important. 

Toby-Mum veered round again and I saw Toby-Dad looking at us from the front mirror. 

"You're not having second thoughts?" said Toby-Dad. 

"No," said Toby-Leigh, "I just think we should let Mike say goodbye to his family. Don't you think that would be the kind thing to do?" 

Toby-Mum and Toby-Dad considered this. By this point the stink coming from the house was becoming strongly mingled with the fumes quickly filling the garage. 

Toby-Dad killed the engine. 

"You're right," he said, "...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/RedHotOwl on 2024-09-27 22:24:48+00:00.

---

I grew up in a pretty small, out-of-the-way town—one of those places where folk only stop by to ask for directions. I know that's how a lot of scary stories tend to start, but if you think about it, it's for a good reason. Before the advent of the internet, living in a remote town was like existing within your own self-contained microcosm. You wake up every day and interact with the same twenty or so people throughout your whole life. Sure, you might overhear something on the radio about what's happening around the country, but it all feels so far away, like it could never apply to you. You could debate whether ignorance is bliss, but the bottom line is, when everything outside what you're used to feels foreign and intimidating, it is all too easy to fabricate convenient ghost stories to account for the unknown.

Rest assured, though, my story doesn't involve ghosts, apparitions, or anything that could be chalked up to a trick of the light. What I went through was very real and very tangible.

As I neared the old sawmill, the crowns of golden leaves flanking the structure stood in stark contrast to the industrial decay, with wildflowers peeking through cracks in the pavement. The place looked as abandoned as ever—a rundown relic from another decade, with peeling paint and broken windows that seemed to stare at me blankly. 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows through the skeletal remains of the building. My heart felt heavy, each step squishing the damp earth beneath my sneakers. Finally, I reached the spot—a simple, vertically-embedded plank marked the place where my best friend lay buried, and I knelt, brushing away the weeds that had tried to reclaim it. The air was thick with the scent of pine and memories; I could almost hear him running through the tall grass, chasing after something invisible. 

"Hey, buddy," I whispered, tracing the letters carved into the wood. "I miss you." The wind rustled the trees above, and for a moment, I imagined his soft fur against my hand, his joyful spirit lingering in the quiet of the mill's ruins. I closed my eyes, feeling the ache in my chest ease just a little, as if he were still here, only to be replaced by a wave of anger I believed I had long since let go of.

The memories of that day were as vivid as ever. We were playing in the yard, the sky clear and bright, his tail a blur of excitement. I had turned to grab my bike, just for a moment, and in that flash, he spotted a squirrel darting across the street. I remember the way I called out, my voice lost in the rush of tires on asphalt. Panic gripped me as I turned back, watching in horror as he dashed into traffic, oblivious to the danger. The screech of brakes and a sickening thud echoed in my ears. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing back tears that threatened to spill over. “I'm sorry,” I murmured, the weight of regret nearly suffocating. My fingers shook as I placed my hand on that little mound of dirt, wishing desperately I could rewind time for just one more day with him. My parents had tossed around the idea of getting me a new dog, but even after nearly a year, I just couldn’t bring myself to move on. It was as if they were asking me to replace my own brother. They had no clue that I still came to visit his makeshift grave.

Ever since those girls went missing here a few months back, we were no longer allowed in the old part of town. There were all kinds of theories swirling around about what could have happened—everything from them just running away to whispers of a child-killer lurking in our midst. Naturally, I thought that something like that could never happen to me. I was a big, tough boy after all—just a few days shy of my thirteenth birthday and already taller than my mom. In other words, I was practically invincible. 

The forest around me crackled with life, the trees ablaze with fiery reds and shimmering yellows, making it feel like the whole world was on fire in the best possible way. I liked autumn. Sure, school was back in session, but I didn't mind as long as it meant no more mosquitoes. To me, the trade-off was worth it. 

And then, amidst all the usual sounds of nature, a shrill scream sliced through the stillness like a knife. I perked up, my head snapping in the direction I thought it came from. There was a moment of silence before it echoed again—a sharp, sudden cry, unwavering in its pitch. By the third time, I was already back on my feet. In hindsight, there was definitely something off about those screams. They were too regular, almost robotic, lacking any real emotion behind them, like the indifferent wail of a car alarm. Stupidly, I decided to make my presence known:

"Hello...? Anyone there? Do...you need help?"

Silence. I took a few cautious steps toward the tree line, my heart thumping louder than the crunching of twigs beneath my feet. Even the crows had gone eerily quiet, as if they were anticipating something. Just as I was about to turn back, naively thinking that maybe I had scared off whoever was making that dreadful sound, the shrill scream cut through the air again—this time closer. My stomach dropped. I squinted into the dense thicket. My blood ran cold as I watched entire trees being violently shoved apart. Something was barreling toward me. Something huge. 

A surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. I sprinted over and dove behind the husk of a broken-down logging truck, my back pressed against its cold, rusted metal shell. Through the gaps in its decaying frame, I peered out, breath held tight in my chest. And then I saw it—a monstrous shape, casting a vast shadow as it broke free from the trees. An enormous bear, its fur matted and wild, erupted into the clearing. The sheer sight of it almost made me gasp out loud; its paws alone were the size of tennis rackets, each thud against the earth echoing like a death knell. I could vividly imagine them stomping down on me, crushing every bone in my body into dust.

But it only got worse from there.

The creature paused, sniffing the air, its black eyes scanning the surroundings with alarming intelligence. Suddenly, its massive jaws opened wide, revealing not just teeth but something grotesquely horrifying—a human head lodged in its maw, its mouth still agape in a scream of unending torment. The bear's growls mingled with the cries, fusing in a chilling duet that sent waves of nausea through me. The head, with its hollow eyes and skin drained of color, looked resigned to its fate—an abominable marionette in the throes of its own suffering. The detachment in its expression as it shrieked for help terrified more than any frantic plea could have. 

Tears clouded my vision. This was it, I thought. Soon, it would be my head there, trapped in an endless limbo of reliving the last moments before that creature tore me apart. I couldn't outrun it—I was almost sure of that—and it was only a matter of time before it discovered my hiding spot. My breathing quickened. I patted my pockets, as if searching for something with which to make my final stand. Instead, I found the granola bar I had tucked there earlier. I swallowed hard. It was worth a shot.

With as much steadiness as my fingers would allow, I peeled back the packaging, feeling like a pinned-down soldier about to toss his last grenade at the encroaching enemy. I didn’t see where it landed, but the rustle of the nearby bushes gave me a hint of hope; perhaps, just perhaps, it would divert the monster's attention, if only for a fleeting moment. Fortunately, it did, as I witnessed it lumber off toward the source of the disturbance, accompanied by wet snorting noises. I didn’t linger to witness whether it showed any real interest in the food itself. Instead, I proceeded to try and sneak away toward the edges of the glade, each cautious step an exercise in self-control, as every fiber of my being urged me to run.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. A shudder ran down my spine. There it was—a hulking mass of fur and muscle, its attention momentarily diverted, but probably not for long. I gathered every morsel of courage left within me and took another tentative step, moving slowly, praying that the tall grass would be enough to shield me from its sight. It wasn't. Suddenly, it lifted its massive skull, and in a single heart-stopping moment, its black eyes locked onto mine. 

Time creeped to halt. All sense of composure evaporated like mist in the sun, and before I could think, a raw, primal scream erupted from my throat. Panic ignited my legs, propelling me in the opposite direction. I tore through the underbrush, branches raking at my exposed arms and ankles. With every frantic stride, I forced myself to focus on the path ahead, but there was no ignoring the guttural roars that reverberated through my very bones. The trees above towered like silent sentinels as I zigzagged between their trunks, desperate to confuse my pursuer. Whether it worked or not, I had no intention of slowing down to find out, but the sounds of snapping bark made it clear the creature was more than capable of carving its own path. 

Through the kaleidoscope of autumn colors that blurred past me, my eyes caught sight of a distant sliver of gray—the back road that twisted its way through the woods, connecting the old parts of town to the highway. Not many people still used it, but it was the only glimmer of hope I had. I swerved sharply and took off toward it, my calves screaming in protest. Behind me, the hea...

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

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/night2exclusive on 2024-09-27 23:55:12+00:00.

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I live, well, lived in a family of five. We were constantly moving to ghetto houses every 2 years which I found odd. All of which were small and barely had any room, so growing up was a bit challenging, especially with my two brothers.

They were both 7 years old, while I was 13, so you can imagine they were the golden pairs. They both would always whine to get their way, and throw the worst tantrums you will ever witness to get it.

However, sometimes my parents who cherished and spoiled them beyond comprehension sometimes got fed up with their behavior, which is how this whole thing started.

Before the whole thing started, we ended up moving once again. This time, the house seemed like a mansion compared to our old neighborhood, and the neighborhood could be Beverly Hills for all I could comprehend.

So me and family settled in after some time, and everything was good, I was at the peak of my life until I started getting Insomnia again. My parents took me to a doctor, but I could tell he hated me.

He wasn’t all playful like he would to a kid, which I was grateful he wasn’t, but he wouldn’t even ask me a simple “How are you” or even a “Hey”. Just looked at me with a blank face resisting the urge to frown.

After a couple of weeks of meeting with my Doctor, my Mom came up to me with something in her hand. She told me, “Honey, I finally got your medication from Dr. Wanan” She showed me the pills I will be taking, except I found this odd because I saw the exact same bottle of pills on the Doctors desk, except the pills inside had a different color and even a different shape. While I did find this odd, I ignored it, popped the pill, and went back to playing my game.

I was actually dozing off, and I eventually fell asleep. But what I experienced during the sleep makes me wish I just kept my former ongoing insomnia. I was in a nightmare, but this one was different from any other nightmare I had.

I was in my living room, watching Television like I usually was, except I saw that my backyard door was open, I got up to close it, and I went back down. Except when I looked back it was still open, so I tried to close it again.

When I went back to the couch, it was still open, in fact, it looked like I never even budged it from how it originally was.

I gave up, thinking the door was broken, so I went to tell my parents, but they weren’t there. I thought that my parents were busy somewhere with my brothers, so I thought nothing of it and continued watching television.

Until I saw a shadow walk past the backyard, my heart pounded harder than thunder. I immediately ran upstairs for my parents, but then i remembered that they weren’t here. When I realized that I wanted to die, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and dialed 911, but for some reason the called was literally declined.

It took another pair of balls to grow out to check the yard, and nothing was there, but I heard a door closed. When I looked back, the backyard door was closed and locked, I ran to the fence door to escape but it was jammed.

This is it, I’m dead, I thought to myself.

I heard a voice. I was scared from my hair to my toe nails. “This is how you open it, watch closely” it said. The backyard door opened, and 1 minute later an entity with a black body and what appeared to a distorted human mask for a head. “What th-“ before I could finish what I was gonna say, I felt a pressure in my stomach, I looked down and the demon was staring into my eyes, as he penetrates his hand into my stomach even further.

I vomit blood, and he punches me in my hip, I am sent flying as a loud crack is all that’s heard. I thought I was gonna be sent to a different state until I hit my fence. The demon smiles and lunges towards me. I put my arms up to shield my head, however, I then feel intense sharp pressure in the back of my head. He wasn’t trying to attack me, he was distracting me from his partner.

Before I have time to look back, a third demon hops the fence and somehow gouges out my eyes in a flash.

I was in too much pain to even care about the demons, until I realized something. I can’t see anymore.

All I can do is hear the laughter of the demons and then unbearable pain all through my body, they were eating my flesh. I hear my parents, but instead of them screaming, they get closer and eventually also chew on my body. Soon after I wake up, with my heart pounding so much I thought I was having a heart attack.

I tried informing my parents, but all they did was say it was a nightmare. I told them how I was afraid to sleep and told me to take another one of those pills. I did, however, after the trauma of the nightmare, they took me to the doctor.

The doctor who gave me the medication, Dr Wanan, was visibly confused and irritated. “You want to sleep, then take these pills!” I was shocked, my parents didn’t mind this. I told him about the nightmare, and he smiled, “ What happened during the nightmare?” I teared up as I told him the story, he hugged me and said “Don’t worry, keep taking the pills and they should go away”.

I then pop one of the pills and soon we were ready to leave. However as he weirdly hugs me one last time, a bottle of pills fall out, the top of the bottle has a sign that is familiar to a biohazard sign. I know one of these. My grandpa used to be a doctor, told me those same bottles of pills with the biohazard sign were used in POW camps to dispose of useless men.

When I looked further into the bottle, it had the same color and size as the ones I took. I then look to his desk to see the bottle of pills that are in his “Insomnia” section.

I clicked to a realization, he was giving me pills to give a heart attack and kill me in my sleep.

It was too late, I had already swallowed one. I immediately knew, this one would for sure kill me. It’s 4 hours until my bedtime, and I’m making the best of the 4 hours.

4 hours.